Pop Goes the Weasel (37 page)

We saw Shafer striding into the low waves of the Caribbean, heading into a cone of light made by the moon.

He did a shallow dive and started to swim in a smooth-looking crawl stroke.

Sampson and I were down to our underwear, nothing very pretty. We both made shallow dives into the sea.

Shafer was a very strong swimmer and was already pulling ahead of us. He swam with his face in the water, lifting it out sideways
after several strokes to catch a breath.

His blond hair was slicked back and shone in the moonlight. One of the boats bobbing out there had to be his. But which one?

I kept a single thought in my head: stretch and kick, stretch and kick. I felt as if I were gathering strength from somewhere
inside. I had to catch Shafer—I had to know the truth about what he’d done to Christine.

Stretch and kick, stretch and kick
.

Sampson was laboring behind me, and then he started to fall even farther back.

“Go,” I called to him. “Go back for help. I’ll be all right. Get somebody out there to check those boats.”

“He swims like a fish,” Sampson shouted back.

“Go. I’ll be fine. Hold my own.”

Up ahead I could still see Shafer’s head and the tops of his shoulders glistening in the creamy white moonlight. He was stroking
evenly, powerfully.

I kept going, never looking back to shore, not wanting to know how far I had come already. I refused to be tired, to give
up, to lose.

I swam harder, trying to gain some sea on Shafer. The boats were still a good way away. He was still going strong, though.
No sign of tiring.

I played a mind game of my own. I stopped looking to see where he was. I concentrated only on my own stroke. There was nothing
but the stroke; the stroke was the whole universe.

My body was feeling more in sync with the water, and I was buoyed as it got deeper. My stroke was getting stronger and smoother.

I finally looked. He was starting to struggle. Or maybe that was just what I
wanted
to see. Anyway, it gave me a second wind, added strength.

What if I actually caught him out here? Then what? We’d fight to the death?

I couldn’t let him get to his boat before me. He’d have guns on board. I needed to beat him there. I had to win this time.
Which boat was his?

I swam harder. I told myself that I was in good shape, too. And I was. I’d been to the gym every day for almost a year—ever
since Christine disappeared.

I looked up again and was shocked at what I saw.

Shafer was there! Only a few yards away. A few more strokes. Had he lost it? Or was he waiting for me, gathering strength?

The closest boat was no more than a hundred, a hundred and fifty yards away.

“Cramp!”
he called out. “Bad one!” Then Shafer went under.

I DIDN’T KNOW what to think or exactly what to do next. The pain on Shafer’s face looked real; he looked afraid. But he was
also a good actor.

I felt something underneath me! He grabbed hard between my legs. I yelled and managed to twist away, though he’d hurt me.

Then we were grabbing at each other, struggling like underwater wrestlers. Suddenly, he pulled me under with him. He was strong.
His long arms were like powerful vises, and he held me tightly.

We went down, and I started to feel the coldest, most serious fear of my life. I didn’t want to drown. Shafer was winning.
He always found a way.

Shafer stared into my eyes. His eyes were incredibly intense and manic and crazed. His mouth was closed, but it was twisted
and evil-looking. He had me; he would win again.

I pushed forward as hard as I could. When I felt him straining against me, I reversed directions. I kicked out with my leg
and caught Shafer under the jaw, maybe in the throat. I hit him with all of my strength, and he began to sink.

His long blond hair floated up around his face. His arms and legs went limp.

He began to sink, and I followed him. It was even darker under the surface. I grabbed one of his arms.

I barely caught him. His weight was pulling me with him, toward the bottom. I couldn’t let him go. I had to know the truth
about Christine. I couldn’t go on with my life unless I knew.

I had no idea how deep the water was here. Shafer’s eyes had been wide open, and so had his mouth; his lungs must be filling
with water by now.

I wondered if I’d broken his neck with my kick. Was he dead, or just unconscious? I took some satisfaction in the idea that
I might’ve broken the Weasel’s neck.

Then it really didn’t matter. Nothing did. I had no more breath. My chest felt as if it would collapse. There was a fire spreading
wildly inside me. Then a severe ringing started in both ears. I was dizzy and starting to lose consciousness.

I let Shafer go, let him sink to the bottom. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t think about him anymore. I had to get to the
surface. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer.

I swam frantically up, pulled at the water, kicked with all my might. I didn’t think I could make it; it was too far to the
surface.

I had no more breath.

Then I saw Sampson’s face looming above me. Close, very close. It gave me strength.

His head was framed against a few stars and the blue-black of the sky. “Sugar,” he called as I finally came up for air.

He held me up, let me get my breath, my precious breath. We both treaded water for a while. My mind was reeling.

I let my eyes explore the surface for some sign of Shafer. My vision was blurred, but I didn’t see him. I was certain he’d
drowned.

Sampson and I slowly paddled back to shore.

I hadn’t gotten what I needed out there. I hadn’t been able to learn the truth from Shafer before he drowned.

Once or twice I glanced back to make sure that Shafer wasn’t following us, that he was gone. There was no sign of him. There
was only the sound of our own tired strokes cutting into the tide.

IT TOOK TWO MORE exhausting days and nights to finish with the local police investigation, but it was good to keep focused
and busy. I no longer had any hope of finding Christine, or even discovering what had happened to her.

I knew it was remotely possible that Shafer hadn’t taken Christine, that it had been some other madman from my past, but I
didn’t give that possibility more than a passing thought. I couldn’t go there. It was too crazy an idea, even for me.

I’d been unable to grieve from the start, but now the monstrous finality of Christine’s fate struck me with all of its brutal
force. I felt as if my insides had been hollowed out. The constant, dull ache I had known for so long now became a sharp stab
of pain that pierced my heart every waking moment. I couldn’t sleep, yet I felt as if I were never fully awake.

Sampson knew what was happening to me. There was nothing he could say, but he made comforting small talk, anyway.

Nana called me at the hotel, and I knew it was Sampson’s doing, though both of them denied it. Jannie and Damon got on the
phone, and they were both sweet and kind and full of life and hopefulness. They even put Rosie the cat on for a friendly long-distance
meow. They didn’t mention Christine, but I knew she was always in their thoughts.

On our final night on the island, Sampson and I had dinner with Jones. We had become friendly with him, and he finally told
me some facts he had previously withheld for Security reasons. He wanted me to have some closure; he felt I deserved that
much.

Back in 1989, after joining MI6, Shafer had been recruited by James Whitehead. Whitehead in turn reported to Oliver Highsmith,
as did George Bayer. Shafer performed at least four “sanctions” in Asia over the next three years. It was suspected, but never
proved, that he, Whitehead, and Bayer had also murdered prostitutes in Manila and Bangkok. These murders were obviously the
precursors to the Jane Does, and to the game itself. All in all, it had been one of the worst scandals in the history of the
Security Service. And it had effectively been covered up. That was how Jones wanted to keep it, and I had no worthwhile objection.
There were already more than enough unfortunate stories to keep people cynical about their governments.

Our dinner broke up at around eleven, and Jones and I promised to keep in touch. There was one bit of disturbing news, though
no one wanted to overstate the significance of it: Geoffrey Shafer’s body still hadn’t been found. Somehow that seemed a fitting
end.

Sampson and I were due to catch the first flight to Washington on Tuesday morning. It was scheduled to leave at ten past nine.

That morning, the skies were swirling with black clouds. Heavy rain pounded on our car’s roof all the way from the hotel to
the Donald Sangster Airport. Schoolchildren ran along the side of the road, shielding themselves from the rain with flopping
banana-tree leaves.

The downpour caught us good as we tried to dash out from under the cover of the tin overhang outside the rent-a-car depot.
The rain was cool, though, and it felt good on my face and head and on the shirt plastered to my back.

“It’ll be real good to be home,” Sampson said as we finally made it to a shelter under the metal roof painted a bright yellow.

“I’m ready to go,” I agreed. “I miss Damon and Jannie and Nana. I miss being home.”

“They’ll find the body,” Sampson said. “Shafer’s.”

“I knew who you meant.”

The rain hammered the airport’s roof without mercy, and I was thinking how much I hated to fly on days like this—but it
would be good to be home, to be able to end this nightmare. It had invaded my soul, taken over my life. In a way I supposed
it was as much a “game” as any that Shafer had played. The murder case had obsessed me for over a year, and that was enough.

Christine had asked me to give it up. Nana had asked, too, but I hadn’t listened. Maybe I hadn’t been able to see my life
and actions as clearly then as I did now. I was the Dragonslayer, and all that meant, the good and the bad. In the end, I
held myself responsible for Christine’s kidnapping and murder.

Sampson and I walked past the colorful concession stands without any real interest, barely a passing nod. Street hawkers,
called higglers, were selling wooden jewelry and other carvings, but also Jamaican coffee and cocoa.

Each of us carried a black duffel bag. We didn’t exactly look like vacationers, I was thinking. We still looked like policemen.

I heard a voice calling loudly from behind, and I turned back to look at the commotion coming up from the rear.

It was one of the Jamaican detectives, John Anthony, shouting out my name in the noisy terminal, running our way. He was several
steps ahead of Andrew Jones, who looked powerfully dismayed.

Jones and Anthony at the airport? What in God’s name was happening now? What could possibly have gone wrong?

“The
Weasel?
” I said, and it came out like a curse.

Sampson and I stopped to let them catch up with us. I almost didn’t want to hear what they had to tell us.

“You have to come back with us, Alex. Come with me,” Jones said, slightly out of breath. “It’s about Christine Johnson. Something’s
turned up. Come.”

“What is it? What’s happened?” I asked Jones, and then turned to Detective Anthony when the Englishman was slow in answering.

Anthony hesitated, but then he said, “We don’t know for sure. It could be nothing at all. Someone claims to have seen her,
though. She may be here in Jamaica, after all. Come with us.”

I couldn’t believe what he had just told me. I felt Sampson’s arm wrap tightly around me, but everything else seemed unreal,
as in a dream.

It wasn’t over yet.

ON THE ROAD out of the airport, Andrew Jones and Detective Anthony filled us in on what they knew. I could tell they were
trying not to build up my hopes too much. I’d been in the same untenable situation many times, but not as a victim of a crime.

“Last night we caught a small-time local thief breaking into a house in Ocho Rios,” Anthony said as he drove, the four of
us packed tightly in his Toyota. “He said he had information to trade. We told him we would hear what he had to say, and then
we would decide. He revealed that an American woman had been kept in the hills east of Ocho Rios, near the town of Euarton.
There’s an outlaw group lives up there sometimes.

“I learned about it only this morning. I called Andrew, and we hurried to the airport. The man says she was called Beatitude.
No other name was used. I contacted your hotel, but you had already left for the airport. So we came out here to get you.”

“Thank you,” I finally said, realizing I had probably been told as much as they knew.

Sampson spoke up. “So why does this helpful thief appear now, after all this time?”

“He said there was a shooting a few nights ago that changed everything. Once the white men died, the woman wasn’t important
anymore. Those were his words.”

“You know these men?” I asked Detective Anthony.

“Men, women, children. Yes, I’ve dealt with them before. They smoke a lot of ganja. Practice their hybrid religion, worship
the Emperor Haile Selassie, y’know. A few of them are small-time thieves. Mostly, we let them be.”

Everyone in the car grew quiet as we hurried along the coast road toward Runaway Bay and Ocho Rios. The storm had passed quickly,
and suddenly the island’s hellified sun was blazing again. Sugarcane workers with machetes on their hips were tramping back
into the fields.

Past the village of Runaway Bay, Detective Anthony turned off the main road and headed up into the hills on Route A1. The
trees and bushes here were a thick jungle. The road eventually became a tunnel boring through vines and branches. Anthony
had to turn on the headlights.

I felt as if I were drifting through a mist, watching everything as if in a dream. I understood that I was trying to protect
myself, but I also knew it wasn’t working.

Who was Beatitude? I couldn’t make myself believe that Christine was alive, but at least there was a chance, and I clung to
that. I had given up weeks before. Now I allowed myself to remember how much I loved her, how much I missed her. I choked
hard and turned my face toward the window. I went deep inside myself.