Simon nodded. “I can.”
On a screen bigger than any he’d ever seen, Mattias stared up at theMedusadocked in the harbor at Sirte. Hundreds of men and women crowded the deck. One by one they boarded. He remembered the crush of humanity, the heat, the sweat, the hand in his back shoving him forward against his will.
The camera zoomed in on a familiar face, Mohammed Tabbi. He was from Algiers, Mattias remembered. He had been the joker of the group, the only one who had retained any semblance of good nature and humanity until the end. It was he who had killed the Ghanaian who had taken the boy’s eye. He had strangled him.
Mattias felt for his badge. It was Mohammed Tabbi’s credentials he was wearing. Somewhere, at this instant, the man lay dead. Mattias felt sick. To his left, Omar, the driver, was weeping silently. Young Mohammed watched the film through hands covering his eyes. Sheikh Abdul had not considered their reactions when he recruited them. He and his masters had not asked themselves how the survivors might feel upon reliving such a vivid, nigh perfect, depiction of the ordeal.
TheMedusawas leaving port. Her deck was filled far beyond capacity. All those black faces on the white boat. Anyone could see it was not seaworthy. How could they have let it set sail? It was a miracle the boat had made it as far as it did.
Mattias could sense the audience’s discomfort. Just watching made them complicit. Several persons nearby turned their heads to glance at him, at the others who had been on that boat. A murmur of disbelief swept the dark auditorium.
Where were you then? Where was your outrage? Your simmering sanctity?
“No!”
He was not aware of shouting, that it was his own voice lifting above the voices of the actors, of the boat’s motor, of the haunting music hinting at the disaster to come.
A hand grasped his arm.
He shook it loose.
If the boat had turned back then, it would have been all right. No one would have died. He wanted to yell at the skipper, at the mates, to stop. The emotions churning inside him were unexpected and overwhelming and beyond his control. He shifted in his seat. He was acutely aware of the vest. It was too tight, stealing his breath, crushing him to death.
Was it time yet?
He checked his watch. Seven minutes. He couldn’t last another three. He stood, his friends clawing at him. Angry voices told him to sit down; then other voices speaking Arabic: “It is not time.”
“Let me go.”
On the screen, a man vomited belowdecks. A woman held her baby to her breast. Doomed, both of them. It was all coming back to him. The heat. The smell. The certainty of impending disaster. Mattias could not bear to watch a moment longer.
He stepped into the aisle. Which way to go? Heads turned toward him. Concerned voices. Always just voices. Words. Never actions.
There was no going back. He knew that now. Let God take him here.
“Allahu Akbar!”
From his seat in the front row of the balcony, Luca Borgia was among the first to take note of the disturbance. He sensed the man’s distress before hearing him cry out, before seeing him rise from his seat and lurch into the aisle. Borgia’s initial response was one of frustration, anger. The man was moving too early, disobeying his instructions. It was enough to make Borgia perch on the edge of his seat, eyes entirely focused now on the four bombers directly below him.
Still, for a moment, Borgia did not stand, did not try to get out of the building. He’d had no choice but to come. His presence was proof of his innocence as much as his guilt. Who could ever point a finger and accuse him of being involved? He was there. He was a victim, if not of bodily wounds, then of trauma. There was more, of course. He wanted to be there. He needed to hear the explosion, to feel the concussion, to witness the carnage. It was essential the public’s outrage be his own. How else could he gain the visceral justification for his actions? The refugees—the invaders,as he thought of them,the cockroaches—really were that bad! If not tonight here in Cannes, then another time, another place…perhaps even worse.
Then the words.“Allahu Akbar!”
Borgia watched as the four men left their seats, two dashing to the front of the theater, hardly more than shadows in the darkened auditorium. One jumped onto the proscenium, his silhouette visible as it cut across the screen, his intent clear.
By now, Borgia was moving, too, up the balcony aisle and through the doors to the upper mezzanine. The shooting began as he reached the stairs. First one shot, then a dozen all at once. He did not slow, his hand delving into his pocket as he descended the stairs. Fingers found the phone, taking it into his palm. Reaching the lobby, he made himself stop and slipped the phone from his pants.
Outside again. Safety.
He flipped the phone open. The sun’s glare prevented him from reading the number on the screen. He turned to block its rays, brought the phone to his eyes. Yes, it was ready. He lifted his thumb.
As he entered the auditorium, Simon heard the man cry out.
He saw him at once, standing in the aisle fifty feet away, shouting. Two more men ran past the man toward the front of the theater. Another had reached the stage. The bombers.
The images on the screen froze, then went dark. The overhead lights came up. Distressed voices ruffled the crowd. People turned in their seats.Something was wrong.
“Restez assis,”shouted Simon. Stay seated.
