But inside he had not changed, and Bartholomew Wakefield was the one person left in the world who could remind Andrew Balaton of who and what he was. Who could prove to him that he could never run far enough or long enough to escape from his own wretched skin.
Better than most, the man they had called orült szerzetes knew the horror a frightened man could wreak. When he was threatened, this Andrew Balaton would resort to his old methods. He would strike again, viciously and wantonly.
And this time, Bartholomew Wakefield was determined not to arrive too late to stop his destruction— not as in Hungary, not as in Los Angeles, when he had found Judith Land had already challenged her husband. Already pregnant and disillusioned, she had left. She wanted an immediate divorce. She wanted to cut her losses, quickly and cleanly, and get on with her life. But she made the mistake of thinking her penniless husband would acquiesce to her wishes.
Bartholomew Wakefield knew better. Before anyone else could, he had volunteered to find the straying wife of a fellow Hungarian...only to stop Balaton from finding someone who would bring Judith back to him. Following Lillian Parker, he had located Judith Land in a Tennessee valley. And he had convinced her, he thought, of what she must do.
“You must wait, Judith. Don’t press your demands now.”
“Why?”
“He won’t permit you to divorce him. For the sake of your child, you must wait.”
“Balaton has nothing I want for my baby—not even a name. And no matter what happens to me, the baby will inherit everything I have over him. It’s in my will.”
“Trust me. If he sees his new life disintegrating before it’s even had a chance to begin, he’ll do anything to stop you.”
“He can’t stop me. I’ll talk to my father—”
“It won’t matter. This Andrew Balaton will ensure that you never draw another breath of happiness in your life. For now, you must give him some hope. Hide here with me, have your baby. Then we will see what must be done.”
“He wouldn’t...hurt my baby.”
“If he perceives either you or your child as a threat, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill you both.”
As Balaton looked among the windswept rocks and blueberry bushes and gnarled oaks, Bartholomew Wakefield remained concealed, observing the executive’s mounting terror. This time, he thought, he would let Balaton sweat.
* * *
Lillian Parker moved quickly along the grassy path, one of the many she and Judith had followed so many times on their endless summer explorations of the island, but never on such a dank, freezing day as this, never with so much at stake. They’d been as free as birds. If only they’d known— but the young never do. Nor, perhaps, should they.
After blabbing to Jeremy Carruthers, she had retreated to her room, where she locked her door and sat in the gloom, hoping for a swift and happy ending to whatever was about to unfold. She would leave the dirty work to the others. There was no need for her to get involved. What could she accomplish?
“Can I trust him, Lil?”
“Of course. How can you even ask.”
“After what happened to Mac...”
“Oh, Jude, please let’s not talk about that. It wasn’t his fault. You can trust him. I know it.”
“Won’t you stay with me?”
“I can’t. I have a job....”
If she had stayed, Lillian wondered if she might have been able to stop Judith—brave, impulsive beautiful Judith—from doing something stupid. Instead, Lillian had run.
But not this time. Snatching an army-green rain poncho from a pegboard at the back door, Lillian had set off. Last night she had seen the golden crown; she knew the man the twins called Barky was on Badger Rock Island. And so was Mac. She felt certain neither had left. She might be wrong and find nothing, but at least she had to try.
“I hate him, Lil, He’s so arrogant and overprotective. I can’t breathe with him in my life!”
“But are you sure? Have you tried to talk to him?”
“Of course I’ve talked to him. But he won’t listen. He says I know nothing about these things; I’m too young.”
“But he loves you so much.”
“I don’t care!”
Poor wretched Andrew, Lillian thought. My God, Judith, haven’t we all suffered enough for you?
She pushed back a branch hanging low on the overgrown path, and water spilled out of it, splattering her face. But she kept moving, resolute and, at the same time, praying she would find nothing.
Standing in the rain, shivering and soaked and so very tired, MacGregor Stevens saw him at last. Orült szerzetes. Traitor, torturer, thief, kidnapper. A farmer, he called himself. It was too ridiculous for Mac even to fathom. He held up the .38 caliber Smith & Wesson he had borrowed from Crockett’s gun closet and pointed it at the man in black. “Don’t move.” His voice was low, but the farmer heard him. Mac watched him stiffen as he faced the open sea. “Turn around... slowly.”
The man who called himself Bartholomew Wakefield turned, but there was no fear in his weather-beaten face when he looked at Mac, only an irritation that bordered on disgust. “You are a fool, MacGregor Stevens. I have no quarrel with you.”
It was the first time they had faced each other in thirty years. The farmer was an old man now, Mac realized, stout and still strong, but old. Human. He forced himself to recall the flash of the lights on the border, the cry in Russian, the burning pain of the bullet in his gut.
“But I have one hell of a quarrel with you,” he said, his teeth clenched. “I nearly got killed saving Andrew Balaton from the Russians and his own people thirty years ago. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you compromise him now.”
“Ahh.” Wakefield seemed almost amused. “So you believe I’m KGB.”
“That’s right.”
“So with someone at least my strategy has worked.” He lifted his shoulders slightly in a shrug. “Unfortunately, it has not worked with Balaton.”
Mac’s grip on the gun was steady, despite the pelting rain. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply, painfully aware he shouldn’t, couldn’t, believe a word this man said.
“You are right: I was prepared to exchange the Balaton jewels for technological secrets. But not to sell to the KGB. No, I merely wanted to flush out Balaton. And I have. But now the stakes are much greater—for me, personally. As always, Balaton is ready with a counterstrike.”
Mac shook his head, denying everything the farmer claimed, everything he had been for the past thirty years. “You were KGB in ‘56; you’re KGB now.”
“No, that’s not true.” His accent was more American now than thirty years ago, his tone faintly superior, as if he were gently chastising a small child for a ridiculous assumption. “I did not betray you that night on the border, MacGregor Stevens.”
“Then who did?” Mac sneered. “Judith Land? Lillian Parker? Balaton? They all could have been killed. You were the one who backed out at the last minute, the one who planned the whole fiasco. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. I’ve relived that night thousands of times in the past thirty years. I know what happened.”
The stout man in black sighed patiently, but there was despair in his warm brown eyes. “You are a good man, MacGregor Stevens, but you are very, very wrong. You don’t see the truth, do you?”
“Oh, yes, my friend, I do see the truth. I’d like to shoot you here and now for what you did, but those would be your tactics. I’m taking you in. We’ll let a court of law decide what and who you are.” He steadied the gun. “But give me an excuse to shoot you, and I won’t hesitate.”
“Achh. Listen to me, while there is still time. Balaton is here—moving this way. He will stop at nothing now, do you understand? He betrayed you on the border.”
“No.”
“Yes! Because you could identify him as Major József, a trusted member of the Hungarian state secret police.”
“He was working for us.”
“He was working for himself.” There was despair no
w in the voice of the mad monk. “He turned to the United States because his mission within the ÁVH was being thwarted at every turn by orült szerzetes and he was desperate lest his comrades somehow think he was disloyal—not the victim of the ‘mad monk’ but a collaborator. A man like that cannot tolerate being afraid.”
Mac shook his head and scoffed. “You’re just trying to save your own skin, monk.”
“No. My skin means nothing to me. I’m trying to save Ashley and David. Balaton went to your people for help in combating the mad monk; he would trade information for their help in ridding him of the monk’s campaign against him. What he didn’t know was that orült szerzetes was never controlled by the Americans. He acted on behalf of the Hungarian people—his friends and neighbors.”
“It’s a little late to sound so holy. But go ahead, monk. Keep trying. You won’t convince me.”
“Then innocents will die.”
“Not if you’re in custody, they won’t.”
“You must take Balaton with me, then. Take us both in. Let us both face a court of law. Don’t you see? Once Balaton had gone to your people, he had to provide them with information or they would compromise him. But he also had to prove himself to his superiors within the ÁVH. So he renewed his campaign of terrorizing innocent Hungarians. If anything, you made him worse than he already was. He was involved in a dangerous, treacherous game of playing both sides against the middle, neither knowing what he really was, and he became increasingly desperate.”
“Stop!” Mac yelled. He had forgotten how glib and educated this man was; he had been seduced by the You piece’s talk of his being a simple farmer. “Just stop.”
“No. It’s time you heard the truth, MacGregor Stevens. When violence broke out in Budapest, Balaton saw his chance to escape everyone—his past, the ÁVH, your people. He decided to become Count András Balaton in all eyes.”
“He is Balaton. He took on the identity of József Major to get himself inside the ÁVH.” The gun was getting heavy, and fatigue had begun to cloud Mac’s thinking. He knew he had to stop this. And yet he couldn’t. Was the farmer beginning to make sense? But of course. He’s had thirty years to work out a plausible scenario. “You’re wrong, monk.”
The farmer took a step toward Mac, but Mac straightened himself up, the gun pointing at the man who called himself Bartholomew Wakefield, and he stopped.
“Call him what you will, he couldn’t bear to live with the fear of having MacGregor Stevens, the only man who had actually seen him, identify him as József Major, not a dispossessed Hungarian count. So he decided to get rid of you. He betrayed you at the border. He told the Russians not about himself and the two women, only about you. He said an American intelligence agent would be crossing the border. He gave what details he had to.”
“Bullshit.” It was all Mac could think of to say.
The farmer ignored him. “The Russians didn’t want to kill you, of course. There was much propaganda to be gained from exposing you. I was able to divert them, and some of my friends grabbed you and took you away. I’m sorry you were shot. But that’s what happened, MacGregor Stevens. I did not betray you.”
“You’re grasping at straws.” But Mac’s voice was hoarse, his nerves raw. Could I be wrong? No! “You’re KGB and I’m going to see you stand trial for what you are.”
Wakefield sighed. “Balaton won’t permit that. He’s here, don’t you understand? And he’ll stop you— again. Ask yourself why I thought I could blackmail him with the Balaton jewels. Ask yourself if he will permit the jewels to be used as evidence in a trial against me. Peel back the face of Andrew Balaton and you will find the face of an officer of the ÁVH. Peel back the face of József Major and what will you find? You don’t know, do you? It’s something the Americans never bothered to do.”
“What are you saying?”
But there was a rustling in the brush behind them, and Balaton came forward. He was wet and shaking, but he held a .38 at both men. “That’s enough.” He licked his lips. “No more lies.”
Mac continued to level his Smith & Wesson at the farmer, but he didn’t like the look of Balaton. The man was stretched tight and ready to snap. “It’s all right,” Mac said soothingly, ignoring his own fear. “We’ve got him. We’ll let the courts decide his fate now.”
Balaton was staring at the farmer. “I want the jewels.”
The man who called himself Bartholomew Wakefield nodded slightly, but there was no defeat in his face, only renewed determination. “I knew you would.”
“Forget the jewels,” Mac yelled. But as he swung around at Balaton, he saw the ugly terror in the Hungarian’s eyes...and the determination. “Oh, bloody hell,” Mac whispered, “how could I have been so wrong?”
There was a flicker in Balaton’s expression, something there quickly and then gone, like a flash. The farmer jumped forward. “Get down, Stevens! Now!”
Mac hesitated in confusion. Was it a warning or a lie? Then he felt his legs go out from under him and he didn’t know why and he tried to stop himself from falling but couldn’t. He heard the explosion. And he felt the searing pain in his shoulder, as he had before, thirty years ago, and he sank into the blueberry bushes and the rocky soil. Groaning mindlessly, he saw only the face of Elaine...the love of my life.
34
Mercifully, the fog had lifted and Ashley was able to land her tired little Cessna on Badger Rock Island. She grabbed her satchel and bounded out of the plane, but it immediately began to rain. She didn’t give a damn. In fact, the rain felt good—like a nice cold shower. She felt revived as she started down the wide gravel path.
She heard the pounding footsteps of someone running, and she thought of lurching off the path, but then Jeremy came into view, wild-eyed and there. Her arms opened and she was running, too, and then he caught her up in his arms. Thousands of dollars' worth of gems bounced in the bottom of the satchel as it swung against his back.
“I thought you’d given up on me,” she said as he set her down.
“You won’t get rid of me that easily. Ashley—”
She saw his face had clouded, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. “Where’s David?”
Quickly, Jeremy told her what had transpired since she’d left at dawn. She shook her head, trying to think clearly. “But I just saw Crockett’s racer tied to a dock on the other side of the island. If Balaton has David...” She couldn’t articulate the rest.
“Ashley, Balaton doesn’t pose a threat to your brother.”
“According to what I have in this satchel—”
Jeremy needed no more. “Come on, let’s go.”
They veered off the gravel path into the woods, not caring that there wasn’t a path, just moving east, toward the other side of the island, the boat...David. Ashley began to run. In just minutes, her sneakers were soaked and she was slipping and sliding in the wet leaves. They hooked up to a narrow overgrown path and followed it.
Just then, there came the loud crack of gunfire; then another.
David!
Barky!
Ashley dashed ahead of Jeremy. She had had no sleep, little food, shock after shock after shock. She had nothing left. She was without reserves, utterly drained. But somewhere she found the energy to move even faster, to run, and it was as if she wasn’t touching the ground, but moved several inches above it, hurrying, pressing herself to go faster. The cold air sliced into her lungs and her hamstrings ached, her entire body pushed beyond endurance as she sprinted, faster, faster.
Jeremy stayed close behind her. She could hear the pounding of his footsteps and the steadying breathing of an experienced runner. He wouldn’t leave her. Thank God. It was her only reassurance.
* * *
David had uttered every swearword he knew and had counted to a thousand to stop himself from considering the misery and gravity of his situation. What were the consequences of exposure to rain, cold, fog and wind for an individual as weakened—and as stupid—as he? No. He couldn’t think about th
at now.
The rain had resumed, a full-fledged downpour now, and he sat propped up against a lichen-covered boulder and listened to the tide wash in all around him. He had crept off the dock and gotten this far. In a little while, he hoped to be able to creep under a tree, where he might be more sheltered from the brutal, ceaseless wind. But right now he couldn’t move. Right now, he could only hope to keep his mind off the severe pain in his leg and the anger, the desperation and the bald, inescapable fear that were welling up inside him.
It was a small comfort that he had a fiberglass cast. An ordinary plaster cast would have disintegrated by now, but the fiberglass repelled water. A plus for modern medicine, he thought wryly. But there wasn’t a thing he could do about the water dripping down his leg and seeping inside the cast. The doctor had said to keep his leg dry. He’d been operated on; he had stitches to mind.
Maybe they would have to lop off his leg.
He blinked tiredly up at the sky, letting the cold rain pelt onto his face. “Maybe they won’t get a chance to lop it off,” he said aloud, talking to the frigging birds who did nothing all day but eat and crap. “Maybe I’ll just die out here and the birds’ll pick my bones clean, and one of these days some jerk-off ornithologist’ll find my skeleton and...shit! Get hold of yourself.” And he began again to count: “One thousand one, one thousand two...”
His teeth were chattering and his hands had turned shades of purple, blue and orange, clashing, he observed idly, with the bright reds of the young maple a couple of yards off. He’d never known a body could hurt so constantly. The pain never let up. He ached and ached and it just wouldn’t stop.
“I’m going to die out here with nobody to come to my funeral but the birds.”
Claim the Crown Page 28
