128

 

THE SUPER-YACHT, ZEPHYR, 1:00 P.M.

Sheikh Ali stared through the glass at the thrashing sea. The helicopter wasn’t coming back. He had to accept that now. It had been gone for an hour. Gwen Boudain had exacted her last measure of revenge. He was stuck aboard, stranded at the mercy of the storm. Zephyr’s top speed was approximately 60 knots, but the storm was coming in faster and on a broader front than they had all thought. He took out his iPad, consulted a map. Then he rang the pilot of his private jet, a Boeing 767, currently in Los Angeles.

“Fly to Tijuana, Mexico. Await me there.”

“It’s, er, getting kinda rough here, Sheikh Ali. Not sure we’ll be allowed to take off,” the pilot replied after an awkward pause.

“I don’t think you can have heard me,” shouted the Sheikh above the roar of the winds. “Be in Tijuana. Contact me when you are in the air.”

He didn’t wait to hear the pilot’s reply, just rang off, Googled the distance. 338 miles. 541 kilometers. At 60 knots, nearly 70 mph, he would get to Tijuana in just under five hours. But Zephyr couldn’t hit that speed in these seas, so more likely he would be there in five and a half hours. The storm wasn’t forecast to hit as hard there and he should be able to take off, fly straight to Saudi, watch the havoc unfold from the safety and the sanctity of the Kingdom.

He buzzed the intercom.

“Captain Shaffer.”

The captain bustled in moments later. He planted himself, eyed the Sheikh expectantly.

“We leave now, for Tijuana,” dictated the Sheikh.

The captain exhaled with relief.

“The helicopter?” he asked warily.

“They went to shore,” answered the Sheikh.

The captain saw the lie, merely nodded. He was paid to ignore lies.

He gave a half salute, turned and hurried back to the foredeck. The storm was roaring in, making even his seasoned crew sick as Zephyr, moored like a sitting duck, took the full impact of the waves. He set the coordinates, marked their course on his paper map, as he always did, then he programed the yacht, fired up the engines, accelerated forward. Running was always better. He just hoped they could run fast enough.