Raul, in his former life as Reggie Fortescue, had never served in Special Forces, but he had seen combat with the Scots Guards in Iraq, and he was more highly trained than any civilian to deal with trouble. Especially if he had a submachine gun in his hand.
He entered the stairwell and began to climb, floor by floor, conscious that the guard detail he had sent to search the building was all on the higher four floors. He reached the sixth and was nearly certain this was the correct level for the open window. Nearly certain, but not quite.
Raul pulled the handle, pushed the door, and stepped into the room. At first he did not see the black-clad Mack pressed against the wall next to the rear window. Instinctively, he headed directly to the open front window and glanced out. Quickly, he turned and saw Mack, and instantly leveled his machine gun at the big frogman’s heart.
“Freeze!” he snapped.
Mack Bedford answered calmly, in his natural voice, “Okay, buddy, you got me. No problem. I’m not armed.”
The thoughts in Raul Declerc’s mind raced. He had the assassin, right here, all on his own. If he marched him down at gunpoint, no one could deny him a very large payment for professional services. He had not stopped the killing, but he would have done what no one else could do and captured the culprit. That had to be worth big money.
He gazed across the wide room at Mack Bedford, and there was something about that voice, something in the steady timber, something about that North American accent. And something suddenly clicked in his brain.
“Morrison?” he said quietly.
“No, not me,” replied Mack, “I’m not Morrison. Morrison’s right over there.” Mack raised his arm and pointed to the far wall on his left, and then shouted suddenly, unexpectedly—“KILL HIM, BILLY, RIGHT NOW!”
No SEAL in the entire history of SPECWARCOM would have fallen for that. At the very least, any one of them would have shot Mack Bedford dead before turning to deal with “Billy.” But Raul Declerc was not a SEAL, and he was startled, frightened, and he turned quickly, unsure which of these two desperadoes to shoot first, the unarmed one in front of his eyes or Billy, who obviously had a gun.
The split second of Raul’s hesitation earned Mack just that: a split second. It was by no means decisive, but it was crucial. Mack dived right, straight to the floor, rolled, and came up low and hard. The arc that Raul’s gun needed to travel, to re-aim away from the far wall, was much wider now. That was the split second.
Mack’s right fist slammed into Raul’s left kidney like a jackhammer. It landed with such force he dropped the gun. Mack swooped to pick it up, and Raul, who was no pushover, landed a mighty kick to the side of his head. The ex-SEAL commander took it, but still came up with the gun, which he swung at Raul’s head, a fearsome blow, slightly off-center. The force was, however, enough to fell the former Scots Guards colonel, who landed flat on his back.
This was the most dangerous opponent Mack had faced thus far. Mack knew it must be Raul. The commander of the Forces of Justice from Marseille was the only person on earth who knew the name Morrison. Raul not only knew for certain that Mack had just killed Foche but also knew about the plan, the money. Worst of all, he was the only person in France who knew precisely what Mack looked like, and what he sounded like.
Of all the security guards in all the warehouses in all the world, Raul Declerc had to go. Raul was still conscious, and Mack leaned down and with his left hand grabbed him by the yellow flak jacket right near the throat, and with his right hand grabbed the crotch of Raul’s pants.
Mack lifted, stepped back, and with astounding strength he swung the prostrate Raul back, lunged forward, and then launched him clean through the open window like a yellow torpedo. Raul never even touched the sides. He was definitely still conscious because Mack heard him scream all the way down to the concourse, where he landed with a dull, life-ending thud.
There were now more footsteps on the stairs, coming down and coming up, voices shouting and yelling. Mack locked the door, buying more seconds. Then he grabbed the toolbox, tucked his attack board under his arm, and climbed through the rear window.
He stared down at the water. It was a drop of sixty-three feet, high, damned high, but not as high as the oil rig in the Gulf. And he’d jumped from that. For the first time, Mack was scared. He straightened right up on the window ledge and summoned his courage. He could not go back. He had to jump or die. When the door gave way, they’d shoot him down.
He must have stalled for five seconds, and then there was an enormous blast right behind him. The steel door cannoned off its hinges, shot right across the room. There was smoke everywhere, and the smell of cordite. Someone bellowed, “Right here, guys, he’s in here!”
A machine gun opened fire, a random volley in the smoke. Mack took a deep breath, pulled down his mask, and jumped, dropping through the air, ramrod straight like an Olympic diver, except he was spearing down feet first, toes pointed in his French work boots, the toolbox under one arm, the slender attack board under the other. When he hit the water, the toolbox made the only splash, and Mack was still rigid, as he knifed deep, leaving barely a ripple on the surface.
On the low wall adjacent to the warehouse a guard saw only a blur, but he could see the little whirlpool made by Mack and his toolbox on the surface of the harbor water. He pointed to the spot and blew three loud blasts on his whistle. And the guards came running.
Thirty feet down, close to the floor of the tidal basin, Mack was shaken, but hugely helped by the supreme SEAL protective wet suit, which had taken the sting right out of the entry. He opened the toolbox and let the water flood in. He dropped it and watched it descend. Then he put the Draeger line into his mouth, turned on the valve, and breathed normally, despite a heartbeat of about seven thousand revs per minute.
He tugged off his work boots and unclipped his big flippers, pulling one onto each foot. In the gloom of the deep water he could still see his painted BUDs numbers, Class 242, right on the instep. Which was, more or less, when the bullets began to fly.
A line of guards now in formation at the low wall, under the personal orders of Pierre Savary, opened fire at the surface of the water. Someone was shouting, “I thought I saw him! Right there, sir. Something went into the water. I’m sure it was a person.”
They pumped round after round into the harbor, and the bullets zinged deep, leaving sharp, straight, white lines in the water. But they were losing velocity all the way. By the time they reached Mack Bedford’s area he could have caught them with one hand.
Savary ordered his men to fan out along the harbor walls, right to the entrance that led to the mighty Loire River, and to keep firing no matter what. The problem was, the guards were strangers to great waters. They were men who were essentially out of their element. And they were up against an underwater machine named Mack Bedford.
He kicked to the floor of the harbor and found the toolbox, which he clipped shut and shoved down into the silt and sand. There was little tidal movement down here in the enclosed waters, and he left it, a slightly exposed metallic object, unlikely to be disturbed by men searching for his body.
Then he held out his attack board and kicked around to face the south, checking the board and swerving until the compass aimed him southwest, out toward the harbor entrance. With the bullets still flying, but oblivious to the shouts and commands of the security forces above, Mack stayed deep and kicked, slow and steady, directly to this inner gateway to the great river.
Any long swim conducted by the SEALs requires colossal discipline. For starters there can be no gasping, forcing, rushing, or panicking. That way the Draeger will run out of gas in about half the time it was meant to last. Mack’s Mk-V model had a cylinder that held thirteen cubic feet of oxygen at two thousand pounds of pressure per square inch. On land it weighed a hefty thirty-five pounds, but it was weightless in the water.
The trick was to breath normally, nothing erratic, no stress or adrenaline. That way this particular design provides recyc
led, breathable air for almost four hours. Mack did not think he would need it for that long. The Loire estuary was two miles directly across, and in the big BUDs swimming pool at Coronado that would have taken approximately forty minutes with flippers. A trained Olympic swimmer can knock off fifteen hundred meters in under fifteen minutes. But the second mile would take a lot longer.
And this huge tidal flow, swirling out of the heartland of central France, had about as much to do with a swimming pool as a popgun to a guided missile. Mack’s diagonal course to the far bank, on the far side of the Saint-Nazaire Bridge, would be one-three-five, southeast, and the distance possibly two and a half miles, maybe more. The true distance would depend on the outward pull of the tide that would be doing its level best to drag Mack into the Atlantic.
The ballpark numbers for a long-distance swim in tidal waters by a U.S. Navy SEAL were approximately ten powerful double kicks per minute, each one taking the swimmer ten feet, or one hundred feet per minute, fifty minutes for a mile. But those distances could vary. As every seaman knows, it’s possible to run an engine at five knots and remain dead still over the ocean floor while the tide rages past.
Mack had no reason to think it would be that bad at the mouth of the Loire, but all big rivers have variable degrees of “pull,” especially on the ebb, as the Loire now was. In fact, low tide would be around six thirty, which meant the last part of Mack’s swim would be in slack water, which would be one heck of a respite.
For the rest of the way, he would use the time-honored SEAL rhythm—BIG DOUBLE KICK, BAM! BAM! . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four—BIG DOUBLE KICK . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . four—kick and glide . . . kick and glide . . . and hope to hell he wasn’t standing still.
The bullets continued to rain down on the surface of the water. Guards were shouting and shooting. First they saw something, then they didn’t. Pierre Savary had been informed about the death of Raul Declerc. And it seemed so bizarre, less than one day after the three of them had dined together at the Foche residence, making their elaborate plans, plans that now lay shattered on the blacktop of Saint-Nazaire Maritime.
Detective Inspector Paul Ravel had arrived from out of the blue at Pierre Savary’s side. “Things are changing fast,” the chief told the man he had promoted on the beach only thirty-six hours previously.
“Not so much for me,” replied Ravel. “I came here in search of one murderer who had just killed two civilians at Val André. Right now I’m still looking for the guy, except he’s now killed at least five more men. The only real difference is, I’ve got a much better idea where he is—either in the water, down there somewhere, or hiding along the wharves.”
Pierre Savary looked up at him sharply. “What d’you mean, five more—surely only two?”
“Nossir. We have three guards brutally murdered on the sixth floor of the building, shocking wounds, two caved-in skulls, one slit throat.”
“Jesus Christ. How d’you know?”
“I just saw them. Lying on the floor in the room where he fired from, before he jumped.”
“How do you know he jumped?”
“There’s no other way down. Not unless he was one of the security guards and just walked out with his mates.”
“I’ll tell you what, Paul, that was one helluva jump. But he won’t get far, and you still think he’s definitely in the harbor, right?”
“Not definitely, sir. He was. But he might have gotten out. Could be just about anywhere now.”
“What’s your best guess, Paul?”
“I don’t think he’s still in the water, sir. I think he just used it for a soft landing. But the coast guard boats are going out right now, with radar. And if he’s there he’s finished. But this cat tends to stay one jump in front of the pack. I’m betting he’s out, on dry land, getting changed, ready to run, or maybe get picked up by whoever hired him.”
“D’you think he’ll kill again?”
“That all depends, sir. Depends if anyone gets in his way.”
Savary decided this was a waterfront situation, and he summoned the Saint-Nazaire police, the officer commanding the national security forces, and the coast guard captain conducting the seaward operations. He advised everyone to concentrate on the land on the north shore, the docks, jetties, and hulls. “This guy is trying to get out of the water on this side of the river,” he said. “That’s where we’re going to catch him. That’s where he is.”
More than one thousand trained men began to make their way to the outer edges of the yard, waiting and preparing for the black-bearded Gunther Marc Roche to emerge from the deep.
Mack was essentially missing all the strife. He never heard the two ambulances come racing into the shipyard, sirens wailing. And he never heard the audible gasp of the crowd, as Monsieur Henri Foche was lifted on a stretcher into the rear doors, with a white sheet covering his body and face. Many of those who could not get close still thought he had merely been taken ill.
When Claudette made her way out from behind the limousine, her entire outfit, yellow Chanel, was covered in blood. Women screamed. And the shipyard’s Klaxon fire alarm blared out their ship’s emergency call—BAHAA . . . BAHAA . . . BAHAA!
With three separate forces in full operation—the local police, the national guard, and the coast guard—there was the inevitable uproar, dissent, and too many chiefs. Bodies were being carried out of the warehouse, someone had spotted the killer, someone else swore to God he was still in the harbor.
One commander ordered his men to the roof of the warehouse for the better vantage point; Savary insisted every gun in the shipyard head for the harbor entrance, through which any swimmer must pass, if he hadn’t already. The coast guard was unused to homicide and demanded formal orders from the police to launch every patrol boat in the area, and for the cutters in the near range of the Atlantic to head up the estuary.
Pierre, in his soul, believed the assassin was still in the water, even if he might be trying to get out. He told the coast guard commander, “Get every small boat into the harbor, or just beyond, as fast as possible. Then keep combing the north shore. He’s got to land somewhere. He’s not a fucking fish, right?”
“No, sir. He’s not a fish. And we’ll keep the security radar sweeping the surface at all times. Helicopters launch in fifteen minutes. We got three. North shore and harbor, sir?”
“I think so. But tell me, Commander, could he get to the other side?”
“If he’d had a fast boat waiting, he could, I suppose. But he didn’t. We were sweeping the surface within three minutes of Monsieur Foche’s death. We have permanent radar projected out there. The navy has always insisted.”
“I actually meant could anyone swim across?”
“Swim! Oh, no, not swim. I don’t think anyone could do that, not without a safety boat running alongside. People have drowned out there, or been pulled out to sea by the tide.”
Pierre Savary stared across the broad waters of the estuary, all the way to the distant shore. “Well,” he said, “how about the greatest swimmer on earth? An Olympic champion, with a safety boat, no tide? How long would it take him?”
“Well, it’s all of two miles in a dead straight line. Hard to imagine anyone crossing right here, where it’s so wide, in an hour. I guess it would take an hour and a half . . . I don’t know . . . maybe a little more. Swimmers get slower as they go, right? Not faster. If you ask me that swim could not be done without a couple of large scuba tanks and an electric motor.”
“I suppose so. And that means he’s got to be still here, either in the harbor or along the jetties.”
“If he’s in the harbor, sir, he’s dead. Because he’s been in there for at least twelve minutes. If you ask me, we’re already looking for a body.”
Mack, swimming toward the outer harbor wall, was unhurried, still thirty feet below the surface, conserving his oxygen on a journey that basically had not even started. With no wide, flailing, or driving arms to disturb the water around h
im, he moved as smoothly as a long black eel. His arms were pole-straight out in front, gripping the attack board, his Draeger released no bubbles, his gunmetal-gray underwater goggles made no glint in the water, and the turbo charge of the SEAL flippers made no swirl, no ripple, like the flicking tail of a cruising tiger shark.
The numbers on the attack board read: Time 1658. Compass two-two-five. GPS 47.17 North 2.12 West. At almost five Mack knew the sun would be sinking in the west, and he crossed the channel, under the gunfire, still deep, seeking the western wall of the harbor, where the shadows would be greatest. When the looming concrete darkness appeared immediately to his right, he came four degrees left, and moved forward, almost touching the wall, kicking along under the eyes but out of the sight line of the guards.
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