Page 45 of A Perfect Disaster

“It can’t be.”

“Is the ship going to set sail without us?”

“Who’s going to take us now?”

I raise both hands to get the group’s attention.

“Everyone, please listen,” I say, projecting my voice. “No one is going to miss the ship. The official tours are protected, and the ship knows we’re here. We’re going to stay together in the shade of those trees while I coordinate our return right now.”

In front of them, I stay calm, but inside, my stomach has just taken a nosedive from the top of the dome.

I take a few steps back without losing sight of them and dial Helen’s direct number. Each ring strips away another layer of my pride. When she answers, her voice is dry, tense, and sharp.

“Was it really that hard for you to stick to the port schedule, Maika? The captain is asking for the departure manifest.”

I close my eyes for a moment and let out a sigh, pressing the phone against my ear. I could defend myself. I could yell at her that I didn’t cause a passenger to faint, that I don’t have superpowers to walk through stone walls, and that the Vatican’s emergency protocols take precedence over her damn sailing schedules. I could tell her that I’ve spent the last two hours keeping twenty-four people’s nerves in check, trying not to lose my mind while I was thinking only of her. But we don’t have time to wallow in our sorrows.

“An elderly man had a syncopal episode,” I reply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “They had to take him away in an ambulance, and there was no cell service inside the structure. This isn’t the time to assign blame, Helen. Tell me you have a Plan B to get all these people back to the port before we get into trouble.”

I can feel her breathing change through the earpiece, how she reorganizes the world in her square head, how she sets aside reproach and rigidity to make way for action. That’s Helen. Tough, unfair at times, unbearable almost always… but damn brilliant when chaos breaks out.

“I always have a Plan B, Maika,” she reminds me, and for a moment, my knees go weak. “That’s what happens when you trust nothing and no one. Listen to me carefully because this is what we’re going to do…”

17

Maika

“What we’re going to do is contact Shorex’s local receiving agency in Rome and divert one of the backup buses to pick you up at a safe location.”

Helen’s voice comes through the phone with that calmness only she can muster when everything is about to go up in flames. I picture her standing in the ship’s security office, the folder clamped tightly against her chest, her eyes fixed on the monitoring system, and her jaw clenched with the effort of not yelling at me. Although part of me wants to thank her for processing the information so quickly, the other part wants to reach through the phone line and shake her by the shoulders until she understands the heart attack I’m having right now.

“Divert a bus? You know the entrance to the Civitavecchia highway turns into a rat trap at this hour, right?” I reply, dodging a group of tourists. “We’d get stuck in traffic the whole way.”

I look around. St. Peter’s Square has turned into a hive of activity. Next to me, Nico is so pale he looks like he’s just watched his own employment contract float away into the Mediterranean. He keeps making exaggerated faces at me, widening his eyes, and pointing at his phone in desperation, as if he doesn’t understand that if I could resolve a maritime crisis with theatrical gestures, we’d already be on board with a cold drink in hand on the observation deck.

I cover the earpiece with my palm and glare at him.

“Do you want me to be the one who ends up in the ship’s infirmary because of your nerves?” I snap at him.

Nico shakes his head immediately, terrified.

“Fine,” I sigh. “Then shut up for a second.”

I go back to the phone with my heart pounding in my throat.

“Helen, listen to me carefully…”

“I’m listening, Maika.”

“No, you’re calculating how many unfavorable reports you’re going to stick me with while pretending to listen. There’s a huge difference.”

“Maika, please. We don’t have any leeway. The captain is already asking for the crew and passenger manifest to close the gangway.”

“Listen,” I interrupt her, turning the corner at a brisk pace. “St. Peter’s Square is just a ten-minute walk from the Roma San Pietro train station. If I can get the whole group there, we can take the Regional Veloce direct to Civitavecchia. We’ll skip the Rome traffic, the gridlocked port entrances, and the remote possibility that the bus driver decides today is the perfect day to retire. Don’t you think?”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line. Did I just shock her speechless?

“Are you planning to cross the street with twenty-four passengers from the ship against the clock?” Helen asks, clearly incredulous.