"Deep," Vernex scoffed. "That's very deep."
Steering one-handed, Solano rapped the boat box bolted to the floorboard. "What's inside?"
Vernex flipped open the lid and rummaged through the gear. "Charts… floats… flare pistol… line… first-aid kit… everything one needs for a sea cruise. Our boss is very thorough."
"Whoever he is," Solano said.
"My boss is the People, the masses."
"Yes, yes, anything you say."
The Superbo emerged from the ship's shadow into the dazzling fullness of the noonday sun. Solano slipped on a pair of polarized Porsche sunglasses. He opened up the throttle. The boat zoomed south.
Vernex shouted to be heard over the roaring twin inboard engines. "I don't mind telling you, I'm glad to be off the ship!"
Abu-Bakir seized on this. "You were afraid."
"Of the ship blowing up? Certainly!"
"Hah! I was not afraid." Grinning, Abu-Bakir sat back with an air of superiority, as if he had one-upped Vernex for all time.
Aft, the Melina dwindled in the north. West, the open sea stretched to the curved horizon. To the east lay Tel Aviv's urban sprawl, modern buildings sprouting like crystals from the rocks of that ancient land. The present gave way to the past as the old port city of Jaffa swung into view in the south.
Less than a quarter-hour's forward hurtling motion brought them within reach of their target.
Some miles north of Ashkelon and Ashdod, the shoreline curved outward into the sea, forming a cape. On its tip sat the Shamash petroleum complex, a newly built oil depot containing storage and refining facilities.
The rocketeers' target.
Silence fell as Solano cut the motors, idling the boat far enough out to avoid attracting the attention of the curious.
In the distance, numerous small craft sailed about the man-made harbor. Berthed at the site's quarter-mile-long piers were two transatlantic supertankers unloading their precious cargo. Precious indeed for a nation that imports 100 percent of its fuel.
The massive main complex rose above the harbor like an enchanted city. Huge silvery cylinders and spheres bore the bold blue-and-white sunburst logo of the state-owned Shamash company. These storage tanks were threaded with a delicate web of catwalks, pipes, and support struts. It was a scene of bustling activity.
Vernex licked his lips and broke the silence. "A duck shoot."
"Easier," Solano said. "Ducks don't sit still, waiting for you to blow them away."
"Let's not keep them waiting."
"Break out the launchers!" Elias rumbled.
"Yes, by all means." Vernex made his way aft, where the weapons waited. They were bagged rather than crated to minimize weight, maximizing boat speed.
In effect, the Superbo was a seagoing rocket-launching platform. The rocketeers would zip into the harbor, destroy the complex and any other convenient targets — such as the tanker ships — then race to the rendezvous point.
Vernex, Elias, and Abu-Bakir tore at the fastenings of the bright orange nylon bags. The unveiling of the weapons caught them up in a primal quickening, a kind of sexually intense trance. In the thrill of the moment, Abu-Bakir even forgot his queasiness, though not his intended double cross.
Except that Solano got there first.
"Hey!" Solano said it two more times, loudly, before the others looked up. When they did, they saw the gun in his hand.
It was a chunky, squarish, Soviet-made Tokarev TT-33 pistol, and it was pointing at them.
At that moment, their nausea had nothing to do with seasickness.
Only the gentle swell, slapping the hull, broke the intense stillness.
Finally Vernex said, "What's this, Solano?"
"The end of the line."
Vernex's forced smile crumbled at the edges. "We have much to do, so please don't joke."
He was faking. He knew it was no joke. His eyes narrowed as he calculated his chances. He couldn't believe that he was on the wrong side of a gun.
"Traitor!" Abu-Bakir cried.
"Spy, actually," Solano said. "The party's over, boys."
Solano was over too. In that instant, he ceased to exist. He had never really existed at all, despite the evidence to the contrary. Because "Giacomo Solano" was a man who never was. His was an artificially constructed identity, a «legend» in the jargon of the trade. The trade being espionage, specifically espionage of the AXE variety.
AXE was the ultrasecret action component of the U.S. intelligence community. One of the last real secrets left in an open, democratic society, and quite possibly that society's last bullwark against global anarchy.
The AXE agent who was «Solano» now took off that identity like a suit of clothes. His name, his real name, was Nick Carter.
Code-named N3, Carter was AXE's top Killmaster.
Three
Elias raged.
A fatalist, he knew that someday his number would come up, just as he knew he'd never go to prison, never be taken alive. When he thought about his own death, he always fancied that he'd go out in a blaze of glory, taking along a gang of policemen to keep him company in Hell.
Who was this absurd Judas, this treacherous insect threatening him with his ridiculous popgun? Such arrogance was insulting, not to be borne.
"A spy! A goddamned spy!" This development struck Abu-Bakir as so funny that he burst into hysterical laughter.
Roaring, Elias rushed Carter.
The Killmaster didn't waste words. He snapped off two shots into Elias, both hits scoring in the torso. But when a body that big gets moving, it's hard to stop.
Carter tried to sidestep the Basque's headlong rush, but the cramped forward compartment left him little room in which to maneuver. Elias crashed into him, taking him down.
Carter fell hard, shoulders slamming into the boat box with stunning impact. His pistol slapped up against the hull with a wicked smack, but somehow he kept hold of it.
Elias wallowed on top of Carter, crushing the breath out of him. Huge hands sought the agent's throat, found it, squeezed.
The power of that crushing grip was awesome. If Elias hadn't been weakened from taking two bullets in the belly, he'd have wrung Carter's neck as if it were a chicken's.
"Kill him! Kill him!"
Vernex clawed a pistol out of his pocket and started shooting. He was fast, but not accurate. Three shots exploded: one passed harmlessly out to sea, and the other two missed Carter, hitting Elias.
The Basque convulsed under the penetrating impact of the slugs. He gave Carter's neck a final choking squeeze, then went limp.
Shaking himself out of his hysteria, Abu-Bakir unslung his automatic rifle. Rage and fear sparked his urge to kill.
"No!" Vernex knew what would happen if Abu-Bakir cut loose with a burst of AK-47 rounds: they'd rip right through the spy, smashing the controls, perforating the bottom of the boat.
His free hand waved in frantic warning. "Don't! You'll sink us!"
But Abu-Bakir was beyond recall. He flipped the selector to autofire, as Vernex feared he would. He reached for the trigger just as Vernex shot him.
Fired point-blank, the slug tore into the astonished Palestinian with a meaty thud, taking him in the side.
Abu-Bakir lurched, groaning. He was swinging his rifle muzzle around when Vernex shot him twice more, crying, "Die, die!"
"No, you die!" Abu-Bakir whipped the gun around until it pointed at Vernex.
Vernex's scream was obliterated by roaring rapid-fire rounds. He was obliterated along with his scream, being cut almost in half by the sustained blast.
His dead weight thumped into the bottom of the boat.
A heartbeat later he was joined by Abu-Bakir. Hunched forward on his knees, the terrorist dropped his weapon and held his shattered chest.
Blood covered his hands, dripping through his fingers. Red foam bubbled out of his moaning mouth.
It all went down in just a very few seconds.
Nick Carter wasn't one to look a gift
horse in the mouth. He squirmed, working his upper body free from Elias until he was sitting up. His pistol drew a bead on Abu-Bakir's bowed head. He pulled the trigger, to deliver the coup de grace.
Nothing happened.
The Tokarev must have jammed when he took that hard fall.
Hot light flickered behind the film of Abu-Bakir's fast-dulling eyes. He sized up the situation at a glance.
Carter worked the slide, futilely trying to free the pistol's action.
"Ahhhh… having problems, spy?" Chuckling, Abu-Bakir picked up his rifle. He stopped chuckling as he coughed up some blood, but he kept on smiling.
Even a jammed gun is good for something. Carter threw it at Abu-Bakir. It bounced harmlessly off the Palestinian's shoulder, but Carter made good use of the split-second diversion it provided.
The Killmaster flipped open the boat box lid, grabbed the flare gun, and fired. A miniature sun erupted from the muzzle, exploding square in the middle of Abu-Bakir's grinning face.
The Palestinian jumped up screaming, his scorched flesh bubbling. His face was a charred, smoking piece of meat. Arms flailing, beard and hair burning, face melting, he careened off the sides of the boat.
He hit the port gunwale too hard and flipped overboard. A big splash marked where he fell into the sea. His gear weighed him down, and he swiftly sank from sight.
Nick Carter dragged his legs out from under Elias and climbed into the seat behind the wheel. He sprawled there, recovering, taking stock of his injuries.
His throat ached from the Basque's death grip. He could hardly swallow. Where he hit the boat box, his upper back felt like one big bruise. His ribs were tender but uncracked. He was stiff, shaky, and sore, but nothing was broken.
He was lucky to have gotten off so lightly. Especially after doing something so stupid.
He should have shot down all three without warning, but he wanted to see the look on their faces when they discovered that their mission had gone sour. That little personal indulgence nearly cost Carter his own life. He vowed not to let his emotions interfere with the job at hand.
High overhead, a silver jet slashed a chalky white contrail across the remote blue dome of the sky. The sun blazed. Carter mentally pictured Tel Aviv's golden beaches, jammed with fun-seekers on this gorgeous day.
And any moment now, the Melina would make its final run, might already be making it, even now…
Time to get moving.
Carter shook his head to clear it, fighting dizziness. He pushed back hair that had fallen across his face, brushing it back with his fingers. His hands were steady enough.
Groaning, he stumbled aft, picking his way over Elias and Vernex. He saw no sign of Abu-Bakir, not so much as a ripple or a bubble. Too bad. The Abu Nidal faction of the Palestinian Liberation Front would just have to get along without him.
He picked up the Tokarev and shook his head. Even the Soviets had phased it out in favor of the Makarov SL. That was what he got for going into the field minus Wilhelmina, his lethal Luger. But he had been under the deepest cover and couldn't risk being recognized as the formidable AXE operative who had terminated so many top enemy agents with a 9mm Luger.
It was an anxious moment when the Tokarev jammed, but Carter wasn't entirely without resources. If the flare gun hadn't been at hand, he still would have had an ace up his sleeve — quite literally. He hadn't left all his old friends at home.
He tossed the pistol into the sea. Time to bring out the big guns. Luckily, he had a boat full of them.
It was also full of blood. Vernex's corpse sprawled across the weapons. Abu-Bakir's sustained blast had chopped Vernex through the middle. When Carter hefted the dead man, Vernex's upper half came apart from his lower half.
Fighting hard to keep down the contents of his stomach, Carter heaved both halves overboard. The fish would feed well today.
Elias could stay where he was for a while. Carter didn't have the time or strength to wrestle that huge hulk over the side.
He hauled two fairly dry weapons bags forward, putting them on the passenger seat. Opening one, he took out a rocket launcher.
A portable shoulder-fired job, its smoothbore firing tube was a three-foot-long piece of olive-drab plastic pipe as thick around as a man's arm. Protective coverings sealed its ends, while the sighting and trigger mechanisms were folded down flat.
Carter unbagged the other launcher, securing both within easy reach. He found his sunglasses under the control console, intact, unbroken. Donning them, he glanced at the Shamash complex. It, too, was intact and unbroken.
Might as well do it up in style, Carter thought. He put on his yachting cap, tilting it to a jaunty angle.
He spun the Superbo around, reversing her so her bow aimed north, then opened the throttle wide. The powerboat took off like a bullet.
The Melina's distant outline was in sight when Carter discovered he was not alone.
A flutter of sliding shadow, a sobbed grunt, a rustle of whispering motion more sensed than heard over the throbbing motors…
Carter was slammed by what felt like a ton of bricks.
Elias wasn't dead. A hard man to kill, the mortally wounded Basque had played possum, gathering what remained of his once great strength to make one last try.
Rising up behind the Killmaster, Elias wrapped his arms around Carter's neck and did his best to break it.
He applied a choke hold. Working from behind gave him advantages in weight and leverage that were only partly offset by his weakness. At full strength, Elias could have effortlessly snapped Carter's spine.
Carter released the wheel. The Superbo streaked forward at full tilt. Carter grabbed the hairy forearm that labored to crush his larynx. He snuggled his chin down to stall the attempt.
The boat was out of control. Swaying, fishtailing, she heeled precariously from side to side.
Elias's head loomed over Carter's right shoulder. He grunted, gasped, but said nothing. His breath smelled like a lion's, hot, foul, blood-scented.
Carter couldn't break the hold before Elias broke his neck, so he stopped trying. Instead, the fingers of his right hand closed on Hugo.
Hugo, the precision-forged stiletto in a chamois sheath strapped to the inside of the Killmaster's right forearm. Hugo, an old and dear friend, was the ace up his sleeve.
Roaring boomed in his ears. Darkness clouded his vision, a darkness that deepened with every second the choke hold cut off oxygen to his brain. Colored lights danced in front of his bulging eyes, sparkling rainbow dots on a field of black.
Strangulation wasn't quick enough to suit Elias. He forced Carter's head backward so he could break his neck across the back of the seat.
A twitch of Carter's arm muscles had tripped Hugo's spring-loaded sheath, popping the hilt into his hand. He stabbed up and back over his shoulder, as hard as he could, so hard that his arm tingled up to the elbow from the force of the blow.
There was a hideous crunching sound as the stiletto thrust into the Basque's forehead, penetrating the skull to lodge deep in the brain. Death was instantaneous.
Elias toppled like a poleaxed steer.
Carter grabbed the wheel, bringing the boat back under control. After slowing its speed to a knot or two, he checked to make sure that Elias was really dead this time.
Indeed he was. But he could still render an important service to the Killmaster.
Four
Captain Farmingdale was well aware of his unsavory reputation among seafaring men. That «Jonah» label, hanging around his neck like an albatross, was bosh and nonsense, and damned unfair, too. Every mariner had his share of mishaps during the course of a life spent at sea. Why single out poor old Farmingdale for abuse?
Yes, he'd admit to his share of mishaps and more, but none were really his fault. Any captain might have run one of Her Majesty's naval gunboats around on a sandbar in the Yangtze River, precipitating an international crisis. The incident of the oil tanker that broke up on the rocks off Brittany — befouling the F
rench coast with a mile-wide spill — he blamed on shoddy navigational equipment and criminally inefficient subordinates.
More recently, he commanded a ship ferrying pilgrims across the Red Sea to Mecca. Shunning age-old tradition, when the boat foundered during a squall, he and the crew saved themselves in the only lifeboats while the passengers went down with the ship. Whose fault was that? The ship's owner, for not supplying enough lifeboats? God's, for sending the storm?
The disaster made him persona non grata in those waters, but it had the happy effect of bringing him to the attention of his current employers. Every cloud has a silver lining, and that one enabled him to line his pockets not with silver, but with gold.
The gold had already been deposited in his numbered bank account in Zurich. Payment in advance was his personal insurance policy to prevent his associates from killing him to save the cost of his fee.
His pocket now held a small.32 pistol. Not that he contemplated treachery. But it was folly to go weaponless among armed men.
He went down into the ship's cavernous hold to inspect the arming of the explosives.
The air belowdecks was thick, oppressive, visible as a smoggy haze. Infrequent overhead spotlights cast long columns of light in the vast, dim space.
The explosives came in fifty-gallon canisters boxed four to a crate. The crates were stacked in big cubes, wrapped in chains and binders to prevent their shifting position even a slight degree. Stamped on the crates was the deceptive label, OLIVE OIL.
The armaments came from an old munitions cache left over from one of the frequent outbreaks of Greek-Turkish civil war on the island of Cyprus. The load was bought on the cheap, but it was no bargain.
After baking for a while in the humid hold, the plastique began to sweat. Dewlike beads of condensation, the concentrated liquid essence of C-4, sparkled on the canisters. Each highly volatile bead could generate a mini-blast capable of blowing off a man's hand. Just one could produce a chain reaction exploding the entire load.
The beads were mopped up — carefully. But they kept reappearing.
It seemed superfluous to have Hasim and Ali, the demolitions men, rig detonators to key trigger points in the stacked crates, but unstable explosives are quirky. Nobody wanted to take the chance that the blast might fail to come off on schedule.
Blood Of The Falcon Page 2
