Assassin's Shadow
Page 16
And always there was the question in my mind: What if it is her, MacMorgan? What if she was the one who challenged you to the hunt, and then tried to kill you by loosening the boards from the water tower? Will you be able to bring the cross hairs to bear? And will you be able to squeeze the trigger?
I prayed I would not get the chance to find out.
Through the Star-Tron scope, I kept watching for Marina Cole’s sailboat to leave Cabbage Key, then bank southward for Cayo Costa.
But aside from the normal small-boat traffic on the intercoastal waterway, there was no sign of her Sleek.
The sound of my lean-to exploding surprised me. It happened at ten-fifty by the green luminescence of the Rolex.
I fought off the urge to bail out of the tree and go after the assassin on a run.
But I didn’t have to. The killer came soon enough.
I never did hear the crack of footfall, any snapping of branches.
She was good. Very damn good. She wore dark-blue pants and jersey that blended into the night. Behind me, on the Gulf side, I could hear only the wash and draw of waves, and the unexpected splash of fish feeding in the dark sea.
She had stayed to the middle of the island, coming through the jungle to my camp. She carried a rifle in her right arm, slung comfortably, like a hunter after pheasant.
At the path that led from the bay side of the island to Yabrud’s lean-to, she hesitated. I could see her weapon clearly through the Star-Tron scope. She rested her perfect face against the brutal skeleton stock of her SVD Dragunov sniper rifle. On the rifle was mounted the complex Soviet infrared night sight and spotlight.
She was squinting through the sight.
She saw me just as I brought the crosshairs to bear on her forehead.
In a flash of movement, everything seemed to revolve in slow motion.
There was a pitiful look of shock on her face; then the look became horror, as if she saw something else through her infrared scope.
There was the explosion of a high-caliber rifle firing, but it was not her rifle.
Behind me, the Styrofoam head of Samuel Yabrud shattered like an ice sculpture.
I tried to force myself to shoot as she brought her rifle up, but I could not, thinking: If I am to die, let it be her; someone I have come to love in a way.
I felt no fear as she leveled her rifle, noticing, oddly, that it was aimed near me—but not at me.
There was a burst of flame. The recoil contorted her face.
Behind me, there was the increased thrashing of fish feeding in the wash of Gulf.
And then I realized the thrashing was not fish at all.
“Dusky! Dusky, don’t shoot—please!”
Marina Cole came running toward me. Her face looked strangely saintly in the weak light. “It wasn’t me you’re after—it was him.”
I swung down out of the tree. She came crashing into my arms.
“What in the hell are you doing out here?”
She took a deep breath, lifted her rifle, and flicked on the mounted spotlight. “That’s what I’m doing out here, Dusky. The same thing you’re doing.”
In the stark-white blaze of light, I could see a body awash on the beach.
It was a man. He wore a black wet suit. He clutched a rifle similar to Marina’s in his right hand. I walked evenly across the beach and rolled the corpse over with my foot.
It was Heinrich Keppler.
Blood seeped from a hole in the wet suit. Blond hair washed down over his face. The eyes were open, and the last bit of life focused on me. He reached out with a big arm as if to take me by the throat. He died as the note fell from his hand. I knew what it said: The quarry and the shadow flee at midnight.
Marina stood looking at the body, her breath coming soft and shallow. There was a strange look of peace on her face. She said, “You would have killed him if I hadn’t, Dusky. You had everything planned perfectly.”
I felt myself suddenly overcome with rage. I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Why? Why you?”
She did not attempt to pull away from me. “Because I had to, Dusky.”
“That means a hell of a lot!”
“Dusky, he would have killed the Israeli—you know that. What you don’t know is that, working for FEAT, he’s already assassinated seven other people. One of them was the nine-year-old daughter of a Saudi millionaire. Life meant nothing to him—just as life means nothing to Matrah, or to my father. They disassociate themselves from it. A Pope, a President, or a Jewish diplomat—it wouldn’t matter. They will do anything to shift the world financial flow in their direction. Don’t you see? To them, it’s just a game. One big goddam game!”
I still had her by the shoulders. Suddenly, things were becoming clear: This was the thrill seeker who had climbed mountains, jumped out of airplanes, experimented with drugs and political ideologies, trying to recapture that single moment of freedom she had felt one stormy night long, long ago.
She looked at me and touched my face tenderly. “I would have left with you yesterday, Dusky. I want you to believe that. I love you . . . I do love you.”
“But now it’s too late, right?”
“A boat is waiting for me. I can’t even tell you where. I’ll be in Cuba tomorrow. They wanted the kill very badly, Dusky. They had been in touch with me earlier. Remember when I told you about my bout with communism? It wasn’t a bout. It lasted. They figured I had the inside track on my own father’s organization. And they were right. As I said, I hate everything my father’s organization stands for.”
“Was killing a man as good as saving a man’s life, Marina?”
She looked at me and did not answer. She didn’t have to. The sudden forlorn look on her face was answer enough.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “They’ll be waiting.”
“The KGB?”
“Yes, Dusky,” she said. “The KGB.” She turned and walked away into the darkness, stopping only to throw her own rifle far out into the night sea. . . .
Epilogue
On a bright April afternoon I found myself reading and rereading a perfumed letter that bore the postmark of a country I had never really wanted to visit before.
The fact is, I hate to travel.
And I hate airports.
And I especially hate Miami. It has become America’s plastic vacation face, and Florida’s chamber of commerce people just don’t have the guts—or the character—to admit that the only people who really enjoy Miami are the murderers and the thieves and the rapists.
So I was not exactly enthralled with my seat at Gate 81, waiting to board the glistening 747 outside.
When the booming voice of the airport PA politely suggested that the plane for Greece was now ready for flight, and that we’d all better get our butts in gear if we didn’t want to be left behind, I grabbed my canvas satchel and smiled at the pretty stewardess as she checked my ticket.
The truth is, I had been smiling all the while: Even though I was in an airport. In Miami. Getting ready to make the longest flight I had made since coming back from Vietnam.
At the wastebasket by the boarding tunnel, I almost threw the letter away. I didn’t need it anymore—I had already memorized it: Dusky,
The filming over here is going fine, and the food is wonderful, and my leading man is a gay boy who doesn’t chase me about drooling, so why is it I feel so bad?
Please take the next flight for Athens or I will never let you call my thighs fat again.
Love,
Sonya
I hesitated at the wastebasket, then jammed the letter into the back pocket of my khaki fishing pants.
It was going to be a long flight.
And, for some reason, the more I read the letter, the better I felt....