The Perfect Assassin

by Ward Larsen

  “Why not just ask? Why play the pirate? If you’d explain everything and—”

  “And what?” he cut in. “Ask you to sail three days out of your way? Would you have done it?”

  They stared at one another — she with suspicion and anger, he with nothing more than blunt awareness of the new chain of command. In a matter of moments they had become adversaries. Now that the line was drawn, however, his bearing seemed to ease.

  “I have to get to England. I won’t ask anything more.”

  It sounded nearly apologetic, Christine thought, and laughable in the face of his mutiny.

  “I won’t harm you,” he repeated. As if to emphasize the point, he slowly turned away. A calculated retreat. “I’ll go below and plot the new course.”

  He dropped down into the cabin and bent over the navigation table. Christine took a deep breath. She tried to concentrate. Who on earth was this man? And what did he want? He was tackling charts now as though nothing had happened. But for how long? Christine looked out over the water and saw Breisen still on the horizon. They had heard her first distress call. The crew would be searching, but at this distance Wind-som was too small. They’d never spot her.

  Christine looked down into the cabin. Again, he seemed different. Was he leaning over the navigation table — or on it? The man had overpowered her, but she suspected he was using all his strength to prove the point. He could not have fully recovered from what he’d been through.

  “Come to heading zero one five until we reprogram the autopilot.” It was an order.

  Her instinct was to refuse, but as Breisen shrank on the horizon she hesitated. Maybe there was one more chance. “All right,” she conceded with clear distaste, “zero one five.” She took the tiller in her hand and steered the new course. Then, while he was still hunched over the map, she inched her way aft. Christine began to play a line with one hand while the other opened the hatch to a small storage compartment. Keeping her eyes on the rope, she groped around inside the bin. It was empty.

  “Looking for these?”

  She turned to see him holding up a half-dozen emergency flares and the gun that fired them. He threw them over the rail.

  “If you can learn to behave I’ll stop throwing bits and pieces of your boat into the ocean. Course zero one five.” He went back below.

  Christine slumped over the tiller. She watched Breisen fading from sight. When had he taken the flares? He hadn’t been out of the bunk until just now — unless he’d done it while she’d managed two hours sleep in the forward compartment last night. Then there was the radio. The man had clearly sabotaged it during his first moments on board. He’d been in terrible shape, badly injured and weak. Christine honestly had doubts as to whether he’d pull through that first day. Yet, even in that condition, he had been hatching a plan and acting on it.

  Who was this outlaw she’d plucked from the ocean? Certainly no ordinary sailor trying to get back to his home port. She wondered what he could be after. It had been a one-in-a-million chance she’d even found him. Did he want Windsom? Was he kidnapping her for money? She doubted even the most opportunistic of criminals would have had the presence of mind to start acting out a scheme like his within moments of staggering aboard. None of it made sense.

  Christine watched him as he worked on the charts. His big hands smoothed out the paper and drew an even line across it. He seemed to know what he was doing. Christine fought her frustration and tried to think logically. He wasn’t going to kill her. Not now, or he would have thrown her overboard already. That meant one of two things. Either he had no intention of harming her, or he needed her, perhaps to sail the boat. In either case, she was safe for the time being.

  She steeled herself and went down into the cabin where he was still hovering over a chart. She stood firmly and waited until he looked up.

  “All right. I will take you to England. It is a serious inconvenience to me, but I’m sure you don’t care. What’s the nearest port? The sooner I’m rid of you, the better.”

  He stared at her for a moment with something in his expression she couldn’t place.

  “Good,” he said finally. “Let’s get to work. Oh, and my name’s not really Nils.” He held out his hand, “It’s David.”

  “Christine Palmer,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  The Bertram 45 crashed roughly through choppy, four-foot seas. She was a steady boat, wide for her class, and the twin Cat diesels pushed her along at twelve knots. She could have done more had the conditions been better, but they were taking a beating as it was.

  “Reel in those damned fishing lines,” the man at the helm ordered.

  The mate frowned, but didn’t argue. The fishing gear was purely for show — two deep-sea trolling rigs jammed into rod holders. The boat was going so fast that the lures skipped from wavecrest to wavecrest, spending as much time out of the water as in. Amazingly enough, they’d actually gotten a hit a few hours ago, a big Wahoo that had somehow latched onto the port rig and ran. Unfortunately, the skipper never considered slowing down to land the brute, and the mate’s vision of a fresh fish dinner had disappeared when the line snapped on his first turn of the reel.

  The man at the wheel pulled back on the throttles and the big boat settled to a stop. He double-checked his navigation readouts. “All right. Anywhere in here,” he growled.

  The mate went into the cabin, then came back out struggling with two metal boxes, one under each arm. They were painted yellow, each about the size and weight of a car battery. He lumbered to the stern of the boat and, with a final nod of approval from the bridge, heaved the boxes unceremoniously over the transom. They disappeared instantly into the inky blue water, the mate silently wondering how long it would take them to sink two miles.

  The skipper put the diesels back in gear, and with a sweeping right turn they were soon battering through the ocean again, now on a reciprocal course to that which had brought them here.

  “How long back to Morocco?” the mate shouted over the roar of the engines.

  “Sixteen hours.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we wait.”

  With Windsom gliding purposefully on her new, northward route, the tension eased considerably, and Christine was confident her situation had improved. She and this stranger had become two sailors — certainly not friends, but a crew with a common goal. They worked together to navigate and tune Windsom’s rigging for the new run. Still, Christine had the sense he was always watching her.

  And she, in turn, watched him. He wasn’t a seasoned sailor, of that Christine was sure. He moved around steadily, though, and seemed to have a rough idea of what to do around a boat. To his credit, he never made any major changes without asking first. She also noticed he was tiring rapidly. Recovery from his ordeal was far from over. Presently he was up top, seated by the tiller, and engrossed in the navigation control panel.

  Christine was getting tired herself, having not gotten much sleep the night before. And she felt grubby after wearing the same clothes for two days. She went into the forward cabin and closed the door that separated the boat’s only two compartments, making a point of engaging the metal hook that latched it closed.

  She picked out some fresh clothes. A pair of cotton khaki pants, a T-shirt and a heavy cotton sweatshirt. It would get colder soon as they made their way north. She grabbed a washcloth and doused it with cold water from the small sink, then stripped down and rubbed the cloth over her face and arms, finally leaving it to cling soddenly at the back of her neck. It felt cool and wonderful. She was completely naked when the door burst open.

  Christine gasped and her heart seemed to stop. She nearly screamed, but was stilled by fear as they stood facing one another an arm’s length apart. His eyes fell to her body — only for an instant, but it seemed like an eternity — before he turned away.

  Christine ripped a towel from the rack and desperately tried to cover herself.

  �
��Get dressed,” he said.

  She held the towel with her chin as she fumbled to pull on her underwear, pants, and finally the sweatshirt.

  He stood facing away and spoke over his shoulder. “Tell me when you’re decent.”

  “Decent?” she said contemptibly. “You should ask that before you go smashing through doors. All right. I’m dressed now.”

  He turned. His expression was contrite, but the tone authoritative, a headmaster setting the rules. “You closed the door and locked it. I can’t let you do that. I can’t trust you that much.”

  Christine looked at the remains of the door as it hung limp and crooked on its hinges. The metal latch was torn away, lying on the floor among splinters of wood.

  “Well, as far as locked doors go, that won’t be a problem anymore. There was only one on this boat and you’ve taken care of it nicely.”

  “I’ll fix the door. But no locks. If you need to be alone, ask first.”

  Christine wanted to protest, but relented. Now was not the time. “All right.”

  He looked at her appraisingly for a moment and she tried to gauge what he was thinking, but the man gave nothing away. Apparently satisfied, he turned and made his way back up on deck. Like nothing had happened.

  Christine slumped against the bulkhead and took a deep breath. Calm, she thought. If she was calm and reasonable, he would respond in kind. Christine needed something to get both their minds off what had just happened. Looking around the cabin, her gaze settled on the galley. Food! That was it! The way to a man’s heart. Remembering the emptiness of his stare, she wondered if this brute even had one.

  Christine was rummaging through the pantry minutes later when he came below.

  “We’re not going to eat now,” he said.

  She thought he looked pale as he leaned heavily against the stair-well. His gaze, however, was sharp. Christine acquired her “doctor’s orders” tone.

  “Look at you. You need food. I’ll fix something for both—”

  “Lie down,” he commanded, pointing to the bunk.

  Those two words shattered whatever fragile confidence Christine had been able to build. “I’m not tired,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “I am, so lie down.”

  Her hands instinctively balled into fists and every muscle in Christine’s body tensed. She was steeled to fight if it came to that.

  Her posture was obvious enough, and he clarified his motives. “Look, don’t misunderstand. I apologize for my bad manners. I’m very tired.” He busied himself spreading out the sheets on the bed. “It will take us three days to get to England and I’m still recovering. I need sleep.” He found an extra pillow and tossed it on the big double bunk. “Since I am hijacking your boat, I can’t trust you out of my sight. If I doze off with you running around, doctor, I imagine I’d wake up lashed to an anchor.”

  “No, I’m not the keelhauling type.”

  “Neither am I.” He gestured again to the bed, this time with overt politeness. “When I sleep, you sleep. That’s all.”

  Christine searched his eyes. Somehow what he was saying made sense, at least from his point of view. If he had wanted to molest her he wouldn’t ask. He’d just do it. Still, the mere idea of sleeping next to this thug repulsed her. She eased warily toward the bunk and sat down.

  “You’re on the inside,” he said.

  She scooted to the far side of the mattress, not taking her eyes off him.

  “I told you. Behave and I won’t harm you.”

  He laid down close beside her and she half-rolled away. She felt him come to rest against her back, felt the warmth of his body through their clothing — and she hated it. Christine wished to God she had never come across this person. Why couldn’t she have been asleep when he drifted by? Why couldn’t that storm a few nights ago have blown Windsom a little farther south?

  “I’m going to put my arm over you.” He did so slowly. “If you move, I’ll know it.”

  “You expect me to get rest like this?”

  “No, I expect to get rest like this. You can get yours now, later, when-ever you like. It’s almost noon. Don’t get up until three.”

  Christine closed her eyes, her heart racing. His arm lay draped across her waist, heavy, like the lead weight belt she used for diving. She tried not to move as she lay facing the little digital alarm clock. The minutes advanced with glacial speed. Gradually, she felt his body relax, his breathing become more rhythmic. After ten minutes, she was quite sure he was asleep.

  Sleep. It was the farthest thing from her mind. Christine wondered if she might somehow lift his arm and get up. But deep down she knew it was pointless. He would know. He probably knew what she was thinking right now. She looked at the clock. 11:55. Three hours would be an eternity. Try as she might, Christine could not hold back. Her diaphragm tightened, and small convulsions welled up from deep within. She was glad he was asleep and couldn’t feel it. Christine did her best to hold still as tears began to trickle from her tightly closed eyes.

  The EC-130 lumbered northward at twenty-two thousand feet. It was a version of the U.S. built C-130 Hercules, a tactical transport aircraft designed in the 1950s. Rugged and overbuilt, its ungainly appearance drew constant jibes from fighter pilots who mused about the large number of moving parts associated with four big turboprop engines. And then there was the Herc’s slow speed. They’d say the aircraft didn’t need an airspeed indicator, just a calendar. The Israeli Air Force had modified this particular aircraft with a number of large, bulbous antennae, which only heightened its decidedly non-aerodynamic appearance.

  In spite of it all, the Herc was one of the most effective military aircraft ever built. The same basic design had been in production for fifty years, far longer than any other current military aircraft. It was used for airlift, airdrop, intelligence gathering, search and rescue, disaster relief, Arctic supply, command and control, and a plethora of black and gray special operations. The C-130 did it all, and it was hard to find a pilot who didn’t enjoy flying it.

  Major Lev Schoen banked the airplane into a steep left turn on a command from the electronic warfare officer. They were in the clouds, as had been the case for the last two hours, but the conditions were irrelevant. This search was electronic, not visual.

  “Roll out heading one niner zero,” came the scratchy instruction over the intercom.

  “I’m glad we found it right away,” Schoen’s co-pilot commented.

  “Right where they said it would be,” said Schoen.

  The crew had been rousted out of bed, straight into a nine-hour flight from Israel to Rota Air Base in Spain. After a short rest and refueling, they continued southwest over the open ocean. All had hoped it wouldn’t be an extended search and, luckily, after twenty minutes on station the faint signal had begun to register.

  Schoen said, “Two more passes and we’ll head back to Torrejon.”

  The loadmaster’s voice came up on the intercom, sounding sleepy — no surprise since the only cargo today was a single pallet of electronic gear. “How long did you say we’ll have in Madrid, skipper?”

  “Twenty hours, unless someone changes their mind. Then we head back home.”

  “Twenty hours!” Schoen’s co-pilot remarked to the loadie. “You’ll have time to get drunk twice, Kroner.” The two pilots laughed. Sergeant Kroner had a reputation for getting out of hand on layovers.

  Kroner replied crustily, “And it’ll take more than that candy-ass veen rooge you sip on lieutenant.”

  Ten minutes later the EWO made the announcement they’d all been waiting for. “Fourth pass confirms. We’ve got it down to a gnat’s ass.”

  “Good, let’s go home,” Schoen declared. “Rudi,” he said, addressing the EWO, “fire up the sat-com secure. Send in the position you plotted.”

  “Roger.”

  As the plane sped northward, albeit a relative term for the big Hercules, it was still enveloped in layer after layer of high stratus clouds. It took another hour bef
ore they began to break out of the weather. Late afternoon sun filtered onto the flight deck, warming bodies and spirits all around.

  Soon after finding clear skies, Kroner’s husky voice came excitedly over the intercom. “Hey skipper! I see a boat down low on the port side. Maybe we could go down for a titty check?”

  Schoen looked out his side window and spotted a small sailboat three or four miles off, headed north. Kroner always pressed for a low pass on pleasure craft to get a look at any unsuspecting, partially clad females who might be frolicking around. He claimed a success rate of one in four. While Schoen doubted that statistic, Kroner carried a camera with a telephoto lens to document any triumphs, and some of his more well-endowed targets had their pictures plastered on the squadron bulletin board.

  “Sorry Kroner. Even if there were vixens aboard, it’d be way too cold for what you have in mind.”

  “But skipper, I’ve seen ’em tanning their—”

  “Not today, Sergeant.” Schoen’s voice gave no room for argument.

  The loadmaster went silent, no doubt fuming.

  Major Schoen looked over at his co-pilot and smiled. “He’s such a pervert.”

  Christine’s body ached from the stillness she’d forced. Laying with him, their torsos remained meshed — his relaxed, hers rigid. There was no way she could ever sleep under these conditions. Her rest would have to come later.

  He had stirred periodically over the last three hours, though never actually waking. At one point she’d heard an aircraft, and Christine wondered if it might be searching for survivors from his ship. Since the course Windsom was running backtracked the currents, they might be near where it had gone down.

  His arm was still draped across her waist like a huge tentacle. How long would he be out? So far the weather had held, but sooner or later she’d have to go topside to check things over and — and what? One part of her wanted to keep Windsom’s sails taut to reach England as quickly as possible and get this nightmare over with. But what would he do when they arrived? He might only be keeping her around because he had doubts about sailing Windsom solo. Perhaps he’d toss her over when they approached port, as easily as he’d discarded the winch handle and flares.