Captive (36 page)

Alex did not know all the details of the operation, which put her at a disadvantage, and meant that if she tried to aid Blackwell, she might actually interfere. On the other hand, she was an intelligent woman, a twentieth-century woman, a naval historian. She could guess their plans easily enough.

Surely they intended to send a few men aboard the
Pearl,
plant explosives, and blow her up.

Alex was afraid that the Turks would discover Xavier as he swam to the boat, or while he boarded her. And she knew he would be one of the men to actually go aboard and set the fuses. And what if the gunpowder got wet and proved useless? Alex had little faith in nineteenth-century oilskins. The entire operation would fail if the gunpowder did not light.

Abruptly Alex donned her bedouin clothing and kaffiyeh. Her heart beat hard. She felt the unfamiliar taste of fear in her mouth, felt it heavy upon her heart. There was no excitement or elation now. She had to help Blackwell. She carefully tied a parcel around her waist, beneath her robes.

She slipped from her room, wanting to call Murad and order him to come with her. But she had no doubt that this time he would not obey her, that he would even physically restrain her in order to prevent her from leaving the palace. Alex hurried barefoot and alone down the galleria.

She paused and glanced around, but saw no one. The biggest problem of being disguised as a bedouin was that at night the white robes beckoned observers like a beacon light. But
Alex had no choice. She rushed into the garden. When she reached the shrubs that guarded the tunnel leading under the palace walls, she glanced around again. The night was starlit, moonlit and bright. She did not see a single soul.

Alex crept into the shrubs, reaching for the iron ring on the tunnel door. She flipped it open. It crossed her mind that she would have to leave the lid open in order to be able to climb out alone later. She was disturbed, but would deal with that problem when the time came.

She slid down into the tunnel, dropping about five feet to the ground, and then began to run.

When Alex finally stood just outside the thick palace walls, she sucked in air. She was sweating. Leaving the palace with Murad as her friend and ally was one thing, leaving it alone an entirely different proposition. Alex was afraid.

She began to run. She ran through the silent, still city, ignoring the sharp rocks that bit into her feet. When she reached the harbor she paused, panting. Immediately she saw the
Pearl.

How beautiful the three-masted brig was. How stately, how elegant, how refined. It made Alex sick to think of destroying her, but it had to be done. The bashaw must not possess such a weapon. And she imagined how heartsick Xavier must feel—destroying his own ship.

Then she saw the smaller United States cruiser just past the fortress on the mole. Alex blinked.

And she prayed it was an omen, a sign of good luck.

Alex again looked at the
Pearl.
It appeared deserted.

She looked down at the wharf where the Turks were gambling—a pastime forbidden by strict Moslem law. She did not smile. Instead, she patted her hip, where a mixture of sulfur, nitrate, and charcoal was tied to her waist.

Then Alex haunched over and rushed across the open street to the safety of a dry-docked, single-masted fishing vessel. Once there, she knelt panting. And then, at that precise moment, she saw them.

Two dark, shadowy forms climbing up the side of the ship.

Xavier paused one heartbeat, the oilskin between his teeth, hanging on to the railing of his ship. He heard no warning shouts. He hoisted himself up and over the railing and onto
the
Pearl’s
deck, where he lay but a moment, panting.

He looked to his right and saw Tubbs dropping onto the deck with his oilskin parcel. Xavier got to his hands and knees, swiftly unwrapping the oilskin.

Tubbs did the same.

Alex hesitated. The men were not in sight. But she knew what they would now do, being as there were just the two of them. One would go to the bow, the other to the stem, and both men would light their explosives, and flee the ship. At that point, detection no longer mattered.

Oh, shit,
Alex thought, her mouth dry, her heart beating so wildly she felt faint.

Then, determination swelling inside of her, she got to her feet and dashed the short open distance from the fishing boat to a moored sailing vessel. Alex knew no one saw her. But her foot hit a stone and sent it flying onto the wooden dock. It made a loud, surprising noise in the absolute quiet of the night.

One of the Turks said something, his tone sharp, and everyone stopped talking, heads jerking up, listening.

Alex crouched by the sailboat, in spitting distance of the
Pearl,
too frightened to even pray.

“Who the hell is that?” one of Xavier’s men whispered, staring toward Alex.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Allen muttered. “Dammit, boys, forget the captain and the goddamned
Pearl.
The
Vixen
is here. We can swim out to her, I know we can!” Allen started to rise.

“You’re not going anywhere!” Benedict said, clamping his hamlike hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

Alex’s heart was hammering. It roared in her ears. How was she going to get on the
Pearl
to help Blackwell? She could not risk slipping into the water and swimming to the anchor lines at the bow and climbing aboard there. She did not dare get wet. Which meant that she had to sneak past the soldiers without alerting them to her presence. It seemed, in that moment, to be an impossible task.

Alex knew that she needed a diversion now.

The four seamen crouched behind the vinegar barrels, nearly holding their breaths. They could not detect any movement on board the
Pearl,
but by now Tubbs should be at the bow, their captain at the stem. The Turks had resumed their gambling. But someone, an Arab, was hiding near the sailboat moored next to the
Pearl.

“It must be that slave Murad,” Benedict finally said in a very low voice to no one in particular.

The words were barely out of his mouth when Allen suddenly leapt to his feet and began running toward the dock.

Benedict also stood, realizing what was happening. The other two seamen began to rise. Then he ducked back down, crying, “Get down,” to the other two men. He cocked his pistol.

The Turks cried out, their game forgotten, having spotted Allen.

Scimitars flashed as they rushed after him, shouting.

Allen dove into the water and began swimming.

Alex rushed from the sailboat, down the wharf, and leapt aboard the
Pearl.

“Jesus Christ!” Benedict shouted now. “What the hell is going on?”

X
AVIER KNELT AND
with steady hands he struck the flint and set the tinder to the fuse of the firebomb. The small flame continued to burn, and then it went out—the fuse unlit.

Xavier cursed.

He tried again, determined to light the fuse. The goddamned powder could not be wet. He had not gotten a single drop of water on the oilskin. His hands still remarkably steady, he again tried to light the fuse. The flame burned, flared, and died.

In that moment Xavier knew that he had been betrayed. He himself had stolen and smuggled the powder ingredients with the help of Tubbs and Benedict. Since then, clearly, someone had tampered with them, sabotaging their plans. He had little doubt now that Tubbs had met with the same failure as he.

Unless he could think of another way to destroy the
Pearl,
and quickly, this entire operation was doomed.

Soft, racing footsteps made him stiffen and tum.

The sight of the tall, lithe Arab rendered him briefly speechless. Alexandra dropped down beside him. “Here,” she said, shoving something at him.

Absolute confusion incapacitated him.

“Here!” she cried.

Xavier’s vision cleared. He realized what she had handed
him and he struck the flint again. “How long are the fuses?” He would not even try to fathom now what she was doing there, or why.

“Not long,” she said.

Their gazes met. Understanding passed between them.
The fuses appeared to be short.
They would both have to run like hell to get off the ship before it blew. As suspicious as Xavier was, a surge of admiration for her filled him. And with it, respect. He lit the fuse.

Tubbs came running. “Let’s go, Cap’n,” he shouted.

And Xavier realized that Tubbs’s gunpowder had not been tampered with, that the fuse was lit and burning. Xavier was on his feet, hauling Alexandra up with him. “Run!” he shouted.

They ran after Tubbs.

Tubbs leapt over the railing, stumbled, and went down on the dock. Xavier threw Alexandra over, then climbed over himself. Tubbs and Alexandra were both on their feet, the sailor running—but Alexandra did not move. She turned to wait for him.

He leapt to his feet, shouting, “Run!”

She held out her hand. Xavier took it, and racing for their lives now, he pulled her with him. They took three steps, four, five. Xavier was acutely aware of anticipating the moment of the explosion.

Suddenly cries rent the air—the shouts of a horde of Turkish soldiers descending from God only knew where upon them.

Xavier saw them on the edge of one wharf. Then he looked past the wharf and saw another dozen janissaries entering the harbor at a run. Christ, he thought.
They had truly been betrayed.

And then the night was ripped apart by a huge explosion. The ground under their feet actually rocked, rolled, and jumped.

And Xavier and Alexandra were hurled forward through the air. They landed hard in the dirt. For one moment they lay still, stunned. Xavier shook his head to clear it and managed to shove himself to his hands and knees. Spitting dirt and gravel, he looked back just in time to see the second blast. The bow of the
Pearl
was in flames, fire leaping up the mainmast,
the unfurled canvas sail ablaze. Without warning, the stem jackknifed, exploding. Fireballs shot high into the air. Pieces of wood and metal rocketed upward. It was a fireworks reminiscent of any Independence Day celebration. The magazine of the ship suddenly exploded, and within seconds, every inch of the
Pearl
was aflame. The ship had become a living inferno, her own funeral pyre.

“Halt! Halt! In the name of Jusef Coramalli, the bashaw of Tripoli!”

For one brief moment Xavier stared at his ship, mesmerized. Then he heard the thud of footsteps and the command to halt again. Xavier hauled Alexandra to her feet. Not thinking, he obeyed his instincts, which were to protect her. “Tubbs, take her back to the palace, now!”

Tubbs, a few yards ahead of them, grabbed Alex’s arm.

“Xavier, no,” she began, begging. “Come with me—I will hide you!”

Pushing her away, he shouted, “Get out of here!”

She turned white. He realized now that her face was scratched and bleeding. Tubbs jerked her forward, and then, obediently, she turned and ran.

Xavier stood still for another instant, watching them flee. Her behavior made no sense. But before he could even begin to sort it out, he turned, watching the dozen janissaries approaching at a run, scimitars drawn. He knew they had seen Tubbs and Alexandra fleeing down a side street. When the janissaries were almost in shooting range, Xavier turned and began to run away from them. With no real intention of escaping.

“Halt! Halt now!”

Xavier looked over his shoulder and saw that the dozen men were following him, while the first group had dived into the water and were swimming after Allen, who foolishly thought he could swim the quarter mile to the cruising
Vixen.
No one had yet to run after Tubbs and Alexandra, but another two dozen soldiers had appeared ahead of Xavier. They saw him amidst much shouting and gesturing, and they began to rush forward.

He was surrounded. There was no hope. But he had never thought this anything other than a suicide mission. Xavier stopped running, raising his hands high in the air.

And only then did he see Jovar riding forward on a white Arabian mare. Peter Cameron halted his horse, lifting his pistol. And he pointed it directly at Xavier’s head.

Alex stumbled into her bedchamber.

Murad rushed forward. Although it was two-thirty in the morning, her room was fully lit with oil lamps and he had been there pacing, waiting for her. Any reprimand he was about to make died when he saw her torn, dirty clothes, her bleeding face and tangled hair. He gripped her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

Alex choked, collapsing against him. “Oh, God, what will happen to Xavier? I am so afraid! This plan was stupid! To destroy the
Pearl
without escaping afterwards.…” she could not finish. Had the soldiers killed him? Alex had stopped running when they were in the alley for one fleeting instant, long enough to see Xavier race into the harbor with the soldiers in hot pursuit and closing in on him from all sides. It had been clear to her that he thought not of evading them, but only of leading them away from her—only of protecting her.

He might have acted differently, but clearly he cared about her.

Murad put his arm around her and guided her to the bed. “He did what he had to do. You yourself told me that he is a man of courage and conviction. You knew as well as he or I that the
Pearl
had to be destroyed.”

Alex leaned her head on Murad’s shoulder and gave in to her tears. Her chest felt as if it were being ripped apart. “Please don’t let him die,” she prayed.

Murad cradled her against his chest. “The entire palace is awake. Probably all of Tripoli as well. From the courtyard you can see the harbor ablaze. Do you want to look? He did it, Alex.”

Alex shook her head. She would never forget the sight of the
Pearl
aflame. She would never forget the sight of Xavier streaking through the harbor, a dozen fully armed Turks almost on his heels.

“It was a very successful mission, Alex,” Murad said, removing the kaffiyeh and stroking her thick, unbound hair. “Let me get some soap and water to clean your wounds and
some salve to help heal them.” He smiled slightly at her. “We don’t want you to scar.”