by John Lutz
“Where is he now?”
“They caught him. I think everyone else is under guard in the galley now—except the poor bastard who jumped over the side. I don’t know who he was. Sorry, ma’am,” he said to Ava. “These knots are tough. I wish I had a knife.”
“Wouldn’t be any easier. This is Kevlar mooring line.” To Laker’s questioning look, she replied, “I’ve been tied up a lot lately.”
Ramón finally finished with Ava. She stood rubbing her wrists as he came around to untie Laker. “You have our thanks,” Laker said to him. “And the thanks of the U.S. government. What will you do now?”
“You are going to try to stop them,” Ramón said.
“Yes.”
“If you succeed, will Captain Korzeniowski go to prison?”
“At the very least.”
“Then I am with you.”
Laker’s hands were free. He clapped Ramón on the shoulder and said, “All right. Can you get Ava onto the bridge?”
“I think so. Most of the officers seem to be on deck.”
“Be careful. We need to get Ava to the radio.” He turned to her. “Go on frequency 1153. Say ‘Gettysburg. ’ That will get you Sam Mason.”
“What do I tell him?”
“Send in the Marines. Preferably by helicopter.”
“But he can’t order that. It’s a violation of Cuban airspace, to start with, and—”
“You’ll be amazed what Mason can do.” He took her hand and let it go. That was all they had time for. As he stepped through the hatch, she was saying to Ramón, “You go on, I’ll be right behind you.”
Laker glanced back, to see her picking up the ropes they’d been tied with. It puzzled him, but he didn’t stop to ask why.
It was fully dark now, and no one noticed Laker as he slipped through the hatch onto the deck. Near the bow, powerful work lights on tripods showed that the ship’s derrick was lifting the big hatch cover. An old man in fatigues was watching the work intently. That would be Gonçalves. Laker didn’t see Korzeniowski. Ava had told him there were about a dozen soldiers; four of them were here. He could see only the helmeted heads of the stevedores. They were in the hold, standing on the container of warheads, unfastening the locking pins with long-handled hooks. One of them made a gesture, and with a whining and rumbling a heavy, complicated steel framework descended.
Laker looked up. The gantry crane was a huge structure, consisting of vertical metal frames supporting a horizontal component. On this bridge were runways along which ran the hoist that lifted the container out of the ship’s hold, shifted it sideways over the pier, and lowered it to the truck. In a small, brightly lighted cab attached to the hoist, he could see the operator, the one man who controlled all this potent machinery. The bridge projected over the water on the other side of the pier, so it could unload a ship moored there. At present, there was no ship.
That gave Laker an idea.
Everybody on deck was focused on the hold and the job to be done. He made his way quickly across the dark deck to the top of the gangway and began to descend the steps. An armed guard was standing at the bottom. His job was to keep anyone from mounting the steps, so he was facing away from Laker. All Laker had to do was get down without being noticed by any of the men standing around the truck. Good thing his clothes, face and hands were so dirty; he didn’t stand out against the dark hull.
The soldier was a small man with an angry red boil on his neck above his shirt collar. Descending the last few steps Laker was sure he was going to sense something and turn. He didn’t.
Laker dropped him with a rabbit punch. Lifted him enough to slide his Kalashnikov out from under him. Slung it over his own left shoulder. This area of the pier was dark. He’d be almost invisible. He ran to the nearest upright of the crane, looked up to find it smooth. He went to the next one. Here were the rungs. He started climbing.
Ava too was climbing, up the stairs to the bridge. Shouts and noises of machinery were coming from the bow, but it seemed quiet in the sterncastle. She reached the top to find Ramón crouching by the door, peering in the glass panel. He motioned for her to get down.
“Korzeniowski is on the bridge,” he whispered. “And he’s armed.”
“What can we do?”
“Wait.”
Halfway up the gantry crane, Laker heard the whining of machinery again and saw that the container was being lifted out of the hold. Time was running out. His sense of urgency made his foot slip. He had to scramble for new hand- and footholds and nearly lost the Kalashnikov.
He reached the bridge and climbed on top of it. The pier was seventy feet below. He decided not to look down again as he set out along the narrow steel beam. It was tempting to get down on hands and knees and crawl, but there wasn’t time. He walked.
The container seemed enormous as it rose steadily toward him. Laker crouched, looked down on the cab. There was a platform for the operator to stand on while he opened the door. Laker took a second to plan his next moves. No room for error.
He dropped onto the platform. His left hand pushed down the lever and opened the door while his right unslung the Kalashnikov from his shoulder. He leveled it on the operator. His face was astonished and frightened. He wasn’t going to resist.
“Salí!” Laker said. “En seguida!”
The man obeyed at once. Fear made him clumsy and he nearly fell off the narrow platform. Laker took his place in the seat and shut the door. The man’s feet disappeared as he climbed to the top of the bridge. There was a bare light bulb in a cage in the ceiling. He broke it with the rifle barrel, to make himself less of a sitting target. The container swung gently from its chains below him. It blocked the view of him from the ship’s deck, but the men down there would quickly catch on that something was wrong.
He reached for the controls on his right. Nudged a lever at random. The container began to descend. He released it and pushed another lever. This was the one he wanted. The hoist and cab began to slide over the pier. In a moment they were over the flatbed truck. The container didn’t shield him from the view of the men around it. He looked straight down at the upturned faces of the workmen and soldiers, shadowy in the glaring work lights. He held the lever down and the hoist continued to slide.
The soldiers reacted quickly. They unshouldered their weapons and pointed them up at him. Laker braced himself. There was nothing he could do. He was trapped, a fish in a barrel.
The glass exploded as the bullets hit, showering him with fragments. Some of them cut deeply. He felt a tremendous blow on his right arm, knew a bullet had hit him.
Pain and weakness threatened to engulf him. He shook his head. Realized the container had stopped because the fingers of his wounded arm were too weak to hold the lever down. He reached across with his good arm. The container began to move.
Ava heard gunfire. So did Korzeniowski. Kneeling beside Ramón outside the door, she watched as he ran out onto the open bridge wing on the pier side. Stepping onto a ladder, he disappeared from view.
“Now,” Ramón said. He opened the door and they entered the bridge. There was no one else here. She scanned the many instrument panels helplessly. Ramón grasped her arm and led her to the radio. She was surprised at how small it was. Just a screen, keypad, knobs, and a telephone receiver. She sat and lifted the receiver while Ramón worked the keypad. He nodded to her.
“Gettysburg,” she said.
Laker could see the muzzle flashes on the pier, hear the ricochets of bullets from the metal body of the cab. But the shooters didn’t have a good angle on him anymore, because cab and container were now out over the black water on the other side of the pier. The hoist banged against the end of the bridge and stopped. Laker let go of the lever. Began pushing and pulling other levers, pressing buttons on the consoles on either side of his seat. None of them had any effect. The container continued to sway gently right below him.
He found the right lever. The hoist released. The container didn’t descend slowly but drop
ped like a stone. It hit the surface with a thunderous splash. By the time the water settled, there was nothing to be seen of the container but the chains holding it to the hoist.
He opened the door and stood on the platform. Bullets were pinging and clanging against metal, but the soldiers were shooting at random. They’d lost track of where he was. He reached up. The wounded right arm responded, but his hand was too weak to grip. Using his left arm he was able to lift himself until he could get his knee, then his foot, onto the ledge of the shattered glass window in the door. Halfway. Straightening up, he repeated the maneuver and pulled himself onto the bridge. Now he was shielded from gunfire from below. He put the Kalashnikov across his lap. The container was still recoverable, but anybody who wanted to try would have to climb the upright supports and run along the bridge toward him. Laker figured he could hold off a battalion from this position.
As long as he didn’t lose consciousness from loss of blood.
On the ship’s deck, Korzeniowski ran up to Gonçalves, who was standing at the side, gripping the railing, anguish on his face.
“Laker?” the captain said.
Gonçalves pointed. “He dropped the container into the water. But we can raise it. We need more men. I have to call the missile base.”
Korzeniowski gave him a look. “You think the warheads will still function? After the impact and immersion? The container isn’t watertight.”
Gonçalves grasped the taller, younger man by the shirt collar. “I will use the ship’s radio.”
Korzeniowski didn’t argue. He waited only for Gonçalves to release him to turn and run to the nearest hatch in the sterncastle. He climbed the steps at a run, Gonçalves right behind him. At the top, he threw open the door.
Ramón turned. Korzeniowksi ignored him. Ava swiveled her seat around. She was still holding the receiver to her ear. Korzeniowski grasped the handle of the pistol holstered on his hip. Ramón crouched and sprang, hitting him hard and low. The pistol clattered to the floor. Korzeniowski toppled and Ramón was atop him in an instant, pummeling his face.
Gonçalves walked toward Ava. His pistol was already in his hand.
“Too late,” she told him. “Helicopters are coming from the Guantanamo Bay base. They only have to fly across the island. They’ll be here in minutes.”
Gonçalves shot her twice in the chest. The impacts knocked her from the chair. She spun and fell, landing facedown on the deck. Gonçalves grasped the dangling receiver and jabbed keys on the pad. When he got through to the missile base, he ordered more troops to come to the harbor immediately. The man on the other end was confused, and Gonçalves had to go through it twice.
Korzeniowski had managed to regain his feet. But Ramón was punching him, driving him back, out onto the open bridge wing. Gonçalves replaced the receiver, picked up his gun, and started to go to Korzeniowski’s aid. Then he heard a sound that froze him in his tracks.
The wump-wump-wump of jet helicopter blades.
Ramón was dazed and bloody. The captain was landing his punches, making the most of his longer reach. No use hanging back. Ramón surged toward him, throwing both fists at Korzeniowski’s midsection, ignoring the blows to his own head. The rush knocked Korzeniowski back against the waist-high rail. His arms flew up as he tried to get his balance. Ramón seized the opportunity, throwing an uppercut at the point of his chin. The impact lifted Korzeniowski off his feet. He toppled backward over the rail and fell forty feet to the water.
Ramón was spent. Panting and grunting with pain, he leaned his forearms on the rail, clutched his head. His knees almost buckled.
A shot made him flinch. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he looked around. Stepped back inside the bridge. The body of Ivan Gonçalves lay on the floor. A pool of blood was spreading on the linoleum floor around his gray head. The pistol with which he had shot himself was still in his right hand.
Ramón looked up. Saw Ava’s body near the radio console. He went to her, turned her over. Her eyes were closed, but she was still breathing. He looked at the front of her blouse, saw bullet holes but no blood. He pulled up the blouse.
Her entire torso was wrapped in mooring line. He could even see a flattened bullet in its tight coils. Her eyes slowly opened. She said, “I noticed it was made of Kevlar. Thought I’d put it to use.”
“You’re all right?”
“I feel like I’ve been kicked by a mule. A large mule wearing iron shoes. Let me just lie here for a minute, okay?”
Ramón gently lowered her to the floor and sat beside her, leaning his back against the console. In silence they listened to the helicopters coming closer.
The lead chopper swept past, almost at a level with Laker atop the gantry crane. He had no trouble reading USMC on its door. Four more followed in loose formation. The leading one circled over the harbor and came back, searchlights sweeping the pier and the ground in search of a place to land. None of the Cubans chose to fire on it.
Laker put the Kalashnikov on safe and laid it across his lap. Then he lay down on his back on the top girder of the bridge and closed his eyes. He would be just fine right here until someone came to help him down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The top of Laker’s restored 1964 Mustang was still stuck in the down position. But that was okay, because spring had come to Washington.
He and Ava were cruising along Rock Creek Parkway on a mild, cloudy day. He glanced over at her, wanting to see her auburn hair flowing in the wind. In the old days, she used to wear a hat and hold it down tight. But he’d noticed she was different in small ways since she’d spent so much time with her cousin Tilda. It’d loosened her up a bit.
The hair was a swirling red-brown mop, all right. But she was turned to him and her lips were moving. He couldn’t hear a thing. He slowed down.
“What?”
“That’s one advantage of being deaf in your right ear, Laker!” she shouted. “You can’t hear when you’re driving!”
“Do you want to stop?”
“Yes! Let’s find a place and cuddle for a while!”
When he could, he pulled over to the side of the road. They got out and walked to a bench under a willow tree. It was Saturday, and traffic was calm. Ava sat on his left side. That was the good ear, but the wounded arm. Though it was healing, he couldn’t lift it high enough to put it around her. She put her arm around him and kissed his cheek.
He picked up the conversation where wind roar had interrupted it. “You said the NSA had offered you your job back, with ample groveling.”
“Yes. They want to make sure my confidentiality agreement is still in effect.”
“Hopeless. It’s all going to come out. Too many journalists are digging too hard. A guy like Ruy Morales can’t just disappear.”
“I’ve heard that everybody in the Havana government is preparing to swear up and down they had no idea what Gonçalves was up to.”
“I doubt that’ll hold up.”
“But you have to admire the way Moscow is trying to brazen it out.”
Laker chuckled. “Maneuvers in the Baltic area have been a complete success, and now the troops have returned to base.”
“I see that NATO has announced maneuvers of its own.”
“With American troops proudly participating.”
Ava was scrutinizing his face. “Your cuts are healing. I’m glad there won’t be any scars.”
“So is Mason. He hates identifying marks on his agents.”
“You haven’t said if he’s hired you back yet.”
“He never fired me. Or even suspended me. I was drawing my salary the whole time the FBI and CIA were chasing me.”
“Mason’s such an ornery cuss. You’ve got to love him.” Ava fitted her little finger in the cleft of Laker’s chin. He loved it when she did that. “What’s the latest on Captain Korzeniowski?”
“Recovered from his fall into the harbor. Telling the interrogators interesting yarns about his days in the Russian Navy. But they’re not m
aking any deals. Eventually he’ll stand trial for the murder of Esteban Lamon and other crimes. Ramón Milaflores says he’s looking forward to testifying against him.”
“And you’re looking forward to seeing Ramón.”
“I owe him my life, several times over. Can’t wait to buy him a Speyside Cardhu.”
“Ah,” said Ava and jumped to her feet. She returned from the Mustang with a bottle of his favorite single malt and two glasses. This surprised him, and not just because she usually called it Old Tooth Dissolver.
“This is a national park,” he said as she poured him a glass. “We’re probably breaking federal law.”
“My cousin Tilda would approve. We’re about to toast her.” Ava poured her own glass. “You know, I am eager for this whole mess to be dragged into the light. However embarrassing it’ll be for the various D.C. spy shops. I want to tell Tilda’s children what she did for her country.”
Laker nodded. He knew Ava was haunted by thoughts of her cousin. As he was haunted by thoughts of Terry. He hadn’t mentioned them. Knew what Ava would say. Terry had betrayed her country and tried to kill Laker. All true. But he’d never forget that last look before she threw herself into the sea.
Ava lifted her glass. “Matilda North, hail and farewell,” she said.
“Hail and farewell,” Laker said and drank.
Adding silently, Theresa Lydecker, rest in peace.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When a new book is published, there are many people to thank. No author does it alone. As always, I want to thank Kensington Publishing for our long standing relationship, and Michaela Hamilton, an editor to treasure. Thanks to Dominick Abel, my agent and my friend. Proofreading, research, editing, and suggestions from David Linzee, Marilyn Davis, and of course, my wife, Barbara, have been enormously appreciated.
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