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"No time." He lifted his manacled hands. "Mind doing me the honor?"
Giordino quickly unlocked Pitt's chain and cuffs. He held up the key before dropping it in his pocket. "A keepsake. You never know when we'll get arrested again."
"Judging from the mess we're in, it won't take long," muttered Pitt. "Massarde's passengers will soon be complaining about the lack of heat, especially any women wearing bare-shouldered dresses. A crewman will be sent to repair the problem and discover us gone."
"Then it's time to exit stage left with style and discretion."
"With discretion anyway." Pitt moved to a hatch, eased it open, and peered onto an outside deck that ran aft to the stern of the houseboat. He moved out to the railing and gazed upward. People could be seen through large view windows in the lounge, drinking and conversing in evening dress, oblivious to the punishment that Pitt and Giordino had suffered almost directly below in the engine room.
He motioned for Giordino to follow, and they moved stealthily along the deck, ducking under portholes that opened into the crew's compartments until they came to a stairway. They pressed back in the shadows beneath the steps and stared through the upper opening. Sharply defined under bright overhanging lights, as if in full daylight, burgundy and white paint etched against the black sky, they could clearly see Massarde's private helicopter moored to the roof deck over the main salon. It sat deserted without a crewman around.
"Our chariot awaits," said Pitt.
"Beats swimming," Giordino agreed. "If Frenchy had known he was entertaining a pair of old air force pilots, he'd have never left it unattended."
"His oversight, our fortune," Pitt said mildly. He climbed to the top of the stairs and scanned the deck and peered through nearby ports for signs of life. What few heads he spotted in the cabins were uninterested in events outside and were turned away. He moved quietly across the deck, opened the door to the copter, and climbed in. Giordino pulled out the wheel chocks and removed the tie-down ropes before following Pitt, closing the door and settling in the right seat.
"What have we got here?" Giordino murmured as he studied the instrument panel.
"A late model, French-built, twin turbine Ecureuil, by the look of her," Pitt answered. "I can't tell what model, but we have no time to translate all the bells and whistles. We'll have to forgo a checklist, stoke her up, and go."
A precious two minutes were lost in start-up, but no alarm had been sounded as Pitt released the brake and the rotor blades began slowly turning, accelerating until they reached lift-off rotation. The centrifugal force fluttered the helicopter on its wheels. Like most pilots, Pitt didn't have to translate the French labels on the gauges, instrument, and switches spread across the panel. He knew what they indicated. The controls were universal and caused him no problem.
A crewman appeared and stared curiously through the spacious windshield. Giordino waved at him and smiled broadly as the crewman stood there, indecision etched on his face.
"This guy can't figure out who we are," said Giordino.
"He got a gun?"
"No, but his buddies who are charging up the stairs look none too friendly."
"Time to be gone."
"All gauges read green," Giordino said reassuringly.
Pitt didn't hesitate any longer. He held a deep breath and lifted the helicopter into a brief hover over the deck before dipping the nose and applying the throttles, forcing the machine into forward flight. The houseboat dropped behind, a blaze of light against the black of the water. Once clear, Pitt leveled at barely 10 meters and swung the craft on a course downriver.
"Where we headed?" asked Giordino.
"To the spot where Rudi found the contamination spilling into the river."
"Aren't we heading in the wrong direction? We found the toxin entry a good 100 kilometers in the other direction."
"Merel
y a feint to throw off the hounds. As soon as we're a safe distance away from Gao, I'll swing south and, we'll backtrack across the desert and pick up the river again 30 kilometers upstream."
"Why not drop in at the airport, pick up Rudi, and get the hell out of the country?"
"Any number of reasons," explained Pitt, nodding at the fuel gauges. "One, we don't have enough fuel to fly more than 200 kilometers. Two, once Massarde and his buddy Kazim spread the alarm, Malian jet fighters will hunt us down with their radar and either force us to land or blow us out of the sky. I give that little scenario about fifteen minutes. And three, Kazim thinks there were only two of us. The more distance we can put between Rudi and us gives him that much better chance to escape with the samples."
"Does all this just strike you out of the blue?" Giordino complained. "Or do you come from a long line of soothsayers?"
"Consider me your friendly, neighborhood plot diviner," Pitt said condescendingly.
"You should audition for a carnival fortune-teller," Giordino said dryly.
"I got us out of the steam bath and off the boat, didn't I?"
