Assassin's Shadow

by Striker, Randy

  I gave it five more minutes. In that five minutes I must have checked my watch twenty times.

  I was anxious to get it over with.

  And I was tired of waiting.

  I slid along the side of the house and up onto the expanse of porch. The door seemed to be built of heavy oak on brass hinges. No way to kick it in.

  Ever so slowly, I turned the knob. It would go only halfway.

  It was locked.

  There were two massive windows fronting the porch. They began about thigh high. I took a moment, going over in my mind exactly what I was going to do once inside.

  I didn’t want to have to waste time thinking.

  Quietly, I backed away from the door and positioned myself in front of the first window. There’s a way to do it without getting cut—cut badly, at least. You throw yourself headlong toward the middle of the pane, where the glass is weakest, then at the last moment you tuck your head down, arms drawn in tight, and roll through it.

  I hit the window with two quick sprinter’s steps, crashed through it, landed on neck and shoulders, then sprang to my feet, crossbow leveled midway between Matrah and Fizer, ready if either of them made a move.

  There was a brief slow-motion instant when the expressions on their faces registered on my brain: a mixture of surprise and horror. Fizer dropped his tumbler of whiskey. Matrah crouched as if about to duck—or draw a weapon.

  I never got a chance to see what he did.

  There was one blind spot in the room—a corner I could not see from any window. There was a liquor sideboard there. And that was where the missing Mediterranean stood.

  It took him a moment to react.

  But it took a longer moment for me to realize that he was there.

  He hit me from the right side, making a lunging grab for the crossbow. I elbowed him solidly twice in the stomach, and still he did not let go. I forced him backward, then used his resistance to throw him forward, coming down hard on his neck with my knee. He clutched his throat, croaking.

  From somewhere, a stub-nosed stainless .38 had materialized in the hand of the other Mediterranean. I felt the sudden vacuum of air near my ear at the same moment I heard the explosion.

  He had missed.

  And I wasn’t about to give him a chance to miss again.

  I dove toward a chair, came up rolling, and felt the pinging recoil of the crossbow as I fired.

  The aluminum shaft took him cleanly through the breastbone.

  He dropped the .38 and touched the shaft in his chest as if puzzled.

  Then he fell dead upon the varnished floor.

  Matrah made a movement as if about to retrieve the revolver. I had the Randall knife out of its sheath, ready.

  “Try it, asshole. Touch the revolver and you’re as good as dead.”

  It stopped him. He stood looking at me, still in the crouch as if frozen.

  Fizer spoke for the first time. He still sat in the leather chair. He looked oddly calm. There was a light smile on his face. He said, “He’s pretty much right, Matrah. He’s better with a knife than he is with a pistol. You learned how to throw knives in the circus, didn’t you, Dusky? Isn’t that what you told me back in Cambodia?”

  I relaxed a bit, still holding the knife. “You’ve got a good memory, Stormin’ Norman. Maybe you can remember exactly when you decided to become one of the bad guys. Tell me all about it before I turn you two over to the authorities. It’ll be something to tell your wife and kids.”

  He still wore the smile. He looked like an NFL quarterback at a party thrown by college cheerleaders. “What, you’re not going to kill me?”

  “It crossed my mind. But luckily, I caught myself before they turned me into a machine—like they turned you into a machine. I’m disappointed in you, Fizer. I mean that. This whole intrigue business—what a crock of shit. The politicians sit back and yawn while we forfeit lives on the big board. But they got you hook, line, and sinker. It wasn’t even a matter of playing the game—it was a matter of playing the game for the biggest bucks.”

  He stood up and wiped his face with a big right hand. “You’re right, Dusky. About one thing: I’m still playing the game. But you’re wrong about the other—I haven’t switched sides.”

  I noticed a look of surprise on Matrah’s face, quickly hidden.

  “Pretty weak story, Stormin’ Norman.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “Would you?”

  He chuckled softly. “No, I guess I wouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter. It’ll all come out later.”

  “How so?”

  For the first time, Fizer looked serious. It was a look I remembered well—and once trusted. “I had them, Dusky. I had the whole damn FEAT organization in the palm of my hand. But you just blew it. You think I just came blundering over here and stupidly got myself captured? You know me better than that, MacMorgan. I smelled a rat. And you know the rat.” He jerked a thumb at Matrah. “It’s the Arab prince over here.”

  “You bastard,” Matrah said between clenched teeth.

  “He had too many connections not to be involved. But why settle for one small fish when you can get the whole school? I let him know that I might be interested in joining up if the price was right.”

  “And he fell for it, just like that,” I said skeptically.

  “You know better. That’s why I couldn’t get in touch with Westervelt. I disappeared, and I had to let you guys go on thinking that. They kept me locked up downstairs in a storm cellar for four, maybe five days. They kept questioning me, and I kept giving them information. But all the wrong information. I took the chance that I would be far more valuable to them alive than dead. And it had paid off. Until now. Tonight was my big test. They hadn’t planned on killing Kiev Evenki, the Russian. Just Yabrud, the Israeli. The murder of a Jewish diplomat would cause a military buildup in Israel. Repercussions of the buildup would be felt all over the Middle East—especially in Egypt.” He looked at the Mediterranean. “Isn’t that the way you explained it to me, Matrah? Your organization—the one we call FEAT—had been steadily investing large sums of money in Egyptian armament corporations over the past three months? You said the sudden surge in military spending would give you, what—a clean twenty to twenty-five percent profit?” Fizer smiled at me. “Shrewd bastards, huh, Dusky?”

  “So why did you kill the Russian, Stormin’ Norman? That’s a little bit above and beyond the call of duty, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “Had to make them believe me, Dusky.” I watched his eyes closely as he added, “Besides, the Russian wasn’t there. They pulled him out a couple of days ago.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “For one thing, I checked his room while Matrah and his goon squad waited for me to set the explosives. I talked to Evenki’s stand-in. You know him pretty well, MacMorgan. A guy by the name of Westervelt. Told him to clear the area just before the fireworks.”

  “That’s pretty easy to check out, Norm.”

  He nodded. “I’m planning on it.” He grinned slightly. “Two things in this world I don’t want hot on my trail, MacMorgan. And one of them’s the KGB.”

  “What’s the second?”

  “You.”

  “So what would you have done if they wanted you to kill Yabrud? Or me, Stormin’ Norman?”

  “I knew they had someone else for those jobs.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I was about to find out when you came busting in.”

  Matrah had held his frozen pose, caught, it seemed, in a combination of shock and seething. I nodded toward him. “It’s not him or one of the other Mediterraneans?”

  “No. They’ve got another connection here on the island.”

  “We can persuade him to tell us.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. One thing’s for sure—the moment their assassin smells something wrong, he’ll be long gone.” Norm brushed at his neatly styled brown hair. “Face it, Dusky, we threw the net and came up with some of the fi
sh. But not all of them. Our government just wanted to give FEAT a message: Don’t practice your terrorism in the United States. Maybe this will be message enough.”

  “And maybe not. You might be done with your job. But I’m not done with mine.”

  “Dammit, MacMorgan, this is no time to be stubborn!”

  “Let’s just say I have a personal interest in all this, Fizer. A sporting interest. Their assassin wants to play tag. Almost killed me tonight. Now it’s his turn to be the rabbit.”

  “Dusky, when Matrah here doesn’t show up tomorrow, their man will take it on the run. And one thing they’re not short of is connections. Important connections. They’ll have him out of the country an hour after he makes it to the mainland.”

  “But what if Matrah has a legitimate excuse for not showing up?”

  “And how do you plan to work that?”

  I crossed the room, keeping a tight eye on the Mediterranean. I had made my decision about Stormin’ Norman Fizer. Every point of his story was plausible. It was just the sort of thing Fizer would do—walk solo into the lion’s den. Besides, I had instinctive feelings about Fizer. He was one of the few you could trust. That’s why I had been so shocked when I saw him get out of the Excalibur with the others. I could have waited until the next day, gone to Boca Grande and rounded up Westervelt to check out the story. But that would have blown my plan for evening the score.

  And this was the last chance I would have.

  I bent over the corpse of the dead Mediterranean. Blood had pooled beneath him on the varnished floor. It smelled of heated metal, and with that was the stench of human feces. There is an odor to fresh death, an odor fouler than the carrion we will all become. It is the fume of despair, and it never fails to hit me broadside. This man at my feet had once been a child, lived and loved as we all do. He had laughed and cried and sought approval in his own way—until his way had crossed my path.

  The look of puzzlement was still on his face. Behind me, the other Mediterranean was kneeling, still fighting for air. He, at least, would live.

  I picked up the stainless .38, hesitated, then handed it to Fizer.

  “There! Shoot him! Shoot him, dammit!”

  Matrah made a lunge as if to take the revolver. Fizer caught him with a short left to the jaw that sent him wheeling backward, crashing into a chair. It didn’t knock him out. But it turned the dark eyes glassy.

  “Just like old times, eh, Dusky?” Fizer said, licking the skinned knuckles.

  “Yeah, except I’m feeling older. And meaner.”

  “God forbid.”

  “You bastard!” Matrah yelled, spitting blood. “You lied to me. You’ll pay for lying to me!”

  “I’d go to hell just to be with my friends, if for no other reason.” Fizer turned to me. “So now what?”

  “Now I’m going to type a note for Matrah to sign. He’s been called away suddenly. And the Solitary is to go on as planned. There’s an older woman who works in his business office. We’ll leave the note on her desk. Then you’re going to cart Matrah and his two friends back to Boca Grande in the Excalibur and get in touch with Colonel Westervelt—and then call your wife. She’s heartsick, you know.”

  “I never told her it would be easy being married to me. But what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to enjoy the Solitary, of course. I’ve still got some weight to lose. But first I’m going to write some notes of my own. Don’t worry, if worse comes to worse, Yabrud’s CIA bodyguards will be somewhere on the island—you can bet on that.”

  “Does all this mean you know who the assassin is?”

  “Let’s just say that with Matrah and his goons out of the picture, it narrows it down. Way down . . .”

  15

  Fizer had been right. There was no way to force Matrah to cooperate with us—and that included signing the farewell note. Finally, I rummaged through some papers in his desk and forged his signature as best I could.

  He was not pleased. We tied and gagged him, and forced him down the mound through the darkness to the stiletto-shaped racing boat. His Mediterranean friend came along meekly enough. It would be another few days before he could even speak—let alone yell for help.

  The third Mediterranean was deposited aboard wrapped in green tarp.

  “You’ll clean up the blood up there?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I don’t understand why you still have to go to Cabbage Key before daylight.”

  “Because when this is all over, I’m going to take an immediate vacation. There’s a very pretty lady over there who knows how to sail. She’ll be going with me.”

  “I should have known. What are those papers in your hand?”

  “Notes.”

  “What do they say?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re being pretty damn secretive, MacMorgan.”

  “The assassin will understand. That’s all that matters.”

  “I’m going to be in the landing party that arrives on Cayo Costa at midnight. You’d better have Yabrud there in perfect health and your business over by then.”

  “Promise. On both counts. And like I said, Stormin’ Norman, call your wife.”

  He was grinning as he pulled out in the Excalibur, headed for Boca Grande.

  I checked my watch. I had only a couple of hours before daylight.

  And there was no time to waste.

  I made my way back up the mound and stopped outside Sonya Casimur’s cottage. I slid the note under the door after deciding not to chance going inside. I did the same at the fat Texan’s cottage, and at Heinrich Keppler’s quarters.

  When I had told Norm Fizer I had it narrowed down, I wasn’t lying. The note the assassin had left finally told me:

  There is no place safer than in the tracks of the hunter....

  The assassin was someone close.

  The assassin was someone who had taken pains to stay right in my tracks.

  For an instant, I considered taking Sniper to Cabbage Key. But that would have been the stupidest of moves. Instead, I went aboard, got the Remington 700 sniper rifle from the fish-box compartment, grabbed an old styrofoam cooler and some extra clothes, then slid through the shadows to one of the little wooden skiffs moored in the shallows.

  I rowed well away from St. Carib Island before starting the engine.

  Marina Cole was alone in the little board-and-batten house at the foot of the mound. Her sailboat was moored to the dock just outside. In the darkness, with the sails down, it seemed to slumber like the rest of Cabbage Key.

  I puttered up in the little skiff, paused outside as I tied up, then went up the wooden walkway to the cottage. Plants hung inside the screened-in porch. I banged my head on one, then stopped its swaying before it fell.

  “Who’s there? Is someone out there?” Her voice was soft, deep with sleep.

  “Just your friendly guardian angel.”

  “Dusky!”

  I heard the sound of a light switch, then I heard her swear softly when the light did not come on. The island generator was off. Finally, there was the striking of a match, brief explosion of sulfur, then the yellow glow of a kerosene lamp.

  She wore an extra-large T-shirt with the Cabbage Key seal on it: soaring osprey backdropped by the water tower. In the soft light you could see the elongation of nipples and the weight of breasts beneath material, and the T-shirt ended abruptly just above the widening of hips and flaxen curl at the intersection of thighs. She was smiling.

  “Just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “Well, it’s about time, MacMorgan!”

  She brushed feathering blond hair from her face and fell into my arms, still holding the lamp.

  “Hmmm, you smell nice, lady.”

  “And you feel nice, MacMorgan. God, it seems like a month.”

  “Or two.”

  “Or a year. Can you stay? You can stay, can’t you? Jesus, what time is it? I feel like I’m dreaming. A very nice dr
eam . . .”

  I held her tightly, my mouth against hers, hips pressing, hands searching, body wanting her more than ever.

  “Hold it, lady.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do. This damn belt . . .”

  “Whoa—not that.” I held her away from me. “I can’t stay. Let’s not start anything we can’t finish.”

  “We already have,” she said huskily, pressing herself against me.

  “Will you just give me a minute to talk, Marina?”

  The tone of my voice stopped her. She put the lamp on the table, suddenly serious. “What’s wrong, Dusky?”

  “How well do you like working here—waiting tables at Cabbage Key?”

  “What? Well, I love it, I guess. The people are great, and—”

  “You wouldn’t be interested in going away with me tomorrow night?”

  “Dusky, I’d love to go anywhere with you, anytime, but why tomorrow night? That’s a day before that stupid St. Carib course you’re taking is over, and . . .” Her eyes grew suddenly worried. “What’s going on, MacMorgan? I don’t like the readings I’m getting on all this.”

  “What do you mean, Marina?” I watched her face closely. She paused for a moment, then sat down in a wicker chair beside the kerosene lamp.

  “First of all, I don’t believe you went to St. Carib to lose weight. You don’t need to lose weight.”

  “So?”

  “Dammit, Dusky, why are you playing these games with me? It has something to do with Matrah . . . Matrah and my father, doesn’t it? You’re investigating them or something.”

  “Would it upset you if I was?”

  “Yes! I mean, no!” She jammed her hands against her face. “Dusky, they’re an . . . unfeeling people. I know that. As much as I love my father, I have to admit that to myself. I hate everything they stand for. That’s why I really stopped here—to ask Matrah one last time for a divorce. I wanted to be done with them now and forever. That’s why I don’t want to see you get involved, Dusky. You don’t know the extent of their power. Their business: It’s not brutal . . . but it is merciless. Nothing stands in their way, Dusky. Do you understand what I’m saying? A private business, a piece of property, a human life—it’s all the same when it goes through their computers. Dusky, please . . . I don’t want to see you hurt. . . .’ ’