But then she slept, face on arm, sliding into the slumber as though rolling down a gentle hill. She lolled in sun heat and sea sounds seemingly forever. When she awoke, she could not tell why, whether it was her body’s clock reminding her that her hour’s interlude had expired, or something more disturbing. She opened her eyes, rising on her elbows. There was nothing she could see or hear. But there was something she could sense. She snapped her head to her left. These black rock walls were ridden with sea-torn clefts and caves, holes and tunnels. A few feet beyond her elbow was a hole half filled with seawater, half empty space, between waves. It connected to the next chamber in the rocks. Through it, she could see a foot, a black man’s foot. She had last seen the thin gold chain around the ankle just two days before; on the ferry to Watford Bridge. He was waiting, the one foot pressed firmly on flat, water-covered rock, supporting his weight, the other flexed, toes down, heel raised.
Tatty moved closer to the hole. Then, rolling over almost onto her back, she inched forward, her head half submerged, her temple just inches from the arch of jagged rock, her face at once splashed by a scurrying wave. She waited for it to subside, then opened her eyes, blinking, looking up.
She could not see all of him. She could not take in head or face, but she could see enough. He held a knife. He could have come through the sea opening while she slept and killed her, but he could not have known that. The man could only be bearing in mind that she had gunned down a Russian soldier in the Kremlin, had helped burn the Soviet defense minister and seven others to death in a United Nations elevator, had fired a gunshot at their retreating car. He would be waiting for her to leave at her customary time, and it was likely past time. Who had told them of this habit of hers, she could not say, but he was taking advantage of it. The rocks to her left projected a shorter distance into the sea than did those she would have to wade around to attain the hotel’s beach. As she started out, turning to the right, the knife would go into her back with no one to see.
But that would not happen. She took two more waves in the face, annoying, but tolerable. She waited, taking another, and another.
She heard the big one coming, rushing up over the sand and rock with a crashing whoosh. As it struck, she grabbed the foot, twisting, and pulled. He fell with a thudding smack, and crack. He cried out, though she could not tell whether it was because he had hit his head or because of the gaping wound in his knee caused by her yanking his leg through the jagged hole. Rolling back, rising to her knees, she pulled again, wedging his leg by the calf in a cleft. Weakly, he tried to move it. It held fast, the foot and ankle extending from the rock. She stood up, gripped a ledge, and jumped hard on the ankle. It broke, the foot dropping downwards, another rushing wave drowning his scream.
The tide would be rising. If he could not get free, he would drown. If he was willing to endure extreme pain, he might get free. In either case, he would hardly be able to pursue her.
She put on her bathing suit, closed her waterproof beach bag, and walked slowly into the water, a wave dashing up between her knees. If her ears heard his muffled crying, her mind did not. It was hearing Cyril’s screams.
They did not find the black man until early afternoon. She was on her balcony then, sipping a gin and tonic. She watched the police and medics run down the path and across the beach. She watched them trudge grimly and slowly back up again, the body slung in a bag.
They came in the middle of the night, the one with the clipped mustache and the one with the long blond hair, opening her locked door in whatever well-practiced way they used, and slipping inside, moving, finally, out onto her balcony. From her hilltop, she watched them move to her railing. Then, dropping her blanket, she began climbing the hill to the road.
As she expected, the black station wagon was parked on the side of the road, perhaps a hundred yards down. She had left her motorbike in a cul de sac a similar distance in the opposite direction. She ran to it.
She did not see them emerge from the hedge and cross to their car. But she saw its taillights go on as they started the engine. Her cycle’s was already going. As soon as they moved, headlights piercing the darkness, speeding into the left-hand lane, she followed, with no lights on at all.
It required keeping fairly close to them, though not close enough to avoid a few panicky moments when they swept ahead over a hilltop or around a sudden curve, leaving her in blackness, but she managed, rattling along behind them, moving west on the coast road. They were heading where she expected, toward that reach of the island where the black man had gotten off the ferry after it crossed Bermuda’s Great Sound.
At that hour, there was little traffic. Only three cars and a cycle came by from the other direction, nothing drawing up from behind. Past the Sonesta Beach Hotel, however, where the road curved right and crossed the island to the shore of the Great Sound, a car approached rapidly from the rear. The driver did not see Tatty’s unlit cycle until the very last moment, and had to swerve suddenly into the right-hand lane. Honking angrily, he sped by, then slid into the left-hand lane again, snugly close to the black station wagon. Swerving once more, he passed the station wagon quickly, then accelerated off into the night. She raced ahead, gunning the little two-cycle engine as fast as it could strain, but there was nothing but open pavement ahead. Her quarry had disappeared. Passing beyond the town lights, she turned her own headlamp on just in time. A moment later, she would have hurtled off the side of the approach to Watford Bridge.
Tatty pressed on, meaning to take the road to its end. If she encountered nothing, she’d double back, driving more slowly, looking again. She knew she was closing on them; she sensed that Ramsey Saylor was very near.
The headlights behind her seemed to explode into view, incandescent. The driver had them on bright, and showed no inclination to dim them as he closed on her, driving very fast.
She knew who it was before the gunshot rang out, the bullet striking sparks in the road far ahead. She yanked the handlebars to the right, almost toppling, then back to the left, sliding, skidding, swerving, back and forth.
There was another shot, passing through trees above and to her left. She dared not turn and try to fire back. It would slow her, immobilize her for the instant it would take the shooter to aim true. She ground on, shuddering over the road’s shoulder, skidding in sprays of gravel, at one point lunging up onto a narrow side road. The station wagon kept on relentlessly, gaining inches, gaining feet. The secondary road proved to be only an unfortunate loop, leading right back onto Malabar Road. She turned, bouncing, to the right, regaining traction and hurtling on, the little mixmaster engine making echoes as she passed along some high stone walls.
Cresting a small rise, she could see an expanse of sound and open sea ahead and to the right. The moon was rising through wispy clouds in the northeast. There was a breakwater of some sort, and a ship.
Another gunshot, almost stinging her ear. She hunched forward, lowering her head, swerving again from side to side. They were at Dockyard. The road straightened and ran alongside the quay. Still swerving, she saw the ship was some sort of small British naval vessel. But she dared not stop. Her back would be filled with bullets before she got within a hundred yards of the gangplank.
A sharp turn loomed ahead. If she didn’t make it, she’d go flying into the black water. Setting down her foot, wondering why the soles of her Topsiders hadn’t been torn open, she slid crazily around the angle, whizzing off between a building and a line of trees. The road then yanked her to the right again, and then right once more. There was another breakwater, a large, two-masted sailboat tied against it, sheltering in its lee, a radio blaring forth loud music from within.
She roared by, making two abrupt and nearly fatal turns to the left, racing between a long warehouse building and a high wall, the following station wagon lagging not a second. The road made a circuit. She went around again. This time she would save herself. Instead of preparing for the sharp left, she kept accelerating along the high stone wall, at
the last moment bouncing the bike up onto some rock-strewn mounds of grass.
The cycle, leaping, lurched up two of the mounds, then twisted and fell from under her. She hurtled somersaulting into the blackness, landing with a surprisingly soft thud. She lay a moment, catching her breath, listening as the cycle’s idling engine coughed and died. Down the slope, she saw the little station wagon halted, the two men stepping outside.
Tatty crawled back toward the cycle, finding her purse and its strewn contents, including the gun. She snatched it up, and hurried toward the top of the slope. The stone wall was shorter there. The closer to the top she got, the shorter the wall. She stumbled. Swearing, pistol still in hand, she clambered forward, to where the wall was only about five feet high. Sticking the pistol in her belt, cold against her belly, she grabbed the edge of the wall and pulled, struggling all the way up, the slipping toes of her shoes clawing at the mortar, ignoring the painful scrape of her knees. With an extra lunge, she pulled herself over the top and rolled onto her back, her chest heaving, just as they fired again, twice.
It occurred to her that the smartest, safest move would have been to have hidden behind a safe rock on the slope and waited for them to come after her, shooting them as they came near. Useless hindsight.
Another shot was fired. She rolled over again and, her mind refusing to acknowledge the pain, hurried away on her hands and knees. To her left, down another grassy slope, was a castle keep—a parade ground and a number of old stone military buildings, all dark. She remembered. This was all a museum now.
Tatty dropped from the wall, landing awkwardly on the inner slope and rolling. When her battered body came to rest she staggered to her feet and ran, down to the grassy parade, on toward the stone buildings, running and running despite the bang, hiss, and metallic clatter of more gunshots, running until she could find her own ground.
Gripping the stone casement with an outflung hand as she swept by, she swung around the corner of one of the museum buildings, falling and tumbling. Just ahead, the building’s shadows shrouding it from the increasing moonlight, was a huge ship’s anchor set into masonry. She scrambled for it, crawling up into its shelter and shadow, bringing forth the pistol and aiming it with both hands at the corner she had just come around.
The one with the short hair and mustache was the first to appear, his flowery shirt bright in the moonlight. She let him keep coming, into her protective shadows, until the second man, the long-haired one, arrived. Then she raised the pistol slightly and fired, hitting the first man in the chest, apparently killing him instantly. He fell sprawling. The other kept coming, no longer toward her, but past her, skimming the side of the building as he came near.
Leading him slightly, she fired again. Her bullet, or a chink of struck stone, hit him glancingly in the ribs. He gave a quick, high shriek, stumbled, but kept on.
Tatty rose to her knee and fired again, this time at his back, striking him in the right shoulder. He fell, sliding, but got to his feet. Limping, almost staggering, he lurched on. She knelt, and watched him go. There was a rectangular stone pond carved into the floor of the castle keep, an outboard motorboat moored in it, a long iron gate barring egress through a channel cut through the wall of the outer rocks to the sea. He limped in his wounded way around and alongside the pond, then struggled up some metal stairs to the top of the old fort walls.
He was now moving so slowly she could almost catch up with him at a walk, but she hung back, stalking, not taking to the stairs until he was some distance along the wall. Reaching the top, she followed along at his slowed pace, crouching in case he turned and tried to fire. But he did not. He seemed so grievously injured his every thought was concentrated on escape, on sanctuary.
“Stop,” she said.
Dragging a leg, he kept moving.
“Stop, damn it!”
He would not.
“Is Ramsey in that sailboat?”
He swung around, clumsily raising his gun. Her own lifted into his face; she fired. He fell with outflung arms and legs onto his back.
He was dead. From the distant two-master, she again heard the loud music, 1930s country-club dance music. She dropped off the wall and started toward it.
The boat had raked masts and an old-fashioned design. She had noticed it anchored near Watford Bridge when she had stepped from the ferry after the black man two days before. She had noticed the name on the prow: the Dorian Gray. She should have known then.
No one was in the cockpit. It was a long boat, perhaps forty-five feet, not counting the bow pulpit. She crept forward. The main entryway from the cockpit would not do. That is where he would look at the first sound, if he could hear it in the din from the radio. Moving past the main cabin windows, she stepped quietly aboard and, pistol in hand, reached the forward hatch. It was open and ajar, for ventilation. She lifted it and pushed it back, opening the hatchway completely. There was a big Styrofoam fender tied with plastic line to the rail. She untied it, hurling it aft into the cockpit.
As the back of Ramsey’s head popped up from behind the main cabin, Tatty lowered herself through the forward hatch, hanging, and then dropping, quietly. When he came back down the companionway ladder, she was seated by his table, the pistol leveled at his belly.
He was completely naked. He stared at her with his languid eyes, showing no emotion, no surprise.
“The rara avis returns,” he said. He sat down, almost casually crossing his bare legs. He had a mug of something resting in a cup holder, rum and hot tea from the smell of it. The thirties music on the radio was overpowering.
“Turn that off!” she said.
He did so, quickly. She held the pistol higher, fearing he might try to throw the mug’s contents at her. He did not. He demurely sipped.
“Please pardon the au naturel,” he said. “I never wear clothes when I sail in these waters. I once crossed the Atlantic to the Canaries wearing not a stitch.”
“Ramsey. I’ve killed three of your friends. The black man on the beach—”
“I know. Armand said he was sure it was you, but I doubted him. I thought it was the Agency. What misdo.”
“I don’t know which was Armand, but he’s dead. They’re both dead. One inside that old fort, the other out on the quay. I shot them.”
“I didn’t hear that. Kept the damn radio on too loud. Another agenotypic misdo. I am the most intelligent person ever to work for Central Intelligence, yet now I am undone. Comes from too much association with the thick-headed Russians, if you’ll pardon the ethnic slur.”
“Ramsey. I want you to put some clothes on. You’re coming with me.”
He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. He uncrossed his legs, exposing his genitals.
The pistol wavered slightly in her hand. She realized at that moment that it was empty. She had checked it very carefully day by day. Its magazine had initially contained eight rounds. The first had killed Griuchinov, the next two, his murderer. One had been fired as a bow chaser at the disappearing station wagon speeding toward South Road. One was in the chest of the man with a mustache. Three others were in the body of the long-haired blond man. She had nothing left.
She raised the pistol higher, aiming at his face.
“Damn you, Ramsey! I mean it! You’re coming with me!”
“I’m sure you mean it, Tatty, whatever it is you mean. But whatever it is, I’m not leaving this boat. Not with you.”
He spread his legs a bit farther apart. She glanced away, then corrected that mistake.
“I’m not, Tatty. It strikes me you have three alternatives at this moment. One is to kill me.” He sipped his drink, nonchalantly, but his eyes fixed on hers. “You could do that very easily, and very justly, I suppose. But you have not. That you have not, I’m wagering, means that you will not.”
“Don’t be so certain.”
“Unless I do something rash, of course. But I never do anything rash. I’m quite the systematic man, don’t you know. Immovably Socratic. I
shan’t stir from this spot as long as you’re here.”
“Get your clothes on!”
“Don’t be prudish. It doesn’t become a Russian. Your second alternative, Tatty, is to let me go.”
“What?”
“Yes. If you’re not going to kill me—and you’re not—you’ll simply have to. In a few days I’ll have disappeared into the Caribbean. Drug-running, the modern piracy, is rife and rampant. I’ll find friends. I expect I’d be a very valuable acquisition for some partnership. I know just about all there is to know about our government’s capabilities. But once among them, that would be that. There’s no leaving them. Unless you made some solo sail to Jamaica or the Bahamas, I’d be out of your way forever.”
She wondered at this long discourse. Was he stalling her? Was he expecting others?
“You said three alternatives.”
“Yes. The third is that you come with me.”
“Are you insane!”
“Heavens, no. I’m being utterly Socratic. You’ve no place to go back to. I’ve ruined your life, your career, devastated your friends. You’ve no one to go back to except your aging stepfather and a stepsister who secretly loathes you. You’ve no one else.”
“There’s Jack Spencer.”
“That poor devil. He’s gone, isn’t he? At any rate, Tattykins, wherever you go, there’ll be as many nasty gentlemen looking for you as there are for me.”
He crossed his legs again, setting his hand on his knee. He drank. “This is the alternative I’d choose for you, Tatty. It’s very important to me.”
She was sweating now. It was very hard to keep the gun securely aimed. She lowered it to the table in front of her, muzzle raised.
“I want you, Tatty. I want you to bear my child. I want a son by you, Tatiana Alexandra Iovashchenko. The seminal man speaks and seeks.”
Blood of the Czars Page 32