Time Dancers (13 page)

Sailor followed Mowsel’s gaze with his own eyes. “Does Pello know we will be leaving?”

“Yes. He is at peace with it. You will not offend him. Pello, Arrosa, and I will attend to Unai, Usoa, and Kepa. Still, it is your choice. Each of you must decide what you must do.”

For Sailor there was no choice. His decision had already been made, and without asking, I knew Ray felt the same. In my heart, so did I. We were going after the Fleur-du-Mal and that was that. The guilt of breaking a promise and not saying a proper farewell to our friends would have to be the price. All paths of action have a toll. Revenge has several.

Pello and Arrosa walked with us to the docks. Awkwardly, we all embraced in a great rush. I would miss Arrosa and told her so, then thanked her for everything she had done. She smiled and said, “I think it is I, señor, who should be thanking all of you. Especially you,” she added, dropping her smile and looking straight at Sailor. Sailor nodded in silence. Pello told me I would have to come to the Pyrenees when our business was concluded and I promised I would, for Kepa’s memory and my own peace of mind. Mowsel said he expected to rejoin them on the train “somewhere between here and Zaragoza.” Then Pello and Arrosa were gone, into the streets of Barcelona and eventually into the mountains of northern Spain.

“Come,” Mowsel said, “we have much to do.”

The last rays of sunlight were fading fast by the time we had transferred and loaded everything we needed onto the
Emme,
our new ship and home at sea. At first glance, she appeared to be a simple, somewhat altered, small schooner, maybe sixty-five or seventy feet in length and no more than twenty across. In reality she was something else entirely. She had been cleverly refitted on and belowdecks with hidden state-of-the-art navigation equipment, armaments, diving accoutrements, and bolted down between two central bulkheads, a specially built lightweight Rolls-Royce engine that powered two concealed propellers in the rear. She had a shallow draft and could sail close to the wind. Painted dark blue and black, and almost invisible in deep water or at night, the
Emme
was beautiful, fast, and dangerous. I was impressed, as was Sailor, who commented that his favorite vessel to sail had always been the schooner.

It was obvious the ship had experience in clandestine missions. However, it was difficult to imagine from the appearance, attitude, and manners of the ship’s three-man crew and captain. The crew was young, late twenties or early thirties, and the captain looked to be only a few years older, yet they all were extremely polite and at ease around us. They each spoke softly, in English laced with varying degrees of a French accent. Two of the crew had neatly trimmed full beards, the third was clean-shaven, and the captain wore a goatee, which was sprinkled here and there with gray. Mowsel introduced him simply as “Captain B” and the others went by nicknames. Together, they made an efficient unit, practiced and precise, but relaxed.

We were given private cabins and Captain B led us on a short tour of his ship, pointing out everything we would need to know. Then he mentioned that if we got to the Balearics by midnight we might catch a good ride on a little breeze coming out of Africa. I looked at Ray to see if that could mean a storm was brewing, but he shook his head and mouthed the word “nothin’.” Captain B said we should leave soon and Trumoi-Meq asked if we could have a few minutes alone before we set sail. We gathered in Sailor’s cabin and Mowsel spoke to him first.

“This Giza, Captain B, is aware of who we are and can be trusted completely.”

“I assumed as much,” Sailor said.

Mowsel paused, staring into Sailor’s “ghost eye.” “I think we should attempt to contact Zeru-Meq.”

“No, no, please. A waste of time, I tell you, an absolute waste of time. That tree will not bear fruit, old friend. Ask Zianno. He remembers how troublesome that can be.”

I looked at Sailor, then Mowsel. “How can Zeru-Meq help?”

“Have Sailor tell you about the death of Aitor, your grandfather, Zianno.”

I stared at Sailor and my mouth dropped open. ”What do you know? Why have you never mentioned this before?”

“You never asked,” he said flatly.

Instantly, blood came rushing to my face. I was glaring at Sailor. “That is no excuse!”

“Damn, Z,” Ray interrupted. “Settle down, will you? I believe you kept a couple of things from me, if I’m not mistaken.” He grinned and tapped me on the forehead.

“You’re right,” I said. I felt foolish and caught. “I’m sorry, Sailor.”

“Forget it, Zianno. Apology is unnecessary. I will tell you what I know in the next few days, then you decide for yourself how Zeru-Meq can help.”

I nodded and turned back to Trumoi-Meq. “Please get word to Owen Bramley, as soon as you are able. Tell him everything. They are expecting us back in St. Louis. They’ll want to know.”

“I will.”

“Mowsel?” Ray asked in a tone unusual for him. He almost sounded meek. “Try to find somethin’ out about Nova, would you?”

“I will.” He smiled and I stared into the gap of his missing tooth. “Hail Hadrian,” he said, then laughed and turned to go ashore. “Good luck,” he added, “it will likely be in short supply. By the way, in case you might need to know, the captain’s real name is Boutrain. And, Zianno, once you return and have the time to teach me, I want to learn to read the ‘old script.’”

I raised my hand and held it palm out, fingers slightly spread, facing Trumoi-Meq. “I will,” I said. He shut the door behind him and in a matter of seconds was off the
Emme
and disappearing into the early evening crowds that would only increase and swell through the night, from the waterfront all the way up Las Ramblas until early the next morning. By then the
Emme
would be well on her way through the Balearics and Mowsel would be somewhere on board a train for Zaragoza. And I would have dreamed of a young man wearing a faded red beret. He looked exactly like my papa, but he was not. His name was Aitor and he was reaching into a pool of water. He was reaching for the Octopus. It was the dead of night and he was not alone. Someone was behind him, whispering his name, laughing. Something long and shiny was in his hand.

The first four days on board the
Emme
went smoothly. We sailed far to the south, then caught the “breeze” Captain B was expecting out of Africa. We rode it east through the Strait of Sicily and nearly all the way to Gozo. Captain B proved to be a consummate sailor and it became clear his crew respected his ability as well as his authority. I learned early when I first went to sea with Captain Woodget that a sailor honors few things more than good seamanship. Even Umla-Meq, an expert and veteran at sea for centuries, watched and praised Captain B for maintaining maximum speed while exercising minimum maneuvering. “Using this complex rigging, keeping the speed he is keeping,” Sailor said, “one has to know what one is doing.”

I kept waiting for the moment Sailor would get around to telling me about the Fleur-du-Mal and the death of my grandfather. However, I also knew he was once again trying to teach me patience, and I was trying to learn. I just wasn’t a very good student.

Ray enjoyed this type of ship and this way of sailing. He and Captain B made fast friends and Ray spent most of his time alongside him at the wheel. The air was clean, the food was good, and the whole experience seemed to sharpen his mind and bring out the “Weatherman.” He began sensing something in every gust of wind, change of light, or shape of cloud. He sounded a little crazy at first, but I assured Captain B that Ray was authentic and dependable. If Ray said we were heading into trouble, I told Captain B he should heed Ray’s advice. And that is precisely what happened.

On the fifth day out, Ray said he felt something brewing quickly, “A big blow from the south, gale force for sure.” Sailor and I looked at Captain B, who did not hesitate. He stuck out his chin slightly, stroked his goatee once, and gave the orders to turn sharply north, maintaining a north-northeast heading indefinitely. In two hours we received word that a sirocco, filled with dust from northern Africa, was blowing with cyclone force winds and about to cover Malta and Gozo. Because of Ray, the
Emme
and all aboard were spared a possible catastrophe. Captain B handed out cigars for everyone and then toasted Ray for his rare gift. Unfortunately, there was one serious consequence from our escape.

Three and a half days later we anchored in Mgarr Harbor and made our way ashore. We followed a winding trail through the hills beyond until we found Giles Xuereb’s “little home above the cave.” Giles was there and he was alive, barely. The Fleurdu-Mal was gone. We had missed him by no more than an hour or two. None of us knew it at the time, of course, and even if we had known, none of us would have regretted Captain B’s decision. It was the right one, the only one. However, those three and a half days cost us the next three and a half years and very nearly the life of a trusted friend of the Meq.

Giles Xuereb had long been considered to be many things by many people. He was the last heir to an old Maltese fortune, a dealer in illegal antiquities and semiprecious stones, a master forger, a former professor of religious philosophy at Cambridge, tall, dark, and handsome. As a result of the Fleur-du-Mal’s handiwork, he would never again be considered handsome, but at least he was still alive. Giles was lying unconscious and chained to the massive oak table in the center of his kitchen. His entire face and body were covered in hundreds of bleeding cuts and slashes, carved in a distinct and complex pattern, ranging in length from half-inch “thorns” to whole “roses” in full bloom, each drawn in a single stroke with the blade of a stiletto.

Sailor found some water and let a few drops spill onto Giles’s lips, which helped him regain consciousness. He tried to smile once he recognized Sailor’s face. Then the pain hit. He winced, trembled, and passed out again. We dressed his wounds as best we could, but he would need a doctor as soon as possible, followed by an extended rehabilitation in the hospital. Sailor guessed the Fleur-du-Mal had been torturing Giles for information, or had already obtained it and thought Giles had lied to him, which would have been worse. “Much worse,” I added. Sailor said Giles probably would have tried to trick the Fleurdu-Mal rather than betray the contract they had together. It was the way his family had conducted business affairs since the Middle Ages. Giles happened to be the last in a long bloodline of honest pirates, which was the very reason the Meq had begun a relationship with Giles’s family in the first place. Sailor knew that and the Fleur-du-Mal knew that.

“There is something more, Zianno,” Sailor said slowly. He stared into my eyes, making sure he had my attention. “The Fleur-du-Mal may have done this to send a message.”

“A message to whom?” I asked. “The Meq?”

“No. More specific than that.” He paused again. “This is the exact method the Fleur-du-Mal employed to…to torture and kill your grandfather, Aitor. This could be a message for you, Zianno. His aberrant mind compels him to play games when he kills. He may be saying he knows you are with me. This may only be his opening move.”

“Goddamnit!” Ray shouted, stomping the stone floor and slapping his beret against his leg. “He has to go, Z! We need to take that murderin’ son of a bitch out!”

“I know,” I said, but Sailor’s words had stunned me. Why would the Fleur-du-Mal do that? What would so possess him to do something so cruel? What did my grandfather know?

Sailor was genuinely concerned about Giles and his condition. Every day all of us would ferry over to Malta and the hospital in Valletta to visit him. He drifted in and out of consciousness for five days, then on the morning of the sixth day he was able to speak and he and Sailor spoke to each other in whispers. They used Maltese, Giles’s native tongue and a language I had never heard. Even in slow, hoarse whispers, it sounded distinguished and elegant. Once we were out of the hospital, Sailor was openly relieved that Giles was going to live, but concerned about what Giles had told him.

“We shall see if he acted fearlessly or foolishly,” Sailor said.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He did indeed lie to the Fleur-du-Mal.”

“We already assumed that.”

“Yes, however, the Fleur-du-Mal
believed
him. That will surely be a death sentence for Giles when he realizes the truth.”

“Not if we find him first,” Ray said.

“Yes,” Sailor said, but I could hear the doubt in his voice.

“What did Giles lie about?” I asked.

“What else? He lied about the Octopus. He told him the box was inlaid with ruby instead of lapis lazuli and the trail to find it begins in Damascus, not Cairo. That means we have an advantage in our search, but Giles will still be here, helpless and defenseless against the Fleur-du-Mal’s anger when he eventually discovers the truth, and he will.”

“How can we protect Giles?”

“We cannot. We must find the Octopus before the Fleur-du-Mal finds the truth. Then we shall bait the trap. It is that simple.”

“That don’t sound like it will be too easy,” Ray said.

“No,” Sailor almost whispered, “it will not.”

Captain B and his crew had the
Emme
restocked, rigged, and ready to sail by noon of the following day. We would have raised anchor immediately, but Sailor and I were late returning from Valletta, where Sailor wanted to send a cable to Pello. The cable was actually a coded message to Mowsel. Translated, it read, “Find Zeru-Meq now—Giles/Aitor a fact.” While we were there, I wrote and posted a quick letter to Opari in St. Louis. I told her we were on our way to Egypt and I would dream of her every night—I would dream of her face, her voice, her lips…her gift.

On the way back to the
Emme,
I asked Sailor why he and Mowsel thought Zeru-Meq might be able to help.

“He might be able to unravel the demented puzzle driving the Fleur-du-Mal and his aberrations,” Sailor said. “After the death of Aitor, Mowsel suspected it. Now, with the mutilation of Giles, I agree with him. Aitor discovered something about the Fleur-du-Mal that evoked a vicious response. Mowsel thinks Zeru-Meq may know what it was. I have my own thoughts on the matter, but they are only speculations.”