The Last Spymaster (52 page)

But the barrel of another gun rammed into Jay’s side. “Jay Tice. At last. You and Raina have been such trouble. I will have that.” Volker Rehwaldt yanked Jay’s Browning away while Alec retrieved his weapon and grabbed Raina’s SIG Sauer.

Hardly breathing, Raina glared at Volker.

His pocked face was severe. “To the ship,” he ordered. “Go now.”

Jay peered around.

“Forget it, Jay!” Alec snapped. “You’re not going to get out of this one. Move!”

Jay and Raina exchanged a look then walked slowly back out into the harsh lights, their two captors close behind. The Ghranditti family had vanished on board, while the limousine cruised back toward the terminal’s gates.

“We’ve got them!” Alec bellowed to the men on the docks. “We goddamned well got them at last!”

The Jaguar was parked against the curb that arched into the terminal, where the approaching limousine blocked Elaine’s view for a few seconds. When she could finally see again, the throbbing pain in her finger vanished. She leaned forward, alarmed.

Jay and Raina were crossing to the container ship, herded by two men with guns. She recognized the shooters—they had led the pack that had chased her from the fish wharf. She must do something quickly.

As she judged the limo’s speed and distance, she pressed the switch that kept her headlights dark. Turning on her engine, she touched an overhead button, and the sunroof opened. Damp air drifted down.

Keeping herself calm, she watched the gate slide open. She would have only seconds to slip through before it closed. She studied the limo’s headlights as they grew larger. In the kiosk the guards were watching the vehicle,
too. As it nosed through the opening, Elaine snapped the Jag’s gear into drive and slammed the accelerator.

With a squeal of tires, the car took off. The entry’s ornamental bushes seemed to fly past her window. Turning the steering wheel, she sped around the limo. Metal screeched against metal as she sideswiped its tail and rushed on. Guards leaped out of the kiosk, a blur, too late. She sideswiped the gate’s steel post. Shimmying, the Jag burst through into the Sea Center, speeding over the pavement toward the wood dock.

Atop the
Mango Blossom
’s towering deckhouse, the bridge was intense with activity. Voices crackled from the shortwave radio while officers plotted the ship’s course, checked charts, and tracked weather patterns.

Martin Ghranditti stalked onto the bridge first, followed by Faisal alHadi, wearing cheap eyeglasses and a white steward’s uniform and carrying two martinis on a silver tray. With his Mediterranean skin and slick black hair, he looked as if he had been serving at sea for years. Ghranditti hid his annoyance. Al-Hadi had demanded Laurence Litchfield be present for the transfer, a personal guarantee against duplicity.

Ghranditti nodded at the captain then at Litchfield, who was waiting alone in an alcove, hands clasped behind, apparently admiring the scenery. A laptop computer sat open on a ledge beside him.

“I thought you might like a drink before you go.” With a timbre of excitement in his voice, Ghranditti spoke loud enough to Litchfield for the crew and pilot to hear, then he disappeared into the alcove with al-Hadi.

His deep-set eyes emotionless, Litchfield looked the “steward” up and down then nodded. “It’s ready for you to inspect.” He stepped aside.

Al-Hadi set down the serving tray. “You have the decryption disc also?”

“On me.”

As al-Hadi’s fingers flew over the laptop’s keyboard, the arms merchant and the CIA official drank and watched data and point-and-click interfaces flash across the screen. At last al-Hadi removed the DVD from the laptop and stood back. Without a word, he pulled out his cell phone and tapped numbers, signaling his approval.

Ghranditti and Litchfield took out their cells, too.

Within minutes, al-Hadi transferred $6 million into Ghranditti’s account,
and Ghranditti wired half into Litchfield’s. When Litchfield confirmed his had arrived, he handed the decryption DVD to al-Hadi. The simple gesture completed the transaction.

Pride surged through Ghranditti. He had never felt so alive. “We’ve just created history!” He touched the rim of his martini glass to Litchfield’s.

The CIA man chuckled loudly. “To a better future.”

They drank and smiled.

Ignoring them, al-Hadi slid the ForeTell and decryption DVDs inside his shirt, propped the empty silver tray on the ends of his fingertips, and strode away. His starched white back was erect, his tread triumphant and sure.

Summoned by Alec St. Ann’s announcement, the guards on the dock grinned and shouted in celebration. Like big-game hunters, they converged on Jay and Raina.

“You got them!” One pounded Alec’s back in congratulation.

“Shit, it’s about time,” said another.

While Alec and Volker silently accepted the men’s praise, Jay used his peripheral vision to scan the complex’s entry. Raina’s head moved slightly; she was looking, too.

“Be ready to move,” he told Raina quietly.

“Shut up!” Jerry Angelides’s voice boomed from the top of the gangplank. “Both of you, shut the fuck up!” He pulled a Colt handgun from inside his sports jacket and trotted down the ramp. His flat, stony gaze never left Jay.

Rink called out, “I knew you’d get them, Jerry. I knew it!”

Jerry nodded. “I knew it, too, Rink. It was only a matter of time.” He landed on the dock, his bristle haircut flicking artificial light, and stalked to Jay. “Don’t you say another word.” He raised the Colt inches from Jay’s mouth.

“Volker!” Raina twisted to peer at him. “You can’t let—”

“Be quiet!” the German operative ordered. “It is none of our business.”

Jay stared into the deadly muzzle, hoping like hell it was not Jerry’s personal weapon, but it probably was—a shooter liked to work with his own gun.

Thinking quickly, Jay allowed terror and indignation to radiate from him. “That’s not Billy’s Colt, is it?” he pleaded. “It’s bad enough you’re going to scrub me, but it wouldn’t be right to do it with that poor kid’s gun!”

“I was training him good until you tricked him,” Jerry snapped. He stuck his Colt back inside his holster and slid the other from his waistband. “Yeah, Billy’s the one who should take you down!”

“Watch out!” someone yelled.

The growl of the racing Jaguar pierced the hush. Heads whipped around. Showered in the dock’s lights, the windshield displayed Elaine’s small face, angry and intent, as the car accelerated directly at them.

Alec and Volker spun and fired. Their wild bullets made explosive sounds as they slammed into the car. The pair ran backward, firing sporadically, while the rest of the men scattered. More erratic gunfire split the quiet air.

Jerry swore loudly. “Gotta ice you fast, buddy.” He squeezed the Colt’s trigger. But it did not shoot. There was no sound, no bullet, nothing.

The car’s motor was a roar. The dock shivered. Jay controlled an urge to bolt.

“What the fuck did you do to Billy’s gun!” Yelling, Jerry squeezed again then tossed the Colt and reached for his own weapon just as the car was about to smash them.

Before Jerry’s weapon was fully out, Jay rammed his shoulder into the killer’s chest, carrying him away. At the same moment, Raina sprinted for the gangplank, and the Jaguar slashed past in an eruption of dust and grit, shielding them from the janitors as it hurtled on toward the end of the pier.

Jerry fell hard. Jay stumbled but grabbed the good Colt and kept moving, picking up velocity, until he was tearing full speed up the ramp. At the top he dropped flat beside Raina. Her backpack open beside her, she had uncoiled thin, flexible detonation cord.

In unison, they looked out in time to see the Jaguar sail off the end of
the wharf, a streak of red. The air was hushed, the guards staring after it. Then there was the shuddering noise of a huge splash. The river’s black water geysered up, moonlight turning its rippling surface into mercury. There was no sign of Elaine. Jay said a silent prayer.

On the bridge Ghranditti and Litchfield were finishing their martinis when gunfire sounded. They dashed out of the alcove just as the first officer, who was working at the navigation station, froze and turned. Two young officers leaped to their feet, shocked. The captain reached for the satellite phone.

“Don’t call the Coast Guard!” Ghranditti ordered. “My men will take care of this!”

As the captain nodded, Ghranditti and Litchfield hurried out onto the portside wing. Far below, their men were running toward the gangplank.

Ghranditti stared. “There’s Tice and Manhardt! What the hell are they doing?”

Jay and Raina exchanged a worried glance. Then she resumed pressing the detonation cord into the gap between the platform and the turntable. The det cord had an explosive core, while the turntable allowed the ramp to swing out to accommodate the distance between ship and pier. If it were severed, the steel gangway would collapse, isolating them on the ship—until Jerry found another way to get his men on board.

As Jay attached the blasting cap to one end of the det cord, a hail of Uzi fire erupted around them, biting into the hull, slamming into the platform. When it paused, Jay heard the ramp creak. He leaned out quickly.

His heavy face determined, Alec was halfway up the incline, leading Volker and a line of guards at a fast pace. Jay fired and dropped prone again. More bullets thudded around them, sending jagged pieces of steel whining past.

As Jay set the cap’s timer, Raina used det cutters to sever the other end of the cord. A bullet ricocheted off the post, burning inches from Raina’s
skull. Dragging their backpacks, they slithered backward. The echoing sound of running feet on the ramp suddenly stopped.

Crouched for protection between sheer cliffs of containers, Jay and Raina slung on their backpacks and waited. The seconds ticked past like hours.

Abruptly there was the loud
bang
of an explosion. Seagulls screeched and took flight from the ship’s rail. The gangplank dropped and crashed against the hull with an enormous
thud
. The ship trembled. Men screamed. There were noisy splashes.

Jay and Raina peered out. The stink of melting steel was noxious. Brown smoke plumed. Smiling grimly, they jumped up and ran.

On the outdoor observation deck high above the action, Litchfield straightened up from the railing, furious. Alec St. Ann and Volker Rehwaldt were in the drink along with two of Ghranditti’s men, while Tice and Manhardt were not only on the ship, Tice was armed. For the moment it was up to Ghranditti, al-Hadi, and him to stop them.

“Call al-Hadi. Tell him I need help!” In the lead, Litchfield shoved open the sliding glass door and rushed back onto the bridge.

Behind him, he heard Ghranditti tell the captain, “The ramp’s down. Two terrorists have boarded. My men will handle them, but first they’ve got to get on the ship. Figure out a way to do that—fast. I’m going to make a cell call.”

Pulling out his Browning, Litchfield jumped onto the elevator, mashed the button, and descended, cursing. He did not have time for this. He stretched and breathed, trying to relieve his disquiet. He grasped his Browning in both hands and tucked against the wall next to the door. When it opened, he rolled out into the base of the deckhouse.

Swinging the gun from side to side, he checked the enclosure. Coils of rope rose in piles. Gear and equipment stood neatly stacked near the stairwell. The place had a hollow sound and stank of salt and metal.

Warily he pivoted again, listening, watching. But when he finally hurried
around the elevator toward the door, cold steel pressed into the back of his neck.

“That’s far enough, Larry.”

It was a voice he had never wanted to hear again.

As the Jaguar dropped through the chilly river, heavy silence settled around Elaine like burial cloth. She reached up and grabbed the open sides of the sunroof and propelled herself straight up, aiming for the moonglow that glistened far above. Pulling the water, she climbed higher, one stroke after another, fighting a desire to inhale. Finally she entered the river’s silvery light—but the surface seemed to recede.

Stroking faster, she shot through to the air and gasped. As she treaded water, she breathed deeply and peered around until she spotted the inflatable boat where Jay had said he would leave it. She swam and heaved herself over the side and lay there in a stunned kind of wariness—until footfalls sounded on the wood planks above.

Chest tight, she scrambled up to her knees and paddled with her hands. The boat slipped silently out of sight under the wharf. Controlling her nerves, she waited.

When the footsteps finally retreated, Elaine examined her wounded finger, covered first by a special antibiotic gel that hardened then by latex—no cracks or holes in the latex. She pushed the pain from her mind, stripped off her wet clothes, opened the waterproof package waiting for her, and dressed in black microfiber turtleneck, pants, socks, and sneakers. She strapped a holster at the small of her back, checked her Walther, and fastened it inside. And put on her backpack.