by Thomas Perry
Wendy said, “What do we do now?”
Sam said, “We seem to have just about run out of floors to make them fight for. For the moment, you sit on this safe. They don’t have anything with them that can make a dent in it, but the second it moves I want to hear you yell your head off and fire down into any space that appears.”
“Okay,” she said.
He looked around. “Selma, are you familiar with the way a Czech Škorpion automatic pistol works?”
Selma said, “I did look up the manual online after Remi’s problem in Russia.”
“Good. We seem to have five of them. Check the magazines and see how much ammunition is left, then consolidate it. We need to have a couple with full magazines. They might buy us some extra time.”
“What about the boiling water?”
“Turn down the burners for now so the pots stay hot but the water isn’t boiling. We’ll get it boiling again if they start moving the safes.”
He turned to Pete. “Take my rifle and guard the windows. Those cherry pickers might reach this high.”
“Where will you be?”
“Remi and I are going up to the roof. Selma? Are there any matches around?”
“In the kitchen downstairs.”
“Great,” he said.
Remi said, “I’ve got some in my backpack.” She went to her closet and came out with a small waterproof container of stick matches, two bottles of champagne from the small refrigerator in the closet, and two of her cotton halter tops.
Sam saw her and said, “You figured it out.”
“Of course I did. We’ll have to pour out the Dom Perignon champagne.” She handed him the two bottles.
He went to the sink in his bathroom, popped the two corks, and poured the champagne into the bathroom sink. “I hate to see this go.”
“If we make it, there are still five bottles in the refrigerator, and I think three of Cristal.”
They went to the back of Sam’s walk-in closet. There was a set of flat rungs like the steps of a stepladder running up the back wall and, above them, a round hatch that locked with a lever.
He climbed up, opened the hatch, and looked around on the roof. “All clear.”
Remi handed him the matches, the two champagne bottles, and the two cotton tops. He set them on the roof and climbed out after them. He stayed low as he ducked under the awning over the gas generator that had been running since the invaders had cut the outside electric power.
Sam picked up the funnel that he used when filling the generator’s gas tank, stuck it in the neck of the first champagne bottle, and used one of the red five-gallon cans he kept there to fill the bottle with gasoline. Then he filled the other.
Remi appeared at his side carrying the second .308 rifle. “Need cover?”
“I might,” he said. “Just hold on a minute while I see.”
He stuffed a halter top into the neck of the bottle, then tipped the bottle a little so the gasoline soaked it, then repeated the process with the other. He carried one of the bottles to the south side of the house near the front door, glanced over the edge at the scene below, and ducked back where he couldn’t be seen. He brought back with him a clear image of what was down there. A man had climbed into the bucket of the cherry picker and he was using the controls to raise himself upward.
Sam struck a match and lit the soaked fabric, leaned over the wall at the edge of the roof, and threw his Molotov cocktail. The flame on the wick elongated and brightened as the bottle fell. It landed on the roof of the truck that supported the cherry picker and broke, splashing a pool of flame on the roof that immediately spread to the sides of the cab and engulfed it.
Sam ran to the opposite side of the roof, stopping to pick up the second bottle on the way. At the other side, he struck a match to light the wick, then threw the bottle at the second truck. This bottle smashed on the truck’s hood and the flames rose high. Much of the burning gasoline ran down the sides to engulf the front tires and pool on the ground beneath the engine.
From both sides of the house there were loud bursts from automatic weapons fired at the upper edge of the roof. It was all just noise and wasted ammunition because Sam and Remi were now sitting near the middle of the roof, where they couldn’t be hit. After a minute, the firing stopped, replaced by the sound of more fireworks in the cove.
“Is there anything else we can do?” asked Remi.
“Do you know where the gas tank is on one of those trucks?”
“No.”
“It’s a big cylinder just under the driver’s seat.”
“You’re kidding. That’s the dumbest thing I—”
“I didn’t design them. If we put a bullet through the gas tank so the gas starts pouring out onto the ground, we might cause them some anxiety at least.”
“Starting our house on fire would cause me some anxiety.”
“I know,” he said. “Just a thought.”
She sighed, picked up the rifle, and moved cautiously to the back end of the roof, where the men below would be least likely to anticipate her appearance. She stood, shouldered the rifle, and sidestepped to the edge. As soon as she could see downward she fired and then instantly stepped back out of sight. Within a second or two, there were loud shouts and bursts of gunfire into the sky.
“You must have hit it.”
“I should hope so. It’s the size of a beer barrel.” She walked to the opposite side of the roof, took a stance like the one she had used a moment ago, sidestepped into sight, fired, and sidestepped back. The air filled with more shouts of dismay and random shots.
Then, coming from the opposite side, the evening air seemed to fill with bright gasoline flames as the truck’s gas tank emptied into the fire. There was a loud boom as it exploded.
* * *
“NO!” On the deck of the Ibiza, Arpad Bako leapt up from his chair, knocked his drink over, causing the glass to roll toward the scuppers. “No!” he shouted. “What are they doing? What can they be thinking?”
Le Clerc looked at Goldfish Point calmly. “They could be burning the Fargos out. It’s crude, but it usually works. I can’t quite tell what’s burning.”
“There could be treasure in that house!” Bako shouted. “Priceless artifacts could be melting into a puddle of gold while we sit here. Ancient jewels the Caesars wore could be destroyed.”
Poliakoff sat calmly. “Everything we know says that the treasures are in museums for now. The only way we’ll ever get any of it is if we take Remi Fargo back to trade for it. This time, I’ll send Fargo a gift-wrapped box with one of her fingers. Sam Fargo made me burn down my own house, did you know that? Once I knew the police and firefighters were on their way, I couldn’t let them find a cellar full of smuggled drugs. Two days later my wife drove into the courtyard with my children, saw the pile of wreckage, and told the driver to turn around and head back to Moscow. Just for making me live through that moment, Fargo should be spared no form of pain. I hope they are burning his house down.”
Le Clerc smiled slyly. “She’s still not talking to you, Sergei? Sleeping alone doesn’t agree with you.”
“That’s none of your business,” said Poliakoff. He puffed hard on his cigar, then said, “They’re speeding this up. If they don’t get the Fargos out of that house soon, we’ll have police and firemen rushing there and patrol boats out here.”
Bako was at the rail, holding the powerful binoculars on the house. “The flames are coming from the two cherry pickers. The bodies of the trucks are on fire and one of them blew up.” As he watched, the second truck’s gas tank flared and knocked over the truck, leaving it in flames. The boom of the explosion reached the boat a second later. “Both of them blew up.”
Le Clerc said, “You were perceptive, Arpad. It’s just like Attila attacking a castle. This time, the defenders set fire to the siege engines.”
“It’s crazy!” Bako shouted. “What are people like them doing with an arsenal in their house?”
“I suppos
e if a person finds lots of treasures, other people get jealous and try to kidnap them.”
Poliakoff stood too, picked up the radio that sat on the table beside his drink, pressed a button, and said something in Russian over the static.
Bako whirled and reached for the radio. “No!” he shouted. “Don’t tell our own men to run away. We’re so close! The Fargos and their servants are huddled on the top floor, cowering in fear.”
Poliakoff stiff-armed Bako, who stopped and bent over, trying to recover from the hand that had compressed his chest and deprived him of breath. “I’m just checking with my headman to account for all the delay. This should have taken five minutes.”
A staticky voice blurted something on the other end. And Poliakoff said in Russian, “Kotzov! What’s causing the delay?”
The voice said, “They’re on the fourth floor, but it’s been a gun battle for every inch. We’ve got dead men here and quite a few hurt.”
“Give me your best advice.”
“I’d rather not do that, sir.”
“That tells me what I need to know. Collect the dead and wounded. Leave no one behind. We’ll take everyone on the boats. Get them to the beach now. We’re headed in to anchor.”
Poliakoff switched channels. “Stop the fireworks. Cut the raft loose and head for shore. We’re picking up our men off the beach with the launches. Leave now.”
He shouted up the steps to the man at the helm. “Weigh anchor and head for the beach. We’ll be taking all the men with us to Mexico.”
“No!” shouted Bako. “Don’t do this. Don’t be a coward.”
Poliakoff turned to face Bako and stood very close to him. His eyes seemed to glint in the flickering light from shore.
Bako looked away, threw his cigar in the water, and sat down on the end of his chair. He held his head in his hands. The anchor chain came up, and they all felt the vibration as the motor yacht’s oversize engines moved it forward, slowly at first, and then gaining speed as it headed in toward shore.
* * *
THE SILENCE in the house was almost as shocking as the noise had been. Sam and Remi moved to the edge of the roof and looked down at their lawn. Men in black clothes hurried off into the night, carrying casualties on makeshift stretchers consisting of blankets wrapped around the sections of extension ladders or lifting them in over-the-shoulder fireman’s carries. The truck that had supported the cherry picker lay on its side, charred and smoking.
“They seem to be leaving,” said Remi.
“It looks that way,” Sam said. “But we’ll see.”
She looked at him. “You’re so cautious.”
He shrugged and put his arm around her. “Perhaps you’ve heard of a famous siege. When the attackers got really tired of their failure to breach the walls, one really smart one said, ‘Why don’t we pretend we’re going back to our ships? We’ll leave a—’”
“Big wooden horse full of soldiers. Are you saying this is the Trojan War? Aren’t we taking ourselves a little seriously?”
“I’m just saying I’m not going down there until I can see at least five police cars. Make that twenty.”
She looked toward the hotels and the major commercial streets to the south and then pulled his arm to turn him in that direction. She pointed. There was a long line of police cars streaming up La Jolla Boulevard toward Prospect Street with blue, red, and white lights flashing. In a moment, the distant whoop of the sirens reached the rooftop.
They stepped to the ocean side of the house. Out in the bay, they could see the two motor yachts had come in much closer to the shore. They were holding a position just beyond the outer breaks of surf, launching smaller boats to land on the beach.
From the north, beyond La Jolla Cove, came three police boats, scanning the water with the beams of spotlights and then letting them settle on the two yachts. From the south, the direction of San Diego Harbor, came two Coast Guard vessels, each about a hundred fifty feet long, with crew members scrambling to man the deck guns. The Coast Guard vessels moved into position about six hundred feet offshore and remained there in what amounted to a blockade.
“They’re not running,” Remi said.
“No,” said Sam. “They’d be foolish to try that.”
“They could easily outrun the police boats. The Coast Guard too.”
“They can’t outrun the deck guns.”
“So it looks as though we may find out which of our European competitors is a sore loser,” said Remi.
“Sore or not, just so long as they’re losers,” Sam said.
* * *
THE TWO COAST GUARD cutters held their places just outside the surf line where the yachts had anchored. Now the yachts’ launches were returning against the surf loaded with the men of the assault force who had attacked the Fargos’ house. As they returned, the first of the able-bodied men climbed the ladders on the sides of the yachts. Others in the lifeboats had been injured by falls, burns, or gunshots and were in no condition to climb, so some of the yachts’ crewmen helped to lift them to the deck. The yachts raised their anchors but kept their bows seaward and held their places by steering into the swells.
The police boats approached on the seaward sides of the yachts, and boarding parties of the San Diego Harbor Police prepared themselves to come aboard.
On the deck of the Ibiza, Arpad Bako looked at the police boats, then down at the men struggling to climb aboard the yacht. “Leave the stragglers,” he shouted. “There’s no time.”
Poliakoff turned to Bako. “First you want to stay and then you want to abandon our men? Who’s the coward now?”
Bako pulled a pistol from inside his coat and fired.
Poliakoff’s face seemed astonished. He looked down at the front of his white shirt, where a red bloodstain was blossoming quickly. His eyes acquired a faraway look, and the next swell arrived to rock the yacht and toppled him onto the deck.
Bako snatched Poliakoff’s radio from the deck, pressed the talk button, and shouted, “Take evasive action. Get this boat out to sea now.”
“Sir?” said the captain. “Mr. Poliakoff said—”
“Poliakoff’s dead. He’s been hit. Get going!” As Bako turned, he seemed to notice Étienne Le Clerc again. Le Clerc saw his expression and tried to run for the bridge, but Bako fired three more times, and Le Clerc lay dead. At least there would be no witness.
From the bridge the captain could see that most of the able-bodied men were aboard now, and he knew the others would only be extra trouble. He could also see that if he was going to make a run for it, he’d have to do it before the first police boat brought a boarding party. He shifted to forward and pushed the throttle. The big engines roared into life and the yacht surged forward, leaving a gurgling wash behind it, the twin propellers projecting water into the void behind the stern. As the stern swung about, he heard shouts from men either shaken from the sides of the yacht or chopped by the propellers, but he couldn’t help that now. The yacht gained speed, leaving one lifeboat swamped and the other drifting sideways into the surf.
When the Ibiza began to move, the captain of the Mazatlan saw it and had a small vision of the near future. If the Coast Guard and police had been fooled long enough to let the Ibiza pass them to open ocean, they would not ignore the Mazatlan. They would have twice the ships and men to devote to preventing the Mazatlan and every man aboard from escaping. And then they would blame every crime committed by anyone on the highest-ranking man they had caught, the captain. He shifted his engines into forward gear and hit the throttle. The Mazatlan surged forward, just as the Ibiza had.
There was a loud amplified voice coming from one of the Coast Guard vessels. He knew it was a warning of the “Stop or we’ll shoot” variety and he welcomed it. The more time they wasted shouting into microphones, the less time they’d have for taking action. He pushed the throttle all the way forward, picking up more speed each second. Those Coast Guard cutters probably had a top speed of twenty-five knots. The Mazatlan could do
sixty. He yelled to his helmsman, “Cut all lights!”
* * *
FROM THE ROOF of the house on Goldfish Point, Sam and Remi watched the yachts, police boats, and Coast Guard vessels. The two yachts sped toward the open sea at incredible speed, roaring out at different angles, one toward the northwest, the other toward the southwest. “They’re not taking your advice,” said Remi. “They’re running.”
“Big mistake,” said Sam.
The two police boats fired first with small arms set on full auto. Sam and Remi could see the prolonged muzzle flashes, at least four on each boat, peppering the two yachts as they pursued them.
The two Coast Guard cutters remained in position. A trail of reddish sparks soared into the sky from one of them, and it looked as though the fireworks had begun again. There was a flash, but it didn’t go away. A military flare hung in the sky, lighting the air above the vessels almost like sunlight.
Sam and Remi watched as the deck guns on the two Coast Guard vessels swung about to aim, then fire. The first two shots took away part of the bow of the Ibiza. The third tore into its hull just aft of center and seemed to hit the fuel tank. The deck rose into the air, releasing a fireball that billowed upward and then settled into a large pool of burning gasoline. The gasoline burned brightly, consuming even the parts that had been blown off into the water.
A second later, the bow of the Mazatlan dug into the water as the yacht was hit below the bridge. Forward motion stopped, and something big, perhaps one of the engines, tore free and rolled through the yacht, tearing it apart. Then there were five secondary explosions, which left nothing floating on the surface.
“It looks as though they hit the ammo supply,” said Remi.
The smaller, nimbler police boats moved in quickly, sweeping the ocean near the surf with spotlights. There was no life near the capsized lifeboats. The Coast Guard vessels sent out launches to the wreckage of the Mazatlan and Ibiza. Sam and Remi watched them circle the burning spots on the ocean, then crisscross the area, but there were no survivors to pull out of the sea. They had all been shot, blown to pieces, burned, or drowned.
