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With forty-five minutes of light remaining, they set about camouflaging the kayaks. Using cans of black and gray marine spray paint, they emblazoned the sides, tops, and bottoms of the craft in jagged overlapping stripes until not a sliver of neon plastic showed. Sam’s paint job, while functional, lacked the artistic flair of Remi’s work. Her kayak bore a striking resemblance to the slashed camouflage pattern found on World War I warships.
He stepped back a few paces, studied each kayak in turn, then said, “Are we sure you aren’t reincarnated from some OSS operative?”
“Not entirely.” She nodded at his kayak. “Do you mind?”
“Have at it.”
A couple of minutes and half a can of spray paint later, Sam’s kayak looked almost identical to her own. She turned to him: “What do you think?”
“I feel . . . unmanned.”
Remi walked over and kissed him. She smiled. “If it helps, I think your kayak is bigger than mine.”
“Very funny. Let’s get changed.”
After they donned their surplus clothes, their regular clothes went into the rucksacks, which in turn each went into the bow compartment of each kayak.
With nothing else to do, they sat together in the sand and watched the sun’s descent, watched as the shadows lengthened over the water, and darkness slowly engulfed the inlet.
When night had fully fallen, they dragged the kayaks down to the water, each shoving halfway out before climbing in and pushing off with the tip of an oar. Soon they were moving through the inlet. They took ten minutes to practice maneuvering the kayaks, getting a feel for the oars and the balance, until they were confident they were ready.
With Sam in the lead, Remi behind and to his right, they paddled down the inlet, oars making a barely perceptible hiss as they cut through the water. Soon the mouth of the inlet came into view; beyond that, a vast dark carpet of water. As Selma had predicted, the sky was partially overcast, with only the faintest moon glow reflecting off the water. Two miles ahead, almost due north, they could see the dark lump of Sazan Island.
Sam suddenly stopped paddling. He held up a closed fist: Stop. Remi took her oar out of the water, laid it across her lap, and waited. Using exaggerated and slow movements, Sam pointed to his ear, then up toward the top of the cliff to the right.
Ten seconds passed.
Then Remi heard it: an engine, followed by the soft squeal of brakes.
Sam looked back at Remi, pointed to the rock wall, then put his oar back in the water and headed in that direction. Remi followed. Sam turned his kayak parallel with the cliff, then rotated in his seat, placed a hand on Remi’s bow, and steered her in.
“Ranger?” Remi whispered.
“Let’s hope so.”
They sat still, eyes cast upward.
At the edge of the cliff a match flared, then went out and was replaced by the glowing tip of a cigarette. In the faint glow Sam glimpsed the brim of a military-style cap. For five minutes they sat motionless, watching as the man finished his smoke. At last he turned and walked back the way he’d come. A car door opened, then slammed shut. The engine started, and the car began moving away, tires crunching on the gravel.
Sam and Remi waited another five minutes in case of a double back, then set out again.
A quarter mile into the bay, it became clear that Selma’s tide prediction was similarly accurate. While neither Sam nor Remi were surprised, they also knew the ocean was a fickle beast; even a relatively gentle one-knot eastward current would have made the crossing twice as hard, forcing them to make constant course adjustments to compensate for the surge. Fail at this, and they could easily find themselves caught in the Adriatic and on their way to Greece.
Soon they found their rhythm, stroking in unison and quickly eating up the distance to Sazan. At the halfway point they stopped for a break. Remi brought her kayak alongside Sam’s, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the gentle rocking of the waves.
“Patrol,” Remi said suddenly.
To the northeast a large speedboat came around the island’s headland from the direction of the base. It kept turning, bow coming about until it was pointed directly at them. Sam and Remi sat frozen, watching and waiting. Though well-camouflaged, their kayaks wouldn’t escape the attention of a spotlight a quarter mile away.
On the boat’s bow a spotlight popped on, skimmed over the island’s southern shoreline, then went dark again. The patrol boat kept coming toward them
“Come on,” Sam muttered. “Go take some shore leave.”
The boat swerved to the east.
Remi said, “Good boy. Keep going.”
It did. They watched for a few more minutes as the boat’s navigation lights grew more distant, then finally merged with the light clutter of Vlorë in the distance.
