Assassin's Shadow

by Striker, Randy

  Finally, it was a day that seemed summerlike: pale wind drifting in the fresh heat of morning, and beaches an iridescent white beneath a potent sun.

  After some consideration, I decided to pull into the docks at the Pink Elephant—a public house that, like most of Boca Grande, had retained the old Southern grandeur of Florida. There were a few other boats there, and I went inside the bar for a quick lunch and a beer.

  The place was almost empty, cool and dark with ceiling fans, and it took my eyes a while to adjust. I paused momentarily to look at the mounted fish in their glass case, then went on inside and took a seat.

  And I was midway through my cheeseburger and chilled potato salad when the tall, good-looking waitress suddenly returned to my table.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Great.”

  She took something out of her apron. “A guy sitting over there in the corner asked me to give you this.” She handed me a note, carefully folded.

  I waited until she had gone to read it.

  It said: “Meet me at the bench in front of the old train depot in twenty-five minutes.”

  There was no signature.

  I took my time, yawned, and glanced around nonchalantly. He sat at a table with three burly-looking men in bleak, ill-fitting suits. They ate full lunches. He drank tea in a tall iced glass. The face and the shaved head were unmistakable: It was D. Harold Westervelt.

  I checked my Rolex and marked the meeting time in my mind. D. Harold looked up, eyes sweeping past me without recognition. He nodded curtly.

  So I finished my lunch, left a five for the pretty waitress, and went outside into the bright sunlight.

  The village of Boca Grande has all the quiet class of a small New England town. You can walk down the middle of the main street at noon and not worry about getting hit by a car. The small white churches seem to glow with a celestial light, and broad oaks and banyan trees shadow the side streets. It is a rare place among the tacky postcard and trailer-park grotesqueries that most other Florida towns have become. True, the profit-hungry developers are converting the north end of the island into a catacomb of condominiums. But the downtown area remains quiet and quaint with its drugstore and the filling station, and the deserted train depot with its 1920 streetlights.

  And the town has stayed that way not because of some lofty concern from its county commission or planning board—anything but. If it was left to them, they would sit by blinking like stray cats while one of the big money developers coated the entire west coast with asphalt.

  No, it has stayed that way because the people who live there have bigger money. And in Florida, money is the only voice the politicians really listen to. Boca Grande is peopled by the unlikely mixing of true Florida crackers with America’s old-money families, family names we all recognize because we buy the products their conglomerates manufacture, or see their names in the jet-set social registers. The crackers who live there don’t want the village to change, and the wealthy, who treasure their beachside lives of seclusion, have enough money to stop outsiders from trying.

  So I walked on down to the docks at Knight’s marina, traded jokes with a couple of Captiva fishing guides, Mike Fuery and Doug Fisher, who just happened to be there, then walked back to the deserted train depot at the appointed hour.

  I was a little early—as usual.

  And D. Harold Westervelt was right on time—as usual.

  He sat at the far end of the park bench, as far away from me as he could get. Without looking at me, he said, “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to arrive on Boca Grande, captain.”

  “I stopped at Cabbage Key. I may be on to something.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Good,” he said. “Excellent.”

  “Do you want a report now?”

  Without shaking his head, he said, “In a minute. This meeting must be very brief—for obvious reasons. You’re probably surprised to see me up here. Frankly, I wasn’t anxious to come. I’ve a great deal of work to do back in Key West, and this has thrown my schedule completely off.”

  “Any word on Fizer?”

  “Still missing. His wife took it very hard—but was brave all the same. She’s still holding some hope. I recommended she be prepared for the worst. I’m afraid I know all too well how FEAT works. Unless there’s a ransom involved, they don’t deal with prisoners.”

  “But they’ve never had to deal with Norm Fizer before.”

  D. Harold actually allowed himself a smile. “That’s true. Captain Fizer would be a very hard man to kill—like yourself.” Then he added meaningfully, “Hard to kill. But not impossible.”

  He straightened the sunglasses he was wearing and pulled the broad-rimmed straw hat down lower on his head. The combination of the two made him look like some tourist from Ohio—no doubt the desired effect.

  “But I didn’t call you here to talk about Captain Fizer,” he said. “There’s been a change of plans—and it should simplify things for you. Those men I was having lunch with—all KGB high command. They know who I am and what I do, and I am very aware of their work, so there was no need for deception—not on this level, anyway. Actually, one is an old friend. Worked for the British SIS during the Second World War. He was one of the head men in the British double-cross network that specialized in catching German agents and converting them. Devastated the Nazis. He was so successful at that, no one ever suspected that he was a Russian double agent. But he was. The Russians have a way of getting good people. Now he pretty much runs the show over there. Top-flight group, the KGB. This is the first time since the war I’ve had a chance to work with them.”

  “They’re on to FEAT?”

  Colonel Westervelt chuckled. “After being so badly embarrassed by that cobalt business, the Russians made a special point to learn all they could about it. Yes, Captain MacMorgan, they know about FEAT—and probably a good deal more than we do. We traded a few scraps of information over lunch, both of us careful not to help the other. But you know how that goes. Later, we might get down to exchanging some real information. But the important thing is, they’ve learned about the possibility of their Kiev Evenki’s being assassinated. And I must say, they weren’t too pleased at the prospect of using one of their top people like a sacrificial lamb.”

  “Can’t say as I blame them.”

  “Oh, it has nothing to do with any humanitarian feelings. If they could join this hunt for FEAT’s assassin and make the kill themselves, they’d be all for it. Even said that if our man—which is you—used their SVD Dragunov sniper rifle, they might go along with it. That way their Pravda and Radio Moscow could make a show of claiming responsibility for the score.”

  “That sounds pretty cold-blooded—and premature. I have a few ideas who FEAT’s man might be, but strictly speculation.”

  Westervelt eyed me sharply. “Very briefly, tell me who it might be. And why you think so.”

  So I told him about Matrah; about his investment background, his Mediterranean heritage, and his being seen talking with Fizer before his disappearance.

  “Interesting,” he said. “Quite interesting. I’ve heard this fellow Matrah’s name before. It took me a moment to realize where.” He turned and glanced at me for the first time. “I said that I would have your acquaintance Marina Cole checked out. His name was mentioned there—her husband, correct?”

  “That didn’t take long.”

  “It was a very brief, very superficial report. The information we have came from the obvious places: schools, county records, police reports.”

  “Police reports!”

  “Seems Miss Cole had some trouble in Casablanca several years ago. She was arrested for the possession of drugs.”

  “She told me about that,” I said, lying only partially. She had told me about her early experimentation with drugs.

  Westervelt shrugged. “It was only a minor thing. Her father’s wallet spared her the embarrassment of a light prison sentence. Other than that, she
seems to be a pretty benign figure. Of course, she does have connections—through her husband and father—with the international money market that might make her a suspect. . . .”

  “She wasn’t in the area when Fizer disappeared,” I reminded him.

  “Oh, I doubt seriously if she has anything to do with this business. I’m just trying to remind you that FEAT’s people come from all walks of life—male and female, American or foreigner.” He made a dismissing motion with his hands. “But now I must tell you about the Russian, Kiev Evenki. He arrived this morning, but will be leaving almost immediately. His own KGB people have him more than adequately protected. And so that leaves us with the Israeli, Samuel Yabrud. He will be arriving at St. Carib this afternoon.”

  “But what if FEAT’s target was the Russian? Maybe they’ll call the hunt off all together.”

  “Maybe,” Westervelt said. “But of course we can’t take the chance. Our agents will stay with him as much as they can while Yabrud goes through the St. Carib course. But there will be some times, apparently, when the course demands that he be alone. St. Carib uses one of those ‘experiential education’ programs that are so popular now in wildlife schools. You know the sort of thing: People are sent off on an island alone for a day or two to eat roots and berries. The very rich people who enroll there love it. The island staff yells at them and orders them about. Very strict, very military. But these rich folks are so worn by the responsibilities they have in real life, apparently, that they delight in being ordered about like children.”

  “So if FEAT does decide to hit Samuel Yabrud, you figure it will be at one of those times when he is off alone?”

  Colonel D. Harold Westervelt stood up, adjusted his hat carefully. “If you were FEAT’s assassin, isn’t that what you would do, captain?”

  And with that, he walked away from me, down the quiet streets of Boca Grande.

  Now my fight with Matrah seemed like a bigger mistake than ever. And I swore at myself softly as I powered Sniper away from the docks of the Pink Elephant. I had stayed in town after my short meeting with Westervelt only long enough to stop at the little marina where they rented powerboats.

  I was lucky. The shrunken old lady who was behind the counter remembered Norm Fizer.

  “Oh yes, that poor, poor man,” she said when I asked about him. “It’s the first boat we’ve ever lost here—and we rent them every day,” she said.

  “Was that the first time he ever rented one of your boats?”

  She shook her head. “No, he came in two days before he . . . he disappeared. Paid for three days in advance. Used cash—cash for the deposit and everything. I remember because it was very unusual. Almost everyone nowadays uses credit cards. Plastic money for this, plastic money for that. It’s no wonder this country is having such a terrible economic problem—”

  “Did he mention where he might be going in your boat?”

  She thought for a moment. “No. Just said he was going to do some fishing. But it’s like I told the police—he never bought no bait nor lures or nothing. Had a rod of his own, of course, but I never did see no tackle box. Thought it was kind of strange.”

  “Do you remember what he was wearing.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I might be an old woman, but I still have an eye for a good-looking man. And my, but he was good-looking. Thought he might be a movie star or something. Let’s see now—he was wearing a dark-blue sports shirt. Cotton probably. And those expensive khaki fishing pants with the button-down pockets—kind of like yours, only his weren’t shorts. They was long slacks.”

  I offered her a ten for her help, but she refused. “Are you from the police?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m a reporter. Doing a big special for my wire service of water-sport accidents.”

  “Well, if you use my name, make sure you get the spelling right. I’ve talked to reporters before, and they almost always get it wrong. You’d think they’d learn better in college or something. . . .”

  So I rode the flybridge down the intercoastal waterway deep in thought, wondering just what in the hell my next move should be.

  One thing was for sure—I had to get close to Samuel Yabrud. Because if he was FEAT’s mark, his assassin was sure to be nearby. I considered using Cabbage Key as a base. Maybe get Rob Wells to help me pose as the new fishing guide there, and somehow ingratiate myself with the Israeli.

  No, there were far too many holes in that plan; too many times when Yabrud would be out of my sight—and maybe in the sights of FEAT’s assassin. Besides, I had ulterior motives for wanting to stay at Cabbage Key. And as strong as my attraction was for Marina Cole, it wasn’t strong enough to make me blow my whole mission.

  I had only one sensible trail of action. I had to enroll at St. Carib. I had to go through the workouts and the diet and, apparently, the harassment right along with the rich and chubby.

  The big question was: Would Matrah allow me on the island? I wasn’t exactly a treasured friend after our fight the night before. And Matrah didn’t seem the type to forgive and forget. But all I could do was try.

  The sign at the channel way to the exclusive fat farm read: ST. CARIB ISLAND

  PRIVATE RESORT FACILITY

  ENTER WITH PERMISSION ONLY

  I brought Sniper around, dropping her down to idle speed. Before me, the island spread out in the afternoon sun, lush and green with palms and gumbo-limbo. There was a white sweep of beach where a line of men and women jogged in formation. The geometries of graceful old buildings—tin roofs, vertical white board-and-batten, long screened porches—could be seen through the heavy foliage.

  The docks were new: built with heavy plank and green treated pilings. And there was plenty of room for my Sniper—the reason obvious. No doubt St. Carib ferried its clients out on the giant sportfisherman tethered to the dock. The only other boats there were a couple of low-horsepower skiffs, and the sleek Excalibur that Matrah and his friends had used the night before. It hung on davits beside the dock, long and gleaming, projectilelike in the bright sun.

  There was a committee of dock hands waiting when I pulled up: broad, muscled types. And they all looked surly.

  Obviously, unexpected guests weren’t welcome on St. Carib.

  I smiled from the flybridge, waved. They didn’t wave back. One of them, the spokesman for the group, stepped forward.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid we can’t allow you to dock here. This is a private island,” he said.

  I yelled back, still smiling, “I know. I came to sign up. I talked with some of your people last night at Cabbage Key. They said I should talk to your enrollment personnel.”

  They conferred for a moment, then the spokesman asked, “Who did you talk to?”

  “Heinrich Keppler. Is Heiny around? He’ll tell you.”

  One of them went running off and returned shortly with the big German. He came lumbering down the dockway, planks creaking beneath his weight. His blond mustache and short red beard were contorted into a broad grin.

  He waved and yelled at me, “You big American cow! You have come to lose the fat? It is true?”

  “It’s true—but I’d like to tie up my boat and come ashore first, if that’s okay with you.”

  He waved me in, caught the lines I tossed him, and snubbed off the lines on the brass cleats. I took his hand when I stepped out onto the dock: big dry handshake, but not the aggressive kind—the kind that tries to crush the fingers and suggests imminent domination.

  “Ah, to see Matrah’s face when he learns that you have enrolled. That will be a happy something, ya!”

  “If he lets me enroll. I’ve been planning my whole vacation around staying here. I’d hate to see it ruined because of that little squabble we had last night.”

  “Hah! Some little squabble, you speak. He did not eat the breakfast this morning. A bruise around his throat this big.” He held his hands apart as if describing a fish. “No, we must get you signed up before he sees you. That wi
ll be a laugh!”

  He talked on in clumsy English as he walked me across the well-manicured expanse of St. Carib. The walkways were made of red brick, curving beneath the shade of broad oaks and banyan trees. Like most of the inhabited islands in Pine Island Sound, the houses were all built on the tops of a long line of prehistoric Indian shell mounds that made up the bulk of the island. At a small wooden building, he stopped me. A sign at the door proclaimed it the business/ enrollment office.

  “My chubby American friend, do you know that it costs much money to stay here?” he asked in a worried tone.

  I smiled. “Heiny, money has never been a problem with me. Right now, my only worry is this stomach I’m beginning to grow.” I grabbed the small band of fat around my waist. “If you people can get this off me, it’d be worth any amount.”

  He nodded his head and grinned happily. “Good, good. You are in no difficulty, my American friend. These other rich piggies you see around here—they are the ones who make us work. Food, food—all the time it is the food, trying to steal it from the kitchen. We must watch them constantly. Like little children, these little piggies! But you—you my friend, I will train like a fighter. Yes!”

  He held his finger to his lips, the symbol of a secret. “Do not forget—Matrah must not know that I helped you. If he discovered, he would fire me and then I would be forced to twist his physical body to knots. A nasty Arab, that one!”

  Heiny went lumbering down the walkway chuckling, leaving me at the door of the business office.

  Inside the ceilings were high and cool. There were paintings on the wall of seascapes, and a giant aerial photograph of St. Carib in color covered one full wall. The island was amoeba-shaped, well over a hundred acres, the north and south ends of it bordered by mangrove swamp. In the middle of the island was the wooden water tower. It overlooked the blue rectangle of swimming pool, tennis courts, and the long sheltered row of guest cottages. On the south point of the Indian mound were the two largest houses, old and multistoried, with roofs of shingle rather than tin.