Cold Vengeance

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

  Unfortunate, that is, for the survival chances of those on board.

  Again he listened to the chatter, building an ever-clearer picture of the situation on the vessel. No clue as to Constance’s whereabouts was offered. One person, clearly the man in charge, spoke in a mixture of German and English from a location with loud background noise—perhaps the engine room. The others were scattered about the yacht, all in place, all awaiting orders. He did not hear Esterhazy’s voice.

  From what he could gather, however, there was no one in the main saloon. With exquisite care he cracked open the door and peered into the dim but elegant space, paneled in mahogany, with white leather banquettes, a granite-topped bar, and plush carpeting barely visible in the ambient light. He looked around quickly, making sure it was empty.

  He heard running footsteps in the companionway and a burst of radio chatter. Several men were on their way aft and would reach the saloon momentarily.

  Quickly, he backed out of the door again, easing it shut. He crouched again in the darkness of the door-well, ear to the fiberglass panel. The footsteps entered the saloon from the front. From the whispered radio chatter, he learned there were two of them. They were on their way to check on Viktor, last seen on the aft deck, who hadn’t responded to his radio since launching the burning tender.

  Excellent.

  He eased himself around the corner from the door and pressed himself against the aft wall, concealed from above by the overhang. All was once again quiet in the saloon. The two men were waiting and listening as well, evidently spooked.

  Moving with exquisite care, Pendergast reached an access ladder that ran to the upper aft deck; grasped a rung and slid himself up; and then, reaching out with one leg, transferred himself from the ladder to a small roof area above the saloon, still hidden from view of the sky deck by a large cowl vent.

  Stretching out on the polished fiberglass, Pendergast leaned down over the overhang and—with one arm extended—lightly brushed the barrel of his gun on the door. It made a faint noise, no doubt magnified inside the saloon.

  No response. Now the two men inside would be even more agitated. They couldn’t be sure if the sound was random or not; whether someone was outside the door. That uncertainty would, for the time being, keep them in place.

  Sliding back up on the roof above the saloon, keeping hidden behind the vent, Pendergast pressed the barrel of his Les Baer against the fiberglass roof and pulled the trigger. A massive explosion sounded in the saloon below as the .45 ACP Black Talon expansion round ripped a hole in the roof, no doubt filling the saloon air with fiberglass and resin dust. Instantly he skipped off the roof and slid back to the door-well as the two panicked men opened fire through the roof with their machine pistols, riddling the area where he had just been and thereby revealing their location within the saloon. One of them did the expected and came charging out the door, firing as he went; Pendergast, positioned behind the door, kicked him hard across the shins as he emerged and then struck him a simultaneous blow to the neck; the man’s momentum sent him sprawling facedown on deck, unconscious.

  “Hammar!” came the shout from within the saloon.

  Without slowing, the agent charged in through the now-open door. The second man turned and let loose a burst, but Pendergast had anticipated this, throwing himself to the carpeted floor, rolling, and firing a single round into the man’s chest. The man slammed backward against a plasma television and collapsed in a shower of glass.

  Leaping to his feet, Pendergast veered left and exited the port saloon door, then flattened himself against the wall next to the recessed entrance. Hidden beneath an overhang, he paused once again to listen in on the continuing radio chatter, rearranging in his mind his picture of the vessel and the shifting locations of the men on it.

  “Szell. Respond!” came the voice of the man in charge. Other voices jammed the frequency, asking in a panic about the gunshots, until the German shut them up. “Szell!” the man called harshly over the radio. “Do you read?”

  Pendergast thought with satisfaction that Szell was beyond all reading.

  CHAPTER 70

  ESTERHAZY WATCHED WITH GROWING ALARM as Falkoner spoke into his radio, “Szell. Hammar. Respond.”

  Static sounded over the speakers.

  “Damn it,” Esterhazy burst out, “I keep telling you, you’re underestimating him!” He slammed his hand on the bulkhead in frustration. “You’ve no idea who you’re up against! He’s going to kill them all! And then come for us!”

  “We’ve got a dozen heavily armed men against one.”

  “You don’t have a dozen anymore,” Esterhazy shot back.

  Falkoner spat on the floor, then spoke into his headset. “Captain? Report.”

  “Captain reporting, sir,” came the captain’s steady voice. “I heard some shooting in the saloon. There was a fire on one of the tenders—”

  “I’m well aware of all that. What’s the status on the bridge?”

  “All’s well up here. Gruber’s with me and we’re locked and barred and heavily armed. What the hell’s going on below?”

  “Pendergast took out Berger and Vic Klemper. I sent Szell and Hammar to the main saloon and now I can’t raise them. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Maintain course. Await further orders.”

  Esterhazy stared at him. Falkoner’s chiseled features remained calm and collected. He turned to Esterhazy and said, “This man of yours, he seems to be anticipating our every move. How is that?”

  “He’s a devil,” said Esterhazy.

  Falkoner turned toward Esterhazy and his eyes narrowed. He almost looked like he was going to say something, but then turned away, speaking into his headset. “Baumann?”

  “Here.”

  “Your position?”

  “Upper VIP stateroom. With Eberstark.”

  “Klemper’s gone. You’re in charge. I want you and Eberstark to join Nast on the sky deck. You go up the aft ladder. Eberstark, you go up the main ladder. If the target is there, catch him in the crossfire. Move with extreme caution. If you don’t see him, the three of you sweep the sky and upper decks, fore to aft. Forget what I said about taking him alive. Shoot to kill.”

  “Yes, sir. Shoot to kill.”

  “I want Zimmermann and Schultz on the main deck, in position to ambush anyone coming down either of the two stairways. If you don’t kill him on the sky deck, the pincer movement above will drive him below and forward, where they’ll be waiting.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Esterhazy paced the narrow engine room, thinking furiously. Falkoner’s plan seemed a good one. How could Pendergast—even Pendergast—escape five men armed with automatic weapons on a confined boat, firing at him from two sides?

  He looked at Falkoner, still calmly speaking into his headset. He remembered, with horror, the eager look in the man’s eyes as he tortured and killed the journalist. It was the first time he’d seen Falkoner actually enjoying something. And he recalled Falkoner’s eyes when he’d spoken of capturing Pendergast: that same eager, anticipatory look. Like thirst. Despite the warmth of the engine room, he shivered. He was beginning to realize that, even if Pendergast was killed, his problems with the Covenant were far from over. In fact, they might just be beginning.

  It had been a serious mistake to plan this op on the Vergeltung. Now he, too, had placed himself at their mercy.

  CHAPTER 71

  PENDERGAST ASCENDED THE SIDE OF THE YACHT, clinging like a limpet to the exterior of the upper deck, using the drip edges of the windows as toe- and handholds. He reached the lower edge of the bridge windows. While the windows of the staterooms were smoked, making it impossible to see inside, the bridge windows were clear. As he peered over the edge, in the dim light from the electronics he could make out the personnel on the bridge: a captain and an armed mate, who was doubling as navigator. Beyond, in the sky lounge behind the bridge, was the single guard with an automatic weapon, pacing back and forth.
Occasionally he would come out onto the sky deck behind the lounge, make a circuit, and go back in. Outside the sky lounge, the sky deck was clear except for an empty, uncovered hot tub and some banquettes.

  The bridge itself was locked and barred. A yacht like this would have high security as a matter of course. The windows would be shatterproof and, judging from their thickness, possibly even bulletproof. There was no way in for him—none.

  Pendergast crept along the slanting wall until he was just below the level of the toe-rail, where sliding glass doors opened from the sky lounge to the sky deck.

  He reached into his pocket, took out a coin, and tossed it so that it clanked against the glass doors.

  The man inside the sky lounge froze, then fell into a crouch. “Nast here,” came the guard’s whispered voice over the radio. “I heard something.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, on the sky deck.”

  “Check it out,” was the response. “Carefully. Baumann, Eberstark, prepare to cover him.”

  Pendergast saw the dim outline of the man, crouching behind the glass doors, peer out. When the man was satisfied the deck was clear, he rose, slid open the door, and stepped out warily, weapon at the ready. Pendergast lowered his head below the edge of the deck and, speaking into his own stolen headset in a hoarse, indistinguishable whisper, said: “Nast. Port side, over the railing. Check it out.”

  He waited. After a moment, the dark silhouette of the man’s head appeared over the railing, directly above him, looking down. Pendergast shot him in the face.

  With a gargled cry the man’s head snapped back, then the body slumped forward, Pendergast helping catapult it over the railing. It struck the main deck rail and became hung up on it, sprawled partially onto the walkway. Grasping a post, Pendergast vaulted up onto the sky deck as a burst of chatter sounded over the radio. Leaping into the empty hot tub, he crouched low. He knew two more men were on their way to the sky deck.

  Excellent.

  They came thundering out onto the deck almost immediately, one aft and one forward. Pendergast waited for the right alignment, then leapt out of the hot tub with a single shot to startle them; the two men, as expected, let loose with automatic weapons and one of them fell, killed by his partner’s crossfire; the other threw himself to the ground, firing wildly and ineffectively.

  Pendergast disabled the man with a single shot, then leapt over the sky deck rail, dropping down to the main deck walkway below. Nast’s dead body afforded an agreeably soft landing. He then vaulted over the main deck rail, grasping hold of two uprights to prevent himself from dropping into the sea. For a moment his legs dangled over the water, the hull sloping gently away underneath him. With a quick effort he found a purchase with his feet on a lower porthole drip edge.

  There he waited, clinging to the hull, below the level of the main deck, listening. Again, the radio told him what he needed to know.

  CHAPTER 72

  DOWN IN THE ENGINE ROOM, ESTERHAZY PACED, aware of a growing sense of confusion and panic, which mirrored his own internal turmoil.

  How the hell was Pendergast doing it? It was as if he were reading their minds…

  And then suddenly he knew. Of course. It was so simple. And it gave him an idea.

  He spoke, for the first time, into his own radio headset. “Esterhazy here. Bring the girl to the foredeck. You hear me? Bring her there quickly. We need to get rid of her; she’s only an impediment to us now.”

  He shut off the headset and signaled Falkoner with a shake of his head not to use his own.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Falkoner whispered harshly. “Who are you talking to? You can’t get rid of her, we’ll lose all leverage—!”

  Esterhazy interrupted him with another gesture. “He’s got a radio. That’s how he’s doing it. The son of a bitch has a radio.”

  Immediately comprehension bloomed over Falkoner’s face.

  “You and I will go topside. We’ll surprise him when he comes to the bow to rescue her. Hurry. We’ll collect what men we can.”

  They left the engine room and, weapons drawn, bounded up the stairway, then through the galley and out the hatch at the far end. There Schultz was waiting, gun drawn.

  “There’s been gunfire on the sky deck—” Schultz began.

  Falkoner silenced him with a curt movement. “Come with us,” he whispered.

  The three of them moved swiftly and silently to the foredeck, then crouched behind the lifesaving containers. Not a minute later, a black-suited figure scurried up and over the rail on the starboard side, moving swiftly as a bat, then flattened itself behind the forward cabin wall.

  Schultz took aim.

  “Let him get close,” whispered Falkoner. “Wait for a sure thing.”

  But nothing happened. Pendergast remained behind the cabin wall.

  “He’s on to us,” muttered Falkoner.

  “No,” said Esterhazy. “Wait.”

  Minutes passed. And suddenly the figure came out of hiding, flitting along the foredeck at high speed.

  Schultz let loose with a burst of fire, raking the forecabin wall, and the figure dove behind a forward davit, using the low steel bracing as cover.

  The game was up; Falkoner fired, the rounds ricocheting off the steel with a loud clanging, sending off showers of sparks.

  “We’ve got him pinned!” Falkoner said, firing again. “He can’t get out from behind there. Careful what you shoot!”

  An answering shot came from behind the davits and they instinctively ducked. In that momentary distraction, the black figure sprang out from behind its cover and literally flew through the air, sailing over the railing in a headfirst dive, vanishing over the side. All three fired but it was already too late.

  Falkoner and Schultz rose, raced to the side of the boat, firing down into the water, but the figure had vanished.

  “He’s finished,” said Schultz. “At this water temperature, he’ll be dead in fifteen minutes.”

  “Don’t be so damn sure,” said Esterhazy, coming up beside them and looking aft. The dark water spread out, heaving and cold, the dim wake receding into nothingness. “He’s going to get back on the boat using the stern swim rail.”

  Falkoner stared back and for the first time a crack appeared in his preternatural cool, beads of sweat popping up on his brow despite the frigid temperature. “Then we’ll charge the stern. Take him as he comes back aboard.”

  “Too late,” said Esterhazy. “At our rate of speed, he’s already back aboard—and no doubt waiting for us to make that very move.”

  Pendergast crouched behind the stern, waiting for his assailants to come. The brief immersion had shorted out the headset. A pity, but the recent events implied that it had become useless anyway. He tossed it overboard. The vessel swept along, traversing the Narrows. The Verrazano Bridge glowed overhead and they passed beneath it, the graceful arches of light swinging back behind them as the boat forged ahead, headed for the outer bay and the open ocean beyond.

  And still Pendergast waited.

  CHAPTER 73

  FALKONER STARED AT ESTERHAZY. “We can still beat him,” he said. “We’ve still got half a dozen men, armed to the teeth. We’re going to mass the men, make a full-frontal assault—”

  “I doubt you have that many left,” Esterhazy cried. “Don’t you see? He’s killing us, one by one. No brute-force attack is going to work. We need to out-think him.”

  Falkoner, breathing heavily, stared at him.

  And in truth Esterhazy had been thinking, furiously, since leaving the engine room. But things were happening too fast, there just wasn’t time, Pendergast and Constance were…

  Constance. Yes—it could work. It could.

  He turned toward Falkoner. “That business of the woman flushed him out. That’s where he’s vulnerable.”

  “It won’t work again.”

  “Yes it will. We’ll use the woman—for real this time.”

  Falkoner frowned. “For what purpose?”<
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  “I know Pendergast. Believe me, this will work.”

  Falkoner stared at him. He wiped his brow. “All right. Go get the woman. I’ll wait here with Schultz.”

  A short corridor connected the engine room to the forward cargo hold. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Esterhazy sprinted down the corridor, threw open the door, entered, then slammed it shut, dogging it. No lock-picker could get through that.

  The floor was spotless after the killing of the journalist the day before, the sailcloth gone. He went to the hatch in the middle of the V-shaped hold, undogged it, and threw it open. In the dim bilge, the young woman’s face stared up at him: hair matted, face smeared with engine oil. As the light gleamed in her irises, Esterhazy was once again taken aback by the naked, overpowering hatred he saw in them. It was a most unnerving expression: suggesting unfathomable violence, yet overlaid with a kind of detached, frozen calm. Her mouth was gagged and taped; Esterhazy found himself grateful she could say nothing.

  “I’m taking you out. Please don’t struggle.”

  Snugging his gun into the waistband of his pants, he reached down and seized her hair with one hand, grasping her around the shoulders with the other. Her mouth and hands were still securely taped, but that did not prevent a struggle. He managed to pull her out, the baleful stare still fixed on him. Esterhazy pushed her toward the door, then he paused a moment, listening. Holding her in front of him as a shield in case they ran into Pendergast, he undogged the door, opened it, and pushed her forward, keeping his gun trained on the base of her skull. The corridor was empty.