“It’s theVixen.She’s come back,” Xavier said tersely.
“Captain, there must be a way to rendezvous with her,” Allen cried in excitement “There’s no need now for us to go back to that hellhole!” He was shaking visibly.
Xavier turned, his face stem. “We have one mission to perform this night, Allen, and that is destroying thePearl.Escape is not a part of our plans.”
“But, Captain—”
Tubbs clamped his hand down on the young man’s thin shoulder. “Follow orders, Allen, or I’ll take care of you myself.”
Allen’s jaw tightened. His eyes turned sullen. The men behind him muttered and shifted, each and every one still staring at the small brig cruising just off the shore.
“Let’s go,” Xavier commanded.
They had reached the docks. They squatted down behind stacked barrels, which smelled strongly of wine vinegar. ThePearlbobbed at anchor just a few wharves away. A half dozen janissaries guarded her. They were fully armed with scimitars, knives, pistols, and muskets, but they were playing with dice. Laughter and muted conversation in Turkish drifted to Xavier and his men.
But Xavier already knew that thePearlwas kept under guard. The two parcels containing the firebombs and the flint were passed forward. Each was wrapped in oilskin and made as watertight as possible.
Xavier and Tubbs handed two of the men their pistols and stepped out of their single item of clothing—their pants.
“Good luck, Cap’n, Tubbs,” someone whispered. It was the big, burly quartermaster, Benedict.
Xavier nodded. He and Tubbs melted away from the men, who remained watching the Turks, ready to assault them should they discover what was happening. They paused at the edge of the dock. Xavier slid soundlessly into the water. Tubbs handed him the two oilskins. Xavier held the bundles above the water as Tubbs slipped into the water beside him. Then he handed Tubbs one of the parcels. Both men began to swim a rough sidestroke, determined to hold the gunpowder above water—just in case.
They began to approach the wharf where the Turks sat.
The garden was dark and silent inside the palace walls. One man waited, unmoving. Eventually he saw a big, burly figure moving toward him swiftly through the dark. The second man paused.
“They’ve left the bagnio,” Kadar said.
Jovar smiled, his teeth flashing white in the night.
Alex could not stand it. She was pacing her bedchamber nervously. By now Blackwell and his men should have left the bagnio and were perhaps even at the docks. But had they successfully left the prison? Without alerting the guards? Alex was well aware of the Moslem penchant of betrayal and treachery. And if they had not yet been discovered, had they made it through the sleeping city? Were they at the harbor? She had promised Murad she would not interfere.
But she had not really meant it.
Blackwell’s life could be at stake. How could she remain in her bedroom, in the palace? How could she not help? What if something went wrong? What if he needed her?
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 thePearl,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 thePearl.
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.
