by Daniel Silva
“Carter gave you a gun, didn’t he?” Elizabeth said, as Michael entered the bedroom. She was standing before an open armoire, choosing a flannel nightgown. The room was dark except for a small reading lamp burning on a bedside table. Michael displayed the Browning. He snapped a magazine into the butt and clicked the safety. “God, I hate that sound,” she said, undressing.
She slipped on the nightgown and lay down on the bed. Michael was standing at the window, smoking a cigarette, watching the bay. Rain dashed against the glass. One of the security men was inspecting the bulkhead along the point by flashlight.
Elizabeth placed her hands on her lower abdomen. She wondered if the babies were all right. She thought, Listen to you, Elizabeth. Already calling them babies when they’re nothing more than a cluster of cells. Her doctor had told her to take it easy, to stay off her feet. She had hardly done that. She had spent the day on the run from a pair of terrorists, driving for hours and flying on a helicopter through a buffeting storm. She pressed her hands tighter to her abdomen and thought, Please, God, let them be well.
She looked at Michael, standing straight as a sentinel in the window.
“You know, Michael, I think you actually want him to try again.”
“After what he did to Max—”
“He tried to kill you today, too, Michael.”
“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten.”
“And Sarah?” she said.
He was silent.
“It’s healthy to want revenge, Michael. But trying to get revenge is something altogether different. It’s a dangerous thing. People get hurt. And in this case they could get killed. For all our sakes I hope he’s far away.”
“It’s not in his makeup. It’s not in his training.”
“What’s not?”
“To give up. To run away. I’ve read his file. I probably know more about him than he knows about himself.”
“You think he’s out there, Michael?”
“I know he’s out there. I just don’t know where.”
47
NORTH HAVEN, LONG ISLAND
Delaroche climbed out of the Range Rover and stared across the narrow channel toward Shelter Island. It was nearly midnight. It had taken eight hours to make the drive from Washington, because Delaroche had meticulously kept to the speed limit the entire way. He turned up the collar of his coat against the cold windblown rain. A ferry plowed toward him, two cars on the deck, beating against the heavy current rushing through Shelter Island Sound toward the open water of Gardiners Bay. Outside the small ferry office was a tan four-wheel-drive vehicle with police markings. It was possible the officer was just making rounds or had stopped for a cup of coffee. Delaroche doubted that was the case, though. He suspected the police were watching the ferry because Michael and Elizabeth Osbourne were on the island.
He walked back to the Range Rover, climbed inside, and drove away from the ferry landing. Twice he had to swerve to avoid small herds of white-tailed deer. He turned onto a small dirt and gravel road that ran into a stand of trees. There, hidden from view, he slipped on his reading glasses and unfolded a large-scale Long Island road map that he purchased at a gas station along the way. Astrid peered over his shoulder. North Haven was a small thumb of land jutting into Shelter Island Sound. To the southeast lay the historic whaling port of Sag Harbor.
“The police are watching the ferry landings,” Delaroche said. “That means the Osbournes are probably on the island. The South Ferry shuts down at one a.m. The police will go home because they’ll conclude we haven’t tried to make the crossing.”
“If the ferries are shut down, how do we get onto the island?”
Delaroche tapped the map at Sag Harbor. “There will be boats in the harbor and on the docks. We can steal one and make the crossing after the ferries stop running.”
Astrid said, “The weather is terrible! It’s not safe to go out in a boat on a night like this.”
“This isn’t so bad,” Delaroche said, removing his eyeglasses and slipping them back into his pocket. “In Brélés they would consider this a fine night for fishing.”
Delaroche entered Sag Harbor and parked along the marina. He climbed out of the Range Rover, leaving Astrid behind. The town was quiet, the shops and restaurants along the waterfront closed. After five minutes, Delaroche found what he was looking for, a twenty-six-foot Boston Whaler with a large Johnson outboard motor. He walked quickly back to the Range Rover and collected the things he needed: the cellular phones, the Berettas, the waterproof clothing. He locked the doors and pocketed the keys.
They walked along the marina and along a wooden dock, slick with rain. Delaroche climbed into the Whaler and helped Astrid onto the deck. There was a standing bridge and seating compartments forward and aft. Delaroche worked a lock pick inside the ignition and started the engine.
He leaped onto the dock and untied the lines, then jumped in the boat again and backed out of the slip. He cruised slowly through the harbor, boat throbbing beneath his feet. Twenty minutes later they entered the waters of Gardiners Bay.
Five minutes into the journey Delaroche feared Astrid had been right. On the bay the wind was ferocious, beating down from the northwest at forty miles per hour with stronger gusts. The temperature was forty degrees, but the rain and wind made it feel much colder. The cockpit of the Whaler was open, and within minutes Delaroche and Astrid were soaked. Delaroche’s hands were frozen to the wheel, despite his gloves. Astrid clung to his arm and buried her face in his shoulder against the rain.
The night was pitch-black, no moon, no starlight, nothing by which to navigate. Delaroche kept his own running lights doused to avoid being spotted from shore. Swells of four to five feet beat against the port side of the Whaler, tossing the shallow-draft little boat about.
Delaroche moved to within two hundred yards of the shoreline and headed due north. The seas calmed slightly. Off the port side he could see the very faint outline of trees and land. Delaroche knew from his maps that it was Mashomack Preserve, a giant nature conservancy. He continued north, past Sachem’s Neck and Gibson’s Beach. He nearly ran aground at Nichols Point, so he turned a few degrees to stern and moved farther offshore. After a few minutes he spotted Reel Point, a thin finger of land at the mouth of Coecles Harbor. He knew he was getting closer.
They rounded Ram Head and set the Whaler on a northwest heading toward Cornelius Point. The course change placed them directly into the path of the wind. Their speed slowed to a walking pace as the rollers grew larger. The little boat rose skyward as each wave passed beneath the hull; then the prow would slam down into the next trough, and seawater would crash into the seating compartments. Once Astrid lost her grip and fell forward onto the dash. She regained her footing and stood up, blood on her forehead.
Delaroche could make out Cornelius Point off the port side: a rocky headland, the faint outline of a large summer cottage. He rounded the point and turned a few degrees to port. Off the starboard side he could see the lights of Greenport, blurry with sea fog and rain. A few moments later he passed Hay Beach Point. Delaroche turned to the southwest and ran along Hay Beach for about a quarter mile. Then he turned sharply to port and reduced power, running toward the shoreline.
Cannon Point was about four hundred yards farther down. Delaroche knew he could approach the shoreline in virtual silence because the high winds would carry all sound in the opposite direction. He killed the engine and raised the propeller. A few seconds later the boat grounded itself on a shoal a few yards from the beach.
Delaroche leaped into the icy knee-deep water and waded ashore. He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and glanced at the luminous face of his watch. It was just two o’clock. The Whaler had made the journey from Sag Harbor in about ninety minutes, but as Delaroche tied the bowline to the limb of a fallen tree, he felt as though he had been behind the wheel fighting the sea for half the night. He waded back to the Whaler, collected the backpack, and helped Astrid over the side into the water. On th
e beach he unzipped the backpack, dug out the silenced Berettas, and gave one to her.
The rain beat down on them as Delaroche took his bearings. The beach ran directly to Cannon Point. It was rocky and narrow, only a few feet wide in spots. Beyond the high-water mark rose a sheer bluff, about twenty feet high, tangled with brush and dune grass.
Delaroche pulled the slider on the Beretta, chambering the first round. Astrid did the same. Then he took her by the hand and led her down the beach toward the house.
Matt Cooper and Scott Jacobs had both worked in CIA security for nearly twenty years. Their government sedan was parked just inside the main gate of the compound on Shore Road. They took turns walking the perimeter of the grounds every half hour. Matt Cooper handled the 2 a.m. round.
Delaroche and Astrid lay on the bluff overlooking the water, hidden behind the thick, thorny brush. Delaroche took in the layout of the compound: the large main house close to the water, two guest cottages, a separate three-car garage. Lights burned in the main house and in one of the cottages. Delaroche assumed that the Osbournes were in the main house and the security detail or a caretaker was in the cottage. He studied the layout of the grounds: a flat well-tended lawn dotted with tall trees, a gravel drive leading from the buildings to the front gate. Just inside the gate, Delaroche glimpsed the outline of a sedan.
The security man appeared a few minutes later. He carried a powerful flashlight in his right hand and played it across the grounds as he walked. As the man approached their position, Delaroche took Astrid firmly by the upper arm and held a finger to his lips. She nodded. A shaft of light shone over their heads, then played across the bulkhead and the beach below.
Delaroche stood suddenly, rattling brush. The beam of light played frantically for several seconds before it settled on him. His Beretta was drawn and leveled. Using the light as a target, Delaroche adjusted his aim to the right an inch or two in order to compensate for the fact that the security man held the light in his right hand.
He fired rapidly three times.
The security man collapsed onto the sodden turf.
Delaroche crept forward and knelt beside the fallen man. The shots had struck his chest. Delaroche reached down, felt the neck for a pulse, and found none. He gestured for Astrid to join him. They walked along the eastern edge of the property, keeping to the trees, until they were about thirty yards from the front gate and the security car. Delaroche could see the second man inside the car, sitting behind the wheel, rainwater streaming down the windows. Certainly the man could see very little. It would be an easy kill. The challenge would be killing him silently. He crossed the lawn passing behind the car, and approached from the rear passenger side.
Cooper had been too long in checking in. Usually, each man gave continuous updates of his progress by radio. Cooper had checked in from the west guest cottage and from the back of the main house, but Jacobs had not heard from him since he started toward the bulkhead and the beach.
Jacobs snatched up his radio and tried to raise Cooper, but there was no response. He was about to get out and go look for him when he heard the passenger door open. He turned and said, “What the hell happened to you?”
Then he looked at the face: short-cropped hair, very pale skin, two pierced ears. Jacobs didn’t even attempt to go for his gun, just said softly, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
Delaroche raised his Beretta and shot him three times in the face. Then he reached across the seat and took the radio from the dead man’s hand.
Astrid stayed in the trees. Delaroche climbed out of the car and softly closed the door. They retraced their route along the eastern boundary of the property, keeping to the trees once more. Delaroche ejected his half-spent ammunition clip and inserted a full one.
There were two entrances to the main house, a front door overlooking the gravel drive and a large screened porch overlooking the water. Delaroche planned to use the rear entrance.
The trees twisted in a gust of sea wind. Delaroche used the loud rushing noise to cover the sound of their approach. He took Astrid’s hand and hurried through the treacherous ground between the trees.
They passed behind the cottage, where a porch light burned. Delaroche considered entering the cottage and killing the occupants. But there had been no activity on the grounds, no sign that their presence had been noticed, so he passed behind the cottage and started across the rear lawn.
A dog barked, then another. He turned and saw a pair of large golden retrievers running toward them. He chambered the first round in his Beretta and raised the gun at the advancing dogs.
The dogs awakened Michael. His eyes opened wide, and he was suddenly alert. He heard the first dog, then the second. Then both fell silent. He sat up in bed and swung his feet to the floor. On his bedside table were the Browning automatic, a portable radio, and a multiple-line telephone. He snatched up the radio and said, “This is Osbourne. Anyone there?”
Elizabeth stirred.
“This is Osbourne. Is anyone there? I heard dogs barking.”
The radio crackled and a voice said, “The dogs are fine, sir. No problem.”
Osbourne set down the radio, picked up the telephone, and dialed the number in the caretaker’s cottage. He let the phone ring five times before slamming the receiver back into place.
Elizabeth sat up in bed.
Osbourne quickly dialed a special emergency number at Langley.
A calm voice answered.
“This is Osbourne. Shelter Island security detail is off the air. Call the local police and get some more men out here now! Move it!”
He hung up the phone.
Elizabeth said, “Michael, what’s wrong?”
“He’s here,” Osbourne said. “He’s killed the security team and he’s got their radio. I just spoke to the bastard. Get some warm clothes on. Hurry, Elizabeth.”
Charlie Gibbons had been the caretaker at Cannon Point for twenty years. He was born and raised on Shelter Island and could trace his ancestry to the whalers who worked from Greenport three centuries earlier. He lived only ninety miles from New York City but had been there just once.
Charlie could hear the telephone ringing in his cottage as he walked across the lawn in his bathrobe, shotgun in one hand, flashlight in the other. He spotted the dogs a moment later and ran clumsily toward them. He knelt beside the first and saw his yellow coat was soaked with blood. He turned the beam of his flashlight on the second and saw it was in the same condition.
He rose and shone his flashlight toward the bulkhead. He played the beam back and forth for a few seconds and spotted something bright blue. The security men had been wearing blue waterproof jackets. He ran toward the fallen figure and knelt beside him. It was the man named Matt Cooper, and he was clearly dead.
He had to wake Michael and Elizabeth. He had to telephone the Shelter Island police. He had to get help quickly. He got to his feet and turned to run back to the cottage.
A tall blond woman stepped from behind a tree, a gun in outstretched hands. He saw the muzzle flash but heard no sound. The rounds tore through his chest.
He felt an excruciating pain, saw a flash of brilliant white light.
Then darkness.
48
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
“The security team is off the air,” the duty officer said. “Osbourne believes October is on the premises.”
Adrian Carter sat up in bed. “Goddammit!”
“We’ve alerted local police, and another detail is en route.”
“They’d better fucking hurry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be at headquarters in five minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, connect me with Monica Tyler.”
“Stand by, sir.”
Michael had slept with his clothes on. Elizabeth pulled on a pair of gray cotton sweatpants and a beige woolen sweater. Michael slipped on his shoes and collected the Browning, the radio and cellular phone, and the keypad for the home’s security
system. The system was activated. The alarm would sound if October tried to enter the house. A number would read out on the keypad’s digital display, showing which door or window the intruder had breached. If October tried to break inside the house, Michael would instantly know where he was.
Michael shut off the bedroom lights and led Elizabeth into the darkened hallway. They followed the stairs down to the entrance hall. Another light burned there. Michael quickly killed it.
The stairway to the basement was just off the large kitchen. Michael took Elizabeth’s arm and led her through the darkness. He opened the doorway to the stairs and led her down to the basement.
Delaroche and Astrid crouched next to the door of the screened porch. Delaroche worked a knife inside the crude latch. It gave way after a few seconds. They picked their way across the veranda, around overstuffed rattan furniture and low tables, to a set of French doors. He tried the latch. It was locked. He crouched and worked his lock pick in the keyhole. The lock mechanism snapped. Delaroche pushed back the doors, and they slipped inside.
The house, in fact, had three entrances—the main front doorway, the rear sun porch, and a small basement doorway on the north side of the house, hidden behind a set of recessed steps. Michael and Elizabeth moved through the finished rooms of the basement until they reached the doorway.
The alarm sounded in his hand. Michael quickly killed the tone and reset it. October had entered the house through the French doors off the living room.
