?CHAPTER One Hundred and Eight
At nine o'clock on Monday morning, Shafer joined the monotonous, stomach-turning line of workaday morons stuck in traffic headed in the direction of Embassy Row. He had the intoxicating thought that he would never be going to work again after today. Everything in his life was about to change. He couldn't go back.
His heart was pounding as he stopped and waited at the green light on Massachusetts Avenue near the embassy. Car horns beeped behind him, and he was reminded of his suicide run a year ago. Those were the days, damn it. Then he blasted through on the red. He ran. He had rehearsed his escape. This was for keeps.
He saw two blocks of clear roadway ahead and he floored the gas. The Jaguar leaped forward, raw phallic power, as it were. The sports car rocketed toward the puzzle of side streets around American University.
Ten minutes later he was turning into the White Flint Mall at fifty, gunning the Jag up to fifty-five, sixty, sixty-five as he sped across the mostly empty lot. He was sure no one had followed him.
He drove toward a large Borders Books Music store, turned right, then zoomed up a narrow side lane between the buildings.
There were five exits out of the mall that he knew of. He accelerated again, tires squealing.
The surrounding neighborhood was a warren of narrow streets. Still no one was behind him, not a single car.
He knew of a little-used one-way entrance onto the Rockville Pike. He got on the road, heading out against the barrage of traffic streaming to work in the city. He hadn't spotted any cars speeding behind him inside the mall, or on the side streets, or on the Pike.
They probably had only one, or at most two cars on him in the morning. That made the most sense to Shafer. Neither the Washington Metro police nor the Security Service would approve a large surveillance detail to follow him. He didn't think so anyway.
He'd probably lost them. He whooped loudly and started blaring the Jag's horn at all the pathetic suckers and fools stuck in the oncoming lanes, headed toward work. He'd been waiting nearly eight years for this.
It was finally here.
Endgame.
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Nine
'We've still got him?' I asked Jones, nervously looking around at the half-dozen agents working in the crisis room inside the British Embassy. The room was filled with state-of-the-art electrical equipment including half-a-dozen video monitors.
'Still got him. He won't get away that easily, Alex. Besides, we think we know where he and the others are going now.'
We had a tiny, sophisticated homing device on the Jaguar, but there was a reasonable chance Shafer would discover it. So far, he hadn't. And now he was running in the Jag, running with the bait, at least that was what we thought was happening.
The Horsemen were all on the move. Oliver Highsmith had been followed from his home in Surrey to Gatwick Airport, outside London. Agents at the airport made sure that Conqueror got on the British Airways flight to New York, then called Washington to report he was en route.
A couple of hours later, an agent called from the Philippines. George Bayer was at Ninoy Aquino Airport in Manila. Famine had purchased a ticket to Jamaica, with a stopover in New York.
We already knew that James Whitehead had retired to Jamaica, and he was on the island at this time. War was waiting for the others to arrive.
'I'm trying to get a fixed pattern for The Four Horsemen game, but there are several points of view at work. That's what they like about the game, what makes it so addictive.' I said to Jones as we waited for more information to come in.
'We know that at least three of them have been playing the game since they were stationed in Thailand in ninety-one. Around that time, bar girls and prostitutes began to disappear in Bangkok. The local police didn't spend much time on the investigation. Girls in Pot Pol had disappeared before. The police have somewhat the same attitude here in Washington with respect to the Jane Doe killings. These girls didn't mean much. They were written off. Murders and disappearances in Southeast certainly aren't investigated like the ones in Georgetown or on Capitol Hill. It's one of Washington's dirty little secrets.'
Jones lit a new cigarette with the butt of his last one. He puffed, then said, 'It might just be Shafer who's involved in the actual murders, Alex. That, or the others are much more careful than he is.'
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't think so, but I didn't have enough concrete evidence to argue my case effectively with Jones, who was no slouch as a detective.
'The end of The Four Horsemen is coming, right? Can they really end their little fantasy game?' Sampson asked.
'It sure looks like they're getting together.' I said. 'Four former British agents, four grown men who love to play diabolical games. In my opinion, four murderers.'
'Possibly.' Andrew Jones finally admitted that the unthinkable could be true. 'Alex, I'm afraid that you could be right.'
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Ten
Jamaica must have been chosen because it was relatively private, and because James Whitehead owned a large beach house there. But perhaps there were other angles attached to the game of The Four Horsemen. I hoped that we would know soon enough.
Oliver Highsmith and George Bayer arrived on the island within minutes of each other. They met at baggage inside Donald Sangster Airport, then drove for about an hour to the posh Jamaica Inn in Ocho Rios.
We were on the move, too. Sampson and I had gotten there on an early-morning flight from DC. The weather was glorious. Blue skies, warm breezes. We heard strains of English and Jamaican Creole at the airport, reggae and ska. The rustle of banana trees, as the sea breeze rushed through them, was like a soft chorus.
The hotel in Ocho Rios was very private and old-fashioned, just forty-five rooms overlooking the sea. We arrived there simultaneously with four English teams. There were also two teams of detectives from Kingston.
The English High Commission office in Kingston had been alerted about our presence and our purpose here. Full cooperation had been promised. Everyone was committed to bringing down all four game-players, whatever the consequences, and I was very impressed with the English group, and also the local detectives.
We waited for Geoffrey Shafer. Sampson and I were strategically positioned to watch the narrow, shaded road that led to the hotel. We were on a lush hillside between the hotel and the sparkling blue Caribbean sea. Andrew Jones and another agent were in a second car hidden near the hotel's rear entrance. Six of his agents were posing as porters and maintenance workers at the hotel. Jamaican detectives were also on the grounds.
We'd had no news about Shafer. He had finally lost us. But we believed he would join the rest of the Horsemen. Jones complained that there weren't enough of us to stop Shafer if he was coming after the others. I agreed. If Shafer was playing kamikaze, there would be no adequate defense.
So we waited and waited. Continual updates came in over the car's short-wave radio. The messages didn't stop all afternoon. They were a kind of electronic heartbeat for our surveillance detail.
Oliver Highsmith is still in his room. Doesn't want to be disturbed apparently..,
Bayer is in his room as well. Subject was spotted on the terrace about ten minutes ago, checking out the beach with binoculars.
Bayer has left his room. He's taking a dip in the deep blue sea. Subject is in a red-striped swimming costume. Difficult to miss. Makes the job easier. Not on the eyes, though...
A black Mercedes arriving at the front gate. Driver's tall and blond. Could be Geoffrey Shafer. You see him, Alex?
I reported in immediately. 'The blond man isn't Shafer. Repeat, it isn't Shafer. Too young, probably American. Young wife and two children tagging along. False alarm. It isn't Shafer.'
The radio reports continued.
Highsmith has just ordered up from room service. Two English breakfasts in the middle of the day. One of our people will bring it up to him...
Bayer is back from his swim. He's well-tanned. Little guy, but mu
scular. Tried to hit on some ladies. Struck out.
Finally, at around six o'clock, I made another report. 'James Whitehead just drove up in a green Range Rover! He's coming inside the hotel. War is here.'
Only one more game-player to go.
We waited. Death had yet to arrive.
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Eleven
Shafer was in no particular hurry to flash the checkered flag. He took his sweet time thinking through each possible scenario. He had spotted the coast of Jamaica on the horizon, several hours before. He had originally flown to Puerto Rico, then sailed from there in a chartered boat. He wanted to be able to leave, either by air or sea.
Now he calmly waited for nightfall, drifting in his boat with the cooling trade winds. It was the famous 'blue hour' on the sea, just past sunset, extraordinarily serene and beautiful. Also magical and slightly unreal. He had finished five hundred more pushups on the deck of the boat, and he wasn't even winded. He could see half-a-dozen large cruise ships anchored near Ocho Rios. All around him were scores of smaller boats like his own.
He remembered reading somewhere that the island of Jamaica had once been the personal property of Christopher Columbus. He remembered because he admired a time when a man could take whatever he wanted, and often did. His body was tight and hard, and he was bronze from three days of sun during his trip. His hair was bleached even blonder than usual. He'd had the drugs under control for almost a week now. It had been an act of will, and he'd risen to the challenge. He wanted to win.
Shafer felt like a god. No, he was a god. He controlled every move in his own life and the lives of several others. There were surprises left, he thought as he slowly sprayed his body with cooling streams of water. There were surprises for everybody who still chose to be in the game.
His game.
His plan.
His ending.
Because this wasn't just a game, it never had been. The other players had to know it by now. They understood what they had done, and why there had to be revenge. It was what The Four Horsemen had been all about from the beginning: the endgame was revenge, and revenge was his... Or theirs? Who knew for sure?
His father had taught him and his brothers to sail, probably the only useful thing he'd ever done for Shafer. He actually could find peace on the sea. It was probably the real reason he'd come to Jamaica by boat.
At eight o'clock he swam to shore, passing several of the smaller sailboats and a few motorboats. He found the physical exertion a neat antidote for anxiety and nerves.
He was a strong swimmer and diver, good at most sports.
The night air was peaceful and calm and fragrant. The sea was flat. Not a ripple disturbed the surface. Well, there would be plenty of ripples soon.
A car was waiting for him just off the coast road, a black Ford Mustang, glossy and shiny in the moonlight.
He smiled when he saw it. The game was progressing beautifully.
Famine was there to meet him.
No, Famine was there for another reason, wasn't he?
George Bayer was waiting on shore to kill him.
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Twelve
George Bayer isn't in his room. He's not with Oliver Highsmith or James Whitehead either. Damn it to hell! He's loose.
The alarming message went out over the two-way radio. Sampson and I had been watching the south side of the hotel for close to eight hours, and we were sure George Bayer hadn't come our way.
We heard Andrew Jones's concerned voice on the radio. 'Remember that all of The Four Horsemen are agents like ourselves. They're capable and deadly. Let's find Bayer right away, and be extra alert for Geoffrey Shafer. Shafer is the most dangerous player. At least we think he is.'
Sampson and I hurried out of the rented sedan. We had our guns out, but they seemed inappropriate at the beautiful and serene resort. I remembered feeling the same way - nearly a year ago in Bermuda.
'Bayer didn't come this way.' Sampson said. I knew he was concerned that Jones's people had lost Famine. We wouldn't have, but we were seen as backup, not the primary team.
The two of us quickly walked up a nearby hill that gave us a perspective on the manicured lawns rolling down toward the hotel's private beach. It was getting dark, but the grounds near the hotel were relatively well-lit. A couple in bathing suits and robes slowly walked toward us. They were holding hands, oblivious to the danger. No George Bayer, though. And no Shafer.
'How do they end this thing?' Sampson asked. 'How do you think the game ends?'
'I don't think any of them know for sure. They probably have game plans, but anything can happen now. It all depends on Shafer, if he follows the rules. I think he's beyond that, and the other players know it.'
We hurried along, running close to the hotel buildings. We were getting nervous and concerned looks from hotel guests we passed on the narrow, winding sidewalk.
'They're all killers. Even Jones finally admits that. They killed as agents and then they didn't want to stop. They liked it. Now - maybe they plan to kill one another. Winner takes all.'
'And Geoffrey Shafer hates to lose,' said Sampson.
'Shafer doesn't ever lose. We've seen that already. That's his pattern, John. It's what we missed from the start.'
'He doesn't get away this time, sugar. No matter what, Shafer doesn't walk.'
I didn't answer.
?CHAPTER One Hundred and Thirteen
Shafer wasn't even breathing hard as he made it to the white-sand shoreline. George Bayer stepped out of the black Ford Mustang and Shafer watched for a weapon to appear. He continued to walk forward, playing the game of games for the highest stakes of all - his life.
'You bloody swam?' Bayer asked, his voice jovial, yet taunting.
'Well, actually, it's a fantastic night for it.' Shafer said, and casually shook water off his body. He waited for Bayer to move on him. He observed the way he tensed and untensed his right hand. Watched the slight forward slant of his shoulders.
Shafer took off a waterproof backpack and pulled out fresh dry clothes and shoes. Now he had access to his weapons. 'Let me guess. Oliver suggested that you all gang up on me,' he said. 'Three against one.'
Bayer smiled slyly. 'Of course. That had to be considered as an option. We rejected it because it wasn't consistent with our characters in the game.'
Shafer shook his hair, let the water drip off. As he dressed, he turned halfway away from Bayer. He smiled to himself. God, he loved this - the game of life and death against another Horseman, a master player. He admired Bayer's calmness, and his ability to be so smooth.
'Oliver's playing is so bloody predictable. He was the same way as an agent and analyst. They sent you, George, because they thought I'd never suspect you'd try to take me out by yourself. You're the first play. It's so obvious, though. A terrible waste of a player.'
Bayer frowned slightly, but still didn't lose his cool, didn't let on what he felt. He obviously thought that was the safest attitude, but it was how Shafer knew his suspicion was true. Famine was here to kill him. He was sure of it. George Bayer's cool attitude had given him away.
'No, nothing like that,' Bayer said. 'We're going to play according to the rules tonight. The rules are important to us. It's to be a board game, a contest of strategy and wits. I'm just here to pick you up, according to plan. We'll meet face to face at the hotel.'
'And we'll abide by the throw of the dice?' Shafer asked.
'Yes, of course, Geoff.' Bayer held out his hand and showed him three twenty-sided dice.
Shafer couldn't hold back a sharp laugh. This was so good, so rich. 'So what did the dice say, George? How do I lose? How do I die? A knife? A pistol? A drug overdose makes a great deal of sense to me.'
Bayer couldn't help himself. He laughed. Shafer was such a cocky bastard, such a good killer, a wonderful psychopathic personality. 'Well, yes, it might have occurred to us, but we played it completely straight. As I said, they're waiting at the hotel for us. Let's go.'
Shafer turned his back on Bayer for an instant. Then he pushed hard off his right foot. He sprung at Bayer.
Bayer was more than ready for him. He threw a short, hard punch. It struck Shafer's cheek, rattled, maybe even loosened a few teeth. The right side of his head went completely numb.
'Good one, George. Good stuff!'
Then Shafer head-butted Bayer with all of his strength. He heard the crunch of bone against bone, saw an explosion of dizzying white before his eyes. That got his adrenaline flowing.
The dice went flying from Bayer's hand as he reached for a gun, or some other weapon. It was in the back of his waistband.
Shafer clutched Bayer's right arm, twisted with all of his strength, and broke it at the elbow. Bayer shrieked in pain.
'You can't beat me! Nobody has, nobody can!' Shafer screamed at the top of his voice.
He grabbed George Bayer's throat and squeezed with superhuman strength. Bayer gagged, and turned the brightest red, as if all the blood in his body had rushed to his head. George was stronger than he appeared to be, but Shafer was speeding on adrenaline and years of pure hatred. He outweighed Bayer by twenty pounds, all of it muscle.
'Noooo. Listen to me.' George Bayer wheezed and gasped. 'Not like this. Not here.'
'Yes, George. Yes, yes. The game is on. The game that you bastards started. Tally-ho, old chap. You did this to me. You made me what I am. Death.'
He heard a loud, crisp snap and George Bayer went limp against him. He let the body fall to the sand.
'One down,' said Shafer, and finally allowed himself a deep, satisfying breath. He snatched up the fallen dice, shook them once, then hurled them into the sea. 'I don't use the dice anymore,' he said.
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel Page 26