Assassin's Shadow

by Striker, Randy

  “I’m interested. More and more.”

  For the first time, she looked girlish, almost shy. “Oh. Well. . . .” She took a deep breath, swirling the wine within her glass. “That fellow I went overboard to save? We were married upon our arrival in London. I really don’t know why I married him, Dusky. I guess because, at the time, he seemed somehow intimately a part of that . . . that special moment. It didn’t take me long to realize that he had nothing to do with it; it could have been anyone—or anything. That thing I felt—that instant of immunity from fear, life, death, and everything else—had nothing to do with anyone but me. But I realized it too late. My father warned me; he was totally against the marriage, but for different reasons. Called the guy a ‘goddam foreigner,’ and that just made me more determined to go through with it. I was only twenty at the time.”

  “So you’re divorced now?”

  The wistfulness in my voice wasn’t well disguised. I expected her to laugh, but she didn’t. She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I’m still married. We were together only that first year. Even then he didn’t bother to disguise his bouts with other women. A discreet affair or two I could have handled. But not having it thrown in my face, the way he did. And plus I just didn’t love him. But it didn’t take him long to get involved with my father’s investment business. And once he had a foothold in the family fortune, there was just no getting rid of him. He vowed to contest any attempt at divorce. And my father switched sides, of all things. He admired my husband’s ‘business instincts,’ as he put it—foreigner or not. After that, I just said to hell with it, began using my own last name, and took off on my own. A marriage is just paper unless you make it work—or start dividing properties through the courts. So I decided to just ignore it.”

  “But I don’t understand,” I said. “Yesterday morning, when I asked if you were going to meet your husband at Cabbage Key, you said—”

  “I said stranger things happen. And they do. My husband is involved in a ritzy health resort my father’s corporation runs near here.”

  “You mean your husband is over at St. Carib,” I said incredulously.

  “Better than that,” she said, a bitter smile on her face. She turned and nodded at Matrah, the tall Mediterranean. He had an odd grin on his face, glaring at me.

  “Much, much better than that, Dusky. That’s my beloved husband sitting right over there. . . .”

  7

  “Would you like to meet him, Dusky?” Marina asked, the sour smile still on her face. And with the smile I thought I read just the slightest hint of fear.

  “Looks like I don’t have much choice in the matter, lady. He’s headed this way.”

  Matrah stood up, lurched with drunken imprecision past his staff, and walked evenly across the floor. I got a good look at him for the first time. He was taller than I am—about six three, six four. He had wide gymnast’s shoulders that narrowed quickly at the chest, then piped down into a pair of expensive gray slacks. The pants were tight enough to advertise the bulge of male organ so necessary in the minds of the disco dancers, bar hoppers, and the other machismo freaks. The grin had changed to a leer, and he slid between our two bar stools, his back to me, plundering what the psychologists call our “personal space.”

  It was a calculated move at intimidation, and I had no choice but to slide my stool back passively.

  And listen.

  I couldn’t believe the sudden change that came over Marina Cole. Her voice tightened around the nervous smile, and her right hand came to rest upon her lap like some kind of subconscious guardian.

  Matrah said, “Marina, my dear. You told me earlier this afternoon that you were going to bed and couldn’t be bothered tonight. It’s so unlike you to lie.” He put a little something extra into the word “lie,” his tone grandiose but biting.

  “Well, Matrah, I had almost an entire year to learn about lying from the best, now didn’t I?”

  He let that roll off. I could see they were in for a nasty bout of verbal fencing unless I did something to break the rhythm.

  But what?

  “Marina,” he said more loudly—playing for the benefit of his table, obviously—“would you like to join us for a drink and a bit of conversation? Or would you rather sit here alone? After all, we are both civilized human beings, and I am your hus—”

  “Oh, I’m anything but alone, Matrah,” she said, cutting him off. “And I have no desire to spend the evening being bored. But you haven’t met my friend, have you? Matrah, this is Dusky MacMorgan.”

  He gave me a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes holding about the same degree of interest he would bestow on a stray dog.

  “I’ve already had the pleasure,” he said.

  There was a brief look of surprise from Marina. Matrah continued, “Your friend was asking me earlier about the facilities at St. Carib—you haven’t seen the place, by the way, have you? Your father was so disappointed when you refused his invitation. Your friend said that he was interested in enrolling; said he needed to lose some of that stomach. I quite agreed—but recommended he contact Weight Watchers. More in his economic stratum, you see.”

  The accent was somewhere between Saudi and British, and every word was armed. I forced myself to relax; told myself that this was just one more drunk looking for trouble, and I gave up my love of schoolground fisticuffs long, long ago.

  But he didn’t have much farther to push before I allowed myself to regress.

  “Marina,” I said, checking my watch, “didn’t you say you were interested in a boat ride? I’ve got to get up early, and if we’re to get out at all . . .”

  She was quick to grab at the exit. “Absolutely,” she said. She turned to the tall Mediterranean. “Matrah,” she said, “if you decide to become reasonable about that matter we discussed, then I’ll be happy to talk with you. If not, please stay out of my way. You just don’t seem to understand that I don’t want to spend my life waiting around to save yours again.”

  And with that she brushed past him, headed for the rest room, leaving him the uncontested loser in their verbal battle. She had gone for the jugular and hit it squarely. His face reddened, his dark eyes bulged, and his hands were clenched into fists. Behind him, I heard the two Germans laughing for the first time. Unlike their two darker counterparts, they had enjoyed Matrah’s humiliation.

  “Bitch,” he whispered harshly, between clenched teeth. “You surly bitch.”

  “Not very nice talk, Matt old buddy,” I said, standing to face him. The gawking smile, the slope of shoulders, were both forced. I wanted to look smaller, slower than I am. I had had just about enough of this character on one level. He was just one more self-important, self-styled aristocrat in a world ass-deep in such creeps. But on another level, there was something more: It was the ancient conflict of one man against another, ready to fight for the favor of a woman.

  It’s rarely a good reason to fight; in fact, there’s hardly ever a good reason to go one-on-one with fists and elbows and feet.

  But the prospect of taking this guy down a peg or two was a little too attractive to pass up.

  He whirled toward me. “You—you keep out of this, fat man!” His thin chin was arrowed down at me, face red, eyes wide, taking every advantage of his height to look big and fearsome.

  I heard Kathy’s voice from behind the bar. She had watched the whole scene quietly until now. “Dusky,” she said, “Rob doesn’t stand for this sort of thing—you know that. Not inside, anyway.”

  There was a light smile on her face. She didn’t want the fight stopped; just wanted the battleground changed. I shrugged. “I guess we’re both being a little silly, huh?” I held out my hand toward him. “How ’bout it, Matt ol’ buddy? Let’s shake hands and call it quits.”

  He hesitated, then slapped my hand away with a resounding whack. “My name, fat man, is Matrah!” And with that he whirled and stormed out of the bar, through the porch, and outside toward the docks. The other two Mediterranean types
hurried off behind him, casting ugly looks at me.

  I turned to Kathy. “Mind if I settle my bill in the morning?”

  She had a wry look on her face. “Maybe you’d better take care of it now—just in case you’re not around tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  She laughed. “There are three of them.”

  “So that makes the odds just about right.”

  “I’ll get a full report in the morning, then. I hate fights, but I would like to see that guy humbled just a bit.”

  “We can only hope,” I said. I nodded toward the women’s rest room on the back porch. “When Marina comes out, have her wait ten or fifteen minutes before she comes down to the boat?”

  “Got it, skipper.”

  As I went through the bar outside, one of the Germans surprised me by calling me over. He was a huge man with thin blond hair, and pockmarks on his face that suggested a bad case of acne during adolescence. Trying to hide some of the scars, apparently, he had grown a heavy blond mustache and a reddish beard. The beard was full-face, closely cropped. The mustache swooped Fu Manchu–like beneath a grotesquely red nose that had suffered the brunt of the adolescent skin disease. I approached him cautiously. If he was one of Matrah’s friends, he might try to end the fight before it even began. And he was big enough to maybe do just that.

  I stopped across the table from the two. They were both still smiling. I said, “You’re not going to come and watch your friend at work?”

  The biggest one, the one who had called me over, laughed out loud. And he said in a deep German accent, “I would not call him the friend—correct, Hans?” They both laughed again, far enough into the scotch to find anything funny. He looked up, wiping his eyes. “No, my American friend, I called you over just to give you the bit of advice.” He stood up and wrapped his arm around me, voice whispering in collusion. “Watch for his feet. Do you understand? He arrived at St. Carib only a few weeks ago, but already he has had two such . . . encounters? And he likes to use his feet to get things finished fastly. Am I being plain? Between the legs, my American friend, between the legs!”

  “Plain enough,” I said as the big German sat back down. “But why the advice?”

  He made an empty motion with his hands. “He is a little too . . . pompous? Yes, pompous. I have been with St. Carib since the beginning. Now he arrives and treats us all like stupid goats. I will work for him because I must.” He raised his glass, grinning. “And Hans and I will drink his whiskey—because we want to! But in such business as this, I must find myself on the other side of the . . . yard?” He slapped his hand on the table good-naturedly. Hans roared at that. The big German jumped quickly to his feet and held out his hand. “I am Heinrich Keppler, ya? And I already have heard that you are Dusky . . . ?”

  “Dusky MacMorgan. And thanks for the advice, Heinrich.”

  “Heiny! Heiny—my friends all call me Heiny.”

  As I walked outside, Heiny and Hans were still calling out advice and luck, roaring with laughter and ordering more scotch, suddenly having a very good time in the absence of their superior.

  Matrah was waiting for me at the base of the mound near the white clapboard dockhouse.

  His two friends stood behind him in the shadows.

  I took my time getting there; walked a swaying path, trying to use the dock lights to catch a glimmer of a knife or firearm.

  I saw none. But I was still cautious. Even in a bar fight, lack of caution can spell death. I unsnapped the holster of my Gerber belt knife, opened the blade, and placed the knife gingerly in the flap pocket of my khaki fishing shorts.

  I would use it only if Matrah produced something equally lethal.

  He was hunched and ready when I arrived. His two friends pulled in closer now. Matrah was in the typical karate fighting stance, one bladed hand high, the other low.

  “Hey, what’s this?” I said innocently. “I thought you guys were going home.” As I spoke I was getting closer and closer, gauging the distance between Matrah and myself, studying the angles between Matrah and his two friends. I knew what I wanted to do; knew what I had to do. If I went after—and disabled—Matrah first, the other two would jump me then. And that was anyone’s ball game. I wanted to do things nice and neat; take them all by surprise.

  Counting on Heiny’s advice, I walked bowlegged, trying to give Matrah an obvious target. His friends were only an arm’s length behind him now.

  “Look, you fellas, I sure don’t want to fight. Don’t you think we can work this out?”

  “Hear the coward now!” Matrah sputtered, still low, still ready.

  “Oh, jeez, don’t call me a coward—” I was close enough now, and with his right foot, Matrah sent a blazing kick toward my crotch. I sidestepped it, gave him a solid crack behind the ear with my elbow, and in the same swift motion smacked one of the Mediterraneans with an overhand right, then hit the other flush on the nose with a cross-body left hand. They both went back-pedaling onto their butts, holding their faces.

  I turned. Matrah was just getting up. “As I was saying—don’t call me a coward, because it really pisses me off, Matt old buddy.”

  “You bastard!” He came lunging at me, arms grabbing me around the waist, knees pounding away at my crotch. One or two of the knees found their mark, and I felt the swift nausea, the beading of sweat on forehead. I cracked down hard with my elbow on the kidney area of his back, and when he recoiled I grabbed him solidly by the throat and backed him up against the bathhouse wall.

  “Carry this any farther, Matt old buddy, and you’re going to go whistling around this island like a balloon with a bad valve. Got it?”

  Dark eyes bulging, he nodded carefully.

  Behind me then I heard the two Germans coming at a heavy run. They had obviously been watching from the top of the mound. Heiny was yelling at me—his theatrics a little too obvious to be believable.

  “Let him go, you American pig! Let him go before he squashes you like an ant!”

  I felt Heiny’s big hands go gently around my shoulders. I let him pull me away. While Hans helped the two Mediterraneans to their feet, Heiny pulled me farther away from the stunned Matrah, whispering as he did, “We must keep up appearances, my tough American friend.” He giggled drunkenly. “My advice—you listened! But if I allowed you to kill him, I could not enjoy the look of defeat on his face tomorrow.”

  He glanced anxiously back at Matrah, then whispered again. “Do you mind if I give you a little shove—for appearance’s sake?”

  “For appearance’s sake—but not too hard. I’m feeling a little sick. He got me with one of those knees—damn.”

  “Soak them in cold water—that is the best thing.” He gave me a gingerly shove, and I added a bit of theatrics myself, falling to the ground.

  “Let that be a teaching to you, American!” Heiny yelled, gathering up Matrah and the other Mediterraneans. “Do not have another encounter such as this, or next time you will not be so fortunate!”

  Heiny and Hans were still yelling bogus threats and deadly promises at me when they got into St. Carib’s sleek Excalibur and powered down the channel toward their island home.

  I allowed myself a few minutes to recover, trying to get my wind back, waiting for the sweat shakes to dissolve. I had come damn close to killing Matrah; too damn close. I was shaking from that more than anything else. Had I allowed myself to go on, what would have happened to my mission? It’s hard to keep a low profile when you’re in jail on murder charges—however justified.

  In fact, I was probably stupid to get involved in a fight at all.

  I wasn’t sticking to my game plan. I’d lost touch with my role: that of the fat blundering American, too stupid to be on the search for anything, too weak to do anything about it if I did find something.

  When I had finally settled down, I went limping back up the mound to the old inn. Marina and Kathy sat side by side at the now-empty bar. They both looked up when they heard the scre
en door slam.

  Marina looked worried. Kathy was laughing. “You’re still alive and well?”

  “Alive, anyway. Matrah was very quiet and polite when he left.”

  Marina came to me, hugged me unexpectedly, and slid her hand into mine. “Good,” she said firmly. “He’s had that coming for a long, long time.”

  There was an awkward moment between the three of us. And in the silence, I said hurriedly, “Well, I guess I just came up here to say goodnight to you two. It’s been a long day—”

  “You’re not going to bed yet,” Marina said evenly. Then she allowed herself a vixen smile. “You promised to take me for a boat ride. Remember?”

  “Ah . . . boat ride. Right.”

  She led me out the door, tall with flaxen hair drifting behind her like a veil. And Kathy called behind us, “Just be back by seven, Marina. That’s breakfast, and a waitress’s work is never done around here!”

  8

  So we got aboard Sniper, and idled her down the midnight channel beneath March stars. Ahead, an intercoastal waterway marker flashed with a red precision that seemed to suggest haven in the darkness. The wind had disappeared with nightfall, as if sucked away in the sudden vacuum of sun, and Pine Island Sound was a reflection of constellations.

  Marina handled the lines flawlessly, did everything that needed to be done without being told, then joined me on the open flybridge. She settled into the swivel seat beside me with a sigh.

  “Do you mind my forcing you into this, Dusky?”

  I reached over and took her hand. “You’ve been nothing but trouble, Miss Marina Cole. I hate being out here alone with a beautiful woman—and a married woman at that. But I would hate it a lot more if you took the wheel while I went below and grabbed us a beer to share.”

  She pressed me back into my seat gently. “You take the wheel and I’ll get two beers—then we can both be very unhappy.”

  She returned with a brace of icy Tuborgs, and stuck mine already opened in the holder beside the wheel.