Barzel stared at him, not accepting that the reality of his fate could ever be death. He dropped onto his knees and fell forward in two distinct movements, as if at exercise. When David rolled him over, his face had left an impression in the sand, like a mold for a death mask.
The Luger had fallen to the ground. Next to it, something lay half concealed by Barzel’s body. His cabin bag. The zipper was undone, so that when David picked it up awkwardly the contents fell out: books, mostly, and another object, also of paper, rectangular and white. David stared at it, scarcely daring to believe what he held. But yes—in the top left-hand corner, by the light of the moon, he could just make out a handwritten number amongst typescript, and, centered upon the page, a single word in black capitals.
Krysalis.
Suddenly Anna came to life. “I’m not dreaming,” she cried. “Tell me I’m not dreaming, oh David!”
As he rushed to take her in his arms, no longer afraid, Gerhard rapped, “Listen! Can you hear it?”
At first neither of the Lescombes understood. Then David caught the sound of a muted engine, still far offshore. He could not see the boat, only its mother ship, visible as a silhouette still far out to sea but already careering toward them. A coastal patrol craft …
He swung around to face Gerhard. “What happens now?”
Kleist allowed the gun to slip from his fingers, sinking down to join it on the sand. “The submarine …”
“Submarine …?” David struggled to make sense of what Gerhard was saying. Suddenly it all came together. “That boat we heard …” He spun around, only to be faced by the impenetrability of night. “It’s from a sub … Anna! Run!”
But then from out of the darkness by the water’s edge a hoarse voice shouted, “Barzel!”
Perched on top of the bridge, the sling of the FR-F1 tight around his arm, Albert knew that even for this, the greatest sniper rifle ever made, it would be an impossible shot at the best of times, without morbid aqua-phobia and an injured hand to worry about. But just as he had to take risks, so it was part of his job to put the bullet where it mattered.
He hugged the Sopelem night-sight nearer to his eye. Range five hundred, closing. He evaluated the ship’s movements, counting seconds between troughs and highs and wishing he were dead. Four hundred … feed it into the computer along with everything else, let the brain do its own calculations, don’t disturb it, trust your instincts … how long before Vassili switches on the spotlight, speed, range, movements …
The ship lurched into the trough of a wave, and—“Montgomery,” he choked out in a last-ditch attempt to distract himself, “the things I do for you …”
First the woman, stop the disease from spreading, then the man, that was what “Gandergoose GQEQ” meant, sauce for German quarry, sauce for English quarry….
Closing, closing … tight group of three, one of them sitting down, that would be David, a prisoner, of course, thirty thousand pounds’ worth of target but he can wait, what was that beside him, ignore, what would she do, what would Anna the twenty-grand target do next …?
The Soviet landing party had seen the Lindos by now. Some were taking cover behind their own boat. Lights dotted the luminous blue circle into which Albert was peering, automatic fire … hold it, Vassili, don’t panic, hold your fire while Anna works out what to do.
Albert knew. He had lived with this woman until she’d become a part of him and he of her. He was inside Anna Lescombe’s head now. Besotted with Kleist, she would accompany him aboard the submarine; but first she would want to kneel down and hold her husband and bid him look after Juliet….
Range three hundred … no light, not yet, not yet, ignore the bullets, Soviet Ping-Pong balls, they never hurt anyone … don’t throw up now, don’t think about the sea!
By now the strain of trying to hold an accurate aim was injecting savage bolts of pain through his injured hand. Albert cursed the Japanese man’s dogs through gritted teeth, and momentarily relaxed his muscles before realigning the rifle.
She’d hold David, wait, get it right, get it right, three bursts of two, “double-tap,” first the woman, then the man, last the husband for Redman, “two for joy,” David and Anna, that was the deal … don’t roll over the side, hold on, Albert, hold it, Vassili, hold it! Wait for the Greeks to return fire, make it look like a stray round, there mustn’t be any witnesses, no traces, Shorrocks had said, accidental death, act of God, no traces or no deal … what’s that on the beach, looks like another man, lying down, ignore, ignore, shoot before the light, take the first pressure, range two hundred, fuck those bloody dogs! Wave trough, rising, rising, wind gust, second pressure …
That’s not David sitting on the beach!
Freeze!
Albert nursed the trigger home.
The Soviet marines had beached their boat, but even when David pulled Anna’s arm she refused to move. She was staring at Kleist, who sat resting his head on his forearms. Suddenly all the feelings that had warred inside her for so long coalesced into a single emotion, and that was pity.
“Quick, Gerhard!” she cried. “Into the trees.”
“Anna!”
David tugged her sleeve, but she shook him off. “No! Help him! He tried to save me.”
Oblivious of the danger, she bent down to grab Gerhard by the shoulders. At that moment the first fusillade of automatic fire rang out, and David flung himself on top of his wife, dragging her to the ground.
As they fell, a single, tiny, hard object ploughed into Gerhard’s left eye, spattering the Lescombes with blood.
Shafts of light burst from the Lindos, swiftly raking the beach. David hugged Anna to him and rolled away from Gerhard’s corpse. As the Soviet landing party answered a volley of fire from the Greek patrol craft, David grabbed her hand, leapt up and sped toward the nearest trees.
To the Lescombes, lying in the brushwood, the fight seemed to go on forever. In truth, the exchange was a short one, lasting less than a minute. The Soviet contingent, six of them, were both outgunned and pinned to the beach by the Lindos’ searchlight. They made a last stand behind their upturned dinghy but it did not take the Greek machine gunners more than a few seconds to find the range, and then streams of bullets sliced up the flimsy cover like so many chainsaws.
The firing stopped as suddenly as it had begun. From his perch atop the bridge of the Lindos, Albert scanned the deserted beach, now as dazzlingly illuminated as a football stadium ready for an evening match, and he sighed. Hearing footsteps on the metal-runged ladder behind him, he turned to see Vassili’s head come into view.
“All right?” the Greek inquired.
“Yes, thanks. Any survivors?”
“Unlikely. We’re sending men to look.”
“What are you going to do about the bodies?”
“Lose them.” Vassili’s smile was friendly, but it did nothing to dilute the quiet authority in his next words. “You can stand down now. You’ve won.”
“Yes.” Not we’ve won, Albert noticed. He dismantled his rifle and replaced it in its carrying case, out of sight of curious eyes. The task, which called for meticulousness, came as a welcome diversion from the sea below.
“Where’s Hayes?” Vassili asked.
“Haven’t seen him for a while. Sorry.”
While they spoke, the crew of the Lindos had been unshipping her inflatable rubber dinghy. Albert and Vassili stood together on the roof of the bridge, watching its progress toward the shore.
“So much trouble,” Vassili said, “for a worthless file.”
“Worthless?” Albert’s voice was noncommittal.
“Hayes told me many things.” The Greek looked at Albert, and for an instant dropped his mask, letting the other man see his resentment at the way he’d been used. “So I say again, yes, worthless to you, to both of you. There will be no further opportunities to carry out your, your ‘contract,’ do you call it, while on this ship. Understood?”
“Certainly, my dear chap.”
“That goes for Hayes, too.”
Yes, thought Albert; it certainly goes for Hayes.
On the whole, he agreed with Vassili. It had turned out a pretty worthless operation, one way and another. Shorrocks’ orders were very precise: Albert had to make everything look like an accident. With the Lindos now lit up brighter than the brashest floating gin palace, there was no longer any scope for an “accident.” And besides, the lady had not, in the end, gone over. Nor had her husband. So no Caribbean hideaway this year, Montgomery, old bean … waste of time all round, really.
Albert found himself looking back along the wedge of moonlight to where Gerhard Kleist still lay on the sand in sepulchral immobility. Not a total waste, perhaps …
He pointed. “Here come the Lescombes. What’s that David’s carrying?”
As Anna’s feet touched the deck David slipped a hand through her elbow and she looked at him. Albert heard her say, “You must have learned …”
“Everything.”
“Even about Juliet … at the beginning?”
“Everything, my love,” he said, drawing her close; and Albert suppressed a yawn.
About the Author
JOHN TRENHAILE lives in Ashdown Forest, England, with his wife and two children.
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III KRYSALIS GONE
He could not believe it. He refused to believe it. David stood up. For an instant he staggered, his legs not supporting him. At last he summoned up the strength to go and pick up the phone.
The man he was calling answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“My name’s David Lescombe. I’m deputy head of the department, defense department, FCO.”
“Yes? Could you speak up?”
“My wife’s disappeared.”
This time there was a long pause before the inevitable “Yes?”
“My copy of the New Testament appears to have gone as well.”
“Are you at home?”
“Yes, I’m at—”
“We know where you live. Stay there.”
The line went dead.
III
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The reference on page 388 is taken from Corbett Thigpen and Hervey Cleckley, The Three Faces of Eve, Chivers Press (Library Association of Great Britain), 1985, page 165, where the authors ascribe it simply to “Bernheim,” without further elucidation.
Anna Lescombe, one of the characters in this novel, is a barrister of some standing. I practiced at the Chancery bar for thirteen years. Past professional colleagues (and, I hope, present friends) who think to find themselves within these pages will be committing the crime of deceit, albeit only of self-deceit.
Anna Lescombe was adopted shortly after her birth, as indeed was I. But members of my immediate family who likewise imagine that I have represented them here will fare even worse than my former colleagues, for they will be making a mistake.
EDITOR’S NOTE
References in this novel to “Five” and “Six” as institutions mean England’s domestic security service, MI5, and her foreign security service, MI6, respectively.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 978-0-062-03251-5
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Krysalis: Krysalis Page 41