“Certainly. They’re smart and perfectly ruthless. And you see, captain, in the complex webbing of world finance and trade, there’s no easy way to find out exactly who ‘they’ are. For the moment, we will have to be satisfied with a simple grass-roots offensive—prove to them we know what they are doing and why. That’s where you come in. Interested?”
“As I said: I have no pressing plans for the next week or so. And if I did, I’d cancel them.”
Colonel Westervelt smiled slightly. “I know the feeling,” he said. He studied me momentarily, and I found myself trying to suck in the gut, square the shoulders. He said, “You’ve been letting yourself go, captain. May I ask why? I recommended you for this mission assuming that you were at least mentally fit. If you are still suffering some psychological disturbance from a past assignment . . .”
“Exactly who are they planning to assassinate, colonel?” I interrupted shortly. It made me mad—though not mad at D. Harold. It was his job to be absolutely sure he had the right man. No, it made me mad at myself; angry for letting myself go to the point where my effectiveness might be questioned. And questioned by an old friend at that.
Westervelt tugged at the earlobe, his only nervous mannerism. He was silent for a while, then began going through some papers. The subject was obviously closed. “So! We have narrowed it down to two possible targets, both of whom will soon be vacationing on Florida’s west coast. It is not a matter of luck on our part—it is a matter of exceptionally fine planning on FEAT’s part that both targets would be in the same vicinity at the same time. Obviously, it’s twice as hard to protect two men.”
“And the targets are?”
“The probable targets are either a Soviet diplomat named Kiev Evenki, or a high-level Israeli spokesman, Samuel Yabrud. Have you heard of either man? No? I’m not surprised. While they are both very important people, each is similar in that they handle the bulk of the behind-the-scenes work. They are the ones who pound out the agreements and treaties and contracts, then step aside to let the high-profile government leaders do the signing. The assassination of either of these men on American soil would put us in an extremely difficult position, and probably have far-reaching political and economic repercussions.”
“But you’re not sure which is the actual target?”
“No. It’s very doubtful that it’s both of them.”
“So why don’t you just cage them three deep with some inconspicuous Secret Service people?”
Westervelt lifted his eyebrows. “I assure you, captain, we are taking every defensive option at our disposal. You need not worry about that. Thanks to the warning we received from the Red Chinese, there is less chance that the assassin will succeed. But there is still a chance. You Captain MacMorgan, are our offensive option. We want you to find FEAT’s assassin, stalk him, and then . . . eliminate him.”
“Assassinate the assassin.”
“Yes. And make it very plain that it was no accident.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“None. That is why this new terrorist movement is so diabolical. It could be anyone, male or female, of any color or nationality. The assassin probably doesn’t even know who he is killing or why he is killing. It is all too easy to find willing murderers these days, captain.”
“So what I will be doing is . . .”
“Just a symbol—a message to FEAT that we will not tolerate terrorism in the United States.”
“I have little to go on, and not much time, colonel.”
He sighed, “I know, I know. But you will have the locations of the possible targets. The Russian, Kiev Evenki, will arrive tomorrow at a private home in a remote and very wealthy settlement on Florida’s west coast called Boca Grande. Do you know it?”
“Pretty much. I used to do a lot of tarpon fishing up that way. I know some of the fishing guides. And you’re right about its being affluent and remote. Some American political figures vacation there, too, right?”
“Which is exactly why Evenki is there.” He checked his watch. “In just a few hours the first of the most preliminary and informal talks about a nuclear-arms pact will begin there. He’ll be on vacation—but a working vacation.”
“And the Israeli?”
“Samuel Yabrud will be staying only a few miles away by water, at a health resort called St. Carib Island. They call it a health resort, but it’s really a very plush fat farm where the wealthy go to lose weight. It’s an island of about a hundred acres southeast of Boca Grande, and north and west of two other inhabited islands called Useppa and Cabbage Key. Why the change of expression, captain?”
“You’re the second person this morning that’s mentioned Cabbage Key, that’s all.”
Westervelt glanced quickly out the window. The sailboat was a bobbing speck on the far horizon. “Your friend was interested in Cabbage Key?”
“A stranger I met this morning, colonel. And yes, she was interested. She thinks she’ll be working there.”
He jotted down the name when I told him. “We’ll check her out. By the way, that’s the sort of thing you’ll have to watch for, captain—people new to the area, jobs or not.” He stood up and began packing his papers back into the briefcase. “We’ll expect you and your vessel at the naval base tomorrow at oh eight hundred. Right. There you will be briefed further on who your contacts will be in the Boca Grande and St. Carib Island areas. But I must remind you that, as always, you are working independently of all our established agencies. You will not seek out those contacts unless absolutely necessary.”
“So how do you suggest I start, colonel—just go up there and start blundering around?”
I didn’t expect the grin. “I suggest you join your new friend in a job at Cabbage Key”—he looked meaningfully at the small roll around my waist—“or enroll yourself in a course at the St. Carib fat farm.”
4
Feeling dwarfed, I nudged Sniper in behind one of the massive nuclear subs at the Boca Chica naval base, tossed lines to the sailors waiting there, and pulled myself up onto the cement quay.
The sailors said nothing, only eyed me suspiciously. They were obviously expecting me—and wondering why in the hell someone was allowing a civilian vessel in a military harbor.
A young lieutenant was waiting at the concretereinforced machine shop by the docks. Safely out of sight of the sailors, he snapped a salute. Dressed in khakis and blue denim shirt, I felt a little ridiculous returning it.
“Captain MacMorgan?”
“Yes.”
“This way, sir.”
D. Harold Westervelt was in a munitions office no bigger than a garage. A desk lamp made his shaved head look luminous. He was studying some papers. He looked upset about something. He glanced up when the young lieutenant delivered me, then shut the door behind, leaving us alone.
“You’re early, captain.”
I checked my Rolex Submariner. It said three minutes to eight. “Sorry, colonel.”
He stood up, straightened his shirt collar, and went to a gray metal closet. It was already unlocked. “You still have the Cobra crossbow?”
“Yes. But I could use some shafts and some weights.”
He placed two boxes on the table, then returned to the closet.
“And the AK-47 Russian assault rifle?”
“Yes, it’s stowed aboard.”
“I’m afraid it would a very bad choice to use the AK-47 on this mission. To have the would-be assassin of a Russian or Israeli eliminated by a Russian weapon might give FEAT the wrong impression.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
One by one he brought out two rifles I recognized, and one I didn’t. He placed them on the table, bolts open. “I would suggest either of these two weapons.” He pointed to the Lee Enfield No. 4 Mark I rifle, and the Remington Model 700. Both had stocks with the dull military finish. He said, “Both use 7.62mm NATO ammunition. The Enfield is heavier, and its effective range is not as great—five hundred meters compared to the Remington
’s eight hundred and twenty—but, with its charger-loaded magazine, the action is somewhat faster. And it holds ten rounds compared to the Remington’s five. It’s British, of course, but it’s still being used around the world, and, like the Remington, by NATO forces primarily as a sniper rifle. We can equip either with a special silencer.”
“I’d prefer the Remington. More familiar with it.”
“I thought you would. Fine Mauser action with an almost fail-safe knockdown trajectory. Muzzle velocity of eight hundred and fifty meters per second.”
“And scopes?”
“For daylight work, you’ll have the Redfield variable-power, three to nine power. For night work, you’ll have the Star-Tron MK 303a night-vision system with a 135mm F-16 lens. You probably know how it works—light intensification; gathers all the available starlight and moonlight, and amplifies it fifty thousand times. Extremely effective.”
I had been eyeing the other rifle on the table. I’d never seen one like it. Westervelt noticed. He picked it up and handed it to me. It was built entirely of metal, but was still surprisingly light. It had an odd skeleton stock complete with cheek rest and pistol grip. At first it struck me as being an ugly excuse for a rifle; but then, on closer inspection, rather striking in a lethal sort of way.
“I brought that rifle out as a reminder, captain.”
“Reminder, sir?”
“Yes. That’s the SVD Dragunov sniper rifle, used by the Warsaw Pact forces, built by the Russians. Compared to your Remington, it has more pluses than minuses. In the past, FEAT’s terrorists have leaned toward Warsaw Pact weaponry. It’s a reminder that the man you are hunting is at least as well equipped as you—and perhaps better.”
“It’s a pretty graphic reminder, colonel. I appreciate it.”
I put the Dragunov back on the table while D. Harold opened another box. He pulled out what looked like an aluminum camera case, flipped the latches, and lifted the cover. “And this is the last of the equipment, captain. It’s possible you won’t need it. But if you do, it can be invaluable. It’s a Persid seismic intruder alarm system. You bury these small geophones in an area you want secured. They’ll detect men on foot a hundred meters away. It’s batteryoperated, it doesn’t weigh much, and it can save your life—or the life of one of our two foreign visitors. It’s easy to use—directions are enclosed.”
Westervelt collected all the gear and placed it on the table before me. He still looked strangely troubled; worried about something.
“Something wrong, colonel?”
He rubbed at his temples, as if he had a headache. “As a matter of fact, there is. I’ve been wondering if I should tell you.”
“What is it?”
“You no doubt wondered why your normal government connection, Captain Norm Fizer, didn’t get in touch with you about this mission.”
I had indeed wondered. Stormin’ Norman Fizer had seen my men and me through two very, very nasty missions in Cambodia long ago, and it was Fizer who had made it possible for me to take revenge on the drug kingpin who had murdered my wife and two boys. He was a friend from the past who was still a friend. A good friend.
“I wondered, colonel, but I didn’t want to ask. I thought it might suggest that I was unhappy working with you.”
“That was kind of you, captain—but unnecessary.”
“I suppose.”
“The reason I’ve been wondering if I should tell you is strictly a pragmatic one. I’ve been wondering how it might affect your work.”
“What might affect my work, colonel? I’m no schoolboy. Just tell me.”
He straightened himself at his desk, leaned closer toward me, and said, “The reason Captain Fizer is not your adviser on this case is that he was to be one of your contacts. I have a list of Secret Service and CIA people here, and he was among them.”
“What do you mean, ‘was’?”
“Just that, I’m afraid, captain. Fizer has been in the Boca Grande–St. Carib Island area for the last three days. He apparently was on to something. An excellent man, Fizer. Wonderful intuitive and intellectual police skills. . . .”
“But what happened, D. Harold?”
Colonel Westervelt made an empty motion with his hands. “He turned up missing yesterday. And last night, a clandestine search for him was fruitless. Dusky, Captain Fizer is missing and assumed dead. I’m sorry.”
And so was I. Damn sorry. Fizer was one of the good ones; a rare combination of good humor, horse sense, and toughness that had seemed unbeatable.
But in the end, we are all beatable. Death sees to that, as it had, apparently, seen to my friend, Stormin’ Norm Fizer.
“Any leads as to exactly who he was on to, colonel?”
He shook his head. “Afraid not. He was a paying guest at the Gasparilla Inn—one of the old hotels on Boca Grande. He was using his real name. No reason not to, really. Under the guise of being a fishing enthusiast, he had rented a boat all three of the days he was a guest there—ostensibly to check out the area. Yesterday was so windy in Boca Grande they were reluctant to rent him the boat. He insisted. When he didn’t return yesterday afternoon, they called the Coast Guard. They found his boat adrift off Captiva Pass last night, not far from your Cabbage Key.”
“Any sign of a struggle?”
“None.”
“How do you know he was on to something?”
“Very simple. He notified one of his superiors—in code, of course. He indicated he had a good lead, and would report in full after a preliminary investigation.”
“Why didn’t he get someone to go with him if he thought he was on to something?”
“That wasn’t his style, apparently.”
Westervelt was right. That wasn’t Fizer’s style. He wouldn’t ask for help until he was sure he needed it. Fizer was the kind of guy who didn’t like to waste someone else’s time.
“FEAT, colonel?”
“We can only assume that, barring some freak accident, Fizer was indeed onto FEAT’s assassin, found him, and was eliminated by him.”
“Murdered, you mean, dammit!” I found myself cracking the table with my fist.
“And that’s exactly why I was reluctant to tell you, captain,” D. Harold said sternly. “In this business of international terrorism—and that’s what it is, by the way, a business—there’s no room for that sort of schoolboy emotion, MacMorgan. That’s all very fine for playground confrontations and after school fights, but if you bring it into an encounter with an individual as cold and ruthless as one of FEAT’s assassins, you’re going to finish second-best. Just as Captain Fizer apparently finished second-best. Understand?”
“Then why in the hell did you pick me for the job?”
“I’m wondering that myself at the moment.”
I found myself glowering at the man across from me. The blue eyes were frigid, the hands placed calmly in front of him. I took a deep breath, exhaled. “I’m sorry, colonel. You’re right, of course. It’s just that Norm and I had been through a lot together.”
He nodded. “I know. He was a very good man. And after you leave, I have the unenviable job of notifying his wife and children. Not a pleasant task, I assure you. But we have already lost one man to FEAT, and we don’t want to lose you. Not only for personal reasons, but because it would be a devastating blow to our international image if they bested us again. We can’t afford that, do you understand? In Vietnam you seemed to excel in this kind of oneagainst-one assignment. I’m betting that you’ve lost none of your mental or physical abilities—just don’t let emotion cause you to do something foolish.”
“I understand, colonel. And I’m sorry for the outburst.”
We both stood. He helped me carry the new weaponry out to Sniper.
The sailors who had helped me tie up were nowhere to be seen now. It reinforced the impression that the mission was highly classified.
“You will arrive sometime today, captain?” He stood, hands on hips upon the quay, looking up at where I stood on t
he flybridge.
“Seven, eight hours from now, depending on the weather.”
“I can still have a chopper fly you up to Boca Grande, then make arrangements for you to secure a vessel there.”
“No thanks, colonel. I’m kind of attached to this boat.”
“Yes. I see.”
I turned the keys, pressed the buttons, and Sniper’s twin 453 GMC diesels rumbled to life, sputtering salt water through the exhausts. The wind was still out of the northwest, visible in the coconut palms around the military harbor.
“Remember, captain. If you find the assassin, it is to look like no accident. I leave the method to you.”
I looked down and saw the slight smile crease his face. It was D. Harold’s way of giving me the final free rein. I gave him a short salute and said, “Colonel, if I find the guy, there will be nothing accidental about it. That much I promise. . . .”
On the long solitary boat trip across Florida Bay, I flirted with the idea of catching Marina Cole and her little sailboat. Throughout the day, I kept a watch through binoculars. Once even went so far as to go off my course to get a better look at a little yellow sloop.
But it wasn’t hers.
In a way, I was glad. On the memory screen, I played and replayed my meeting with her; saw again the unusual face, the dark eyes, the braided rope of blond hair—and the wedding band. As someone who had loved marriage, I still took the marriage vows seriously. And who in the hell was I to try to interfere with the lives of her and her husband?
Still, there was that cryptic reply to a simple question.
“Will you be meeting your husband at Cabbage Key, Marina?’ ’
“Stranger things have happened, Dusky. . . .”
On a boat alone, you toy with the mind, play little games. You listen to the VHF radio, lock in the little Benmar autopilot when it’s time to go below for another cold beer and a fresh dip of Copenhagen, and then return to the pilot’s seat to watch the inexorable surge of open green sea.
So why think about the woman? Hadn’t I tried to start a relationship with the lady with the auburn hair, Saxan Benton? Yes, and had failed miserably.
Assassin's Shadow Page 4
