The borrowed State Police car pulled to a halt before the old house inhabited by the man known as Zenger. Between Hammond, Leslie, and Thomas they continued to refer to him as Zenger. They had no other handle for him.
The radio in the car, in the ten-minute drive from the airport, had been turned to a Cape Cod station. The lead story continued to be the heavy accumulation of Soviet and Polish fishing trawlers in Cape Cod waters, just beyond the territorial limits a hundred miles south of Nantucket. The fishing vessels, equipped with elaborate antennae and radar devices not usually necessary for fishing, had drawn attention not just from the local radio and fishermen. Virtually every spare Coast Guard boat was monitoring their movements. Their presence was that unusual. It had to signify something As the State Police car pulled to a halt, the three of them stepped out briskly. Their breaths were in small clouds before them on the cold, windy morning.
"Curtains are down" said Hammond, his eyes set back from the bags beneath them an the lines which surrounded them.
"He's expecting us."
"A lot of people sleep with the shades down" Leslie suggested.
"Yes' said Hammond in thought, as if reminded of the obvious and embarrassed that he'd slipped and missed it.
"Of course ' Hammond looked at the rifle case on the backseat of the car and seemed to make a decision.
"We're close in" he said.
"No need for this" He closed the car door on the left rear side and left the long black case on the seat.
"Doubt that we'll hear a shot fired in anger," he said, forcing a smile. Thomas could see. Hammond, the fading professional, was seeking to reassure himself "Promise me this," he said, "don't tell anyone how this ended. You know, arresting a wasted old man in his pajamas, pulling him out of bed at this hour of the morning."
"It hasn't ended yet" Leslie reminded him.
Damned amateurs, thought Hammond. Always rooting for excitement.
"Soon," he offered.
"Why don't you two cover the back. I'll knock on the front door."
It seemed logical, a routine procedure to make what was now a routine arrest. Thomas and Leslie walked quietly around the side of the house, noting that each shade was drawn. They then stood to the side of the back door, their backs to the ocean and the waves.
Thomas glanced upward. The sky was undecided: It didn't yet know whether to be blue or gray that day.
A minute passed. Then another. Thomas felt like squirming within his clothes. He exchanged a glance with Leslie as if to ask, Hey? What's keeping Hammond? Has he knocked yet?
Thomas felt his hands wet within his gloves. He was conscious of the pistol in his coat pocket and he begged the fates that he'd not have to draw it, much less pull a trigger against a human being.
Both of them fixed their sights on the doorknob, waiting for the slightest movement of it to indicate a hand on the opposite side.
The force of the explosion was so intense that it rocked both Thomas and Leslie off their feet and onto the ground. Glass shattered somewhere in their presence and they could feel the shards and splinters flying to the hard ground around them.
They landed on their backs, stunned and severely jolted. They looked at each other as if in a daze. Then they realized. The explosion had been at the front door.
Where Hammond had been.
They staggered to their feet and ran. Leslie's hand had already wobbled to the pistol she carried. She'd released the safety catch, but it was meaningless now. The target had already fled, leaving only a trap for those who followed.
They rounded the house and saw Hammond, or what was left of him. It was immediately clear what had happened.
The career man, in his fatigue, had tired of knocking at the door and had tried the doorknob. Yes, the door had opened, but the -reception had been warmer than Hammond could have ever expected.
The front door had been booby-trapped, the last vicious act by a man of malice and deception. Zenger had fled, knowing that it was now a matter of time before others came for him. He had left his calling card.
The body of Hammond was thrown pathetically fifty feet from the front door. It lay broken and bleeding, the clothes on the front torn away, the skin roasted and seared by the force of the explosion.
Mercifully, he lay face down, his arms and legs twisted into impossible contortions and splintered at the limbs.
For the first time, Leslie showed signs of breaking, repeating "No, no, no," over and over and pleading with no one in particular,
"It was meant for me, it was meant for me!"
Thomas looked at the appalling sight, Hammond dead without question, Leslie standing, holding the pistol at her side, seeing what the years had brought her to, and the picturesque old house now starting to burn.
A rage built within Thomas, overcoming his fear. He was gripped with a sense of the unfinished, of wanting to add finality to this case.
He gripped the pistol in his pocket. He turned toward the house.
He ran through the burning doorway.
The wind, fortunately, was sweeping the smoke outside, though feeding the flames at the same time. He envisioned himself trapped in the burning house, dying of smoke and flames just as his office had died weeks earlier. Every streak of common sense told him to leave the house. His anger pressed him onward.
He wanted the man who'd inhabited Zenger's identity. Face to face, he wanted him. It was, of course, just what the quarry would never have allowed.
He barged through the hallway, feeling the heat of the flames behind him. Into the dining room where the table had been rocked against the walls and where the picture windows had now been blown out, along with the curtains. Every piece of china from the antique cabinet lay in particles on the carpet.
"Come on out!" Thomas roared to the man who'd creased his skull with a cane.
"Come on out, God damn you!"
In return, silence. There was no one there.
How brave you are! Thomas thought to himself. You know he's long gone. Failure again! You're used to it! You must like it!
He pushed through another doorway, the doorway to the den.
The door had been half unhinged by the explosion. Thomas stood by the old man's chair. (How old? No one knew now!) He recalled the old man's pontifications on the Sandler case.
Don't get involved! You'll get everyone killed! She's an impostor!
He looked around. The curtains in that room had been blown out the shattered window, too. Thomas looked at the sea.
Beneath the waves, the old man had ranted. A long trip. And I won't be coming back.
Thomas stared at the gaping hole where a window and curtain had been.
He stared at the sea beyond.
He saw the speck in the ocean. He knew what it was.
He ran to the window and glared down to the pier. One of Zenger's two boats remained.
The other was the speck. Zenger was on his way. His way where?
Home. After all these years. After decades in America, the master spy was on his way home. To his rendezvous beyond U.S. territorial waters.
The smoke was thicker. Thomas wondered whether he still had a way out.
He turned. He ran, stumbling over anovertumed rocking chair, coughing as he ran through the smoke of the hallway.
He could hear Leslie calling to him, pleading just as he suddenly emerged from the flaming front doorway. She was on her knees, uselessly, by the side of Hammond's scorched corpse.
"Get the rifle!" he yelled.
– What?- "He's already escaping. By boat! Get the rifle!"
She turned and ran to the parked car, ripping open the back door, grabbing the black case, turning and running after Thomas.
They ran down the incline behind the house, down the hillside to the shore and the pier. To the remaining boat.
To Thomas it was clear. To Leslie it was becoming clear. What had the old impostor said about the ocean?
Beneath the waves.
Thomas cursed that Russian and Polish fishing fleet. Of course it was where it was, a hundred miles to the south, drawing the Coast Guard and naval reserves to the area. It was a diversion, and a damned good one, drawing all attention to that area The rendezvous vessel for the master spy would slip in and out virtually unnoticed. Brilliant, cursed Thomas.
He and Leslie ran the quarter mile from the flaming house to the dock, their sides aching and their lungs ready to burst. They ran down the dock. Canvas covered the remaining boat.
Thomas tore at it until it began to rip. The canvas peeled away from the Chris-Craft slowly, jerkily tearing from its fastening pins.
Once enough was pulled away for the two of them to crawl into the craft, Thomas led the way, pulling Leslie along.
The dashboard of the boat was locked, a wooden panel pulled into place over the ignition and controls. Thomas looked at it with anguish and smashed it with his fist.
Leslie was totally calm. She reached to the fire ax and handed it to him. He knew what to do.
With three or four crashing strokes, he broke through the panel.
He then cut through the woodwork that led to the ignition wires.
He crossed them and gunned the craft's diesel engine.
The boat roared to life.
"Where'd you learn all about ships?" she asked.
"My father joined a yacht club," he said.
"Remember?"
"I never knew."
"You do now," he said.
He threw the throttle into reverse, turning the ship in the small docking area. Zenger's craft was even less of a speck than it had been before. Thomas looked at his compass, estimating the direction Zenger had gone. He looked at the fuel gauge. Zenger's final revenge. Hardly any. No matter. He threw the throttle completely into the forward position, letting the craft speed forward as fast as possible across the choppy, bumpy salt water.
Zenger was on the horizon, distant, perhaps three miles out now.
A mere dot.
"Come on, damn it," Thomas cursed at the boat.
"Move!"
The boat skipped across the jerky waves, splatting and even banging on the choppy water as it bullied its way through the rough ocean. The pursuit was insane; Thomas knew it. But he also knew that Zenger's escape, or the escape of this man who had inhabited Zenger's identity, had been planned for years. A standby, emergency escape, ready on a few days' notice whenever necessary.
Either Thomas stopped him now, or the master spy, his father's associate, would never be seen again in the West.
Minutes passed. The speck remained at a stationary distance on the horizon. Thomas watched the fuel needle sink toward the E. He pushed the boat. They did not appear to be gaining.
He heard clicks and the clink of metal behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Leslie was assembling the contents of the gun case.
A long-barreled, high-powered rifle, equipped with a special Browning telescopic sight. She had to be dreaming, he thought.
The only way would be to get close enough for a decent shot.
Then again, it suddenly flashed into his mind, Zenger had to be armed, also. A further thought hit him: Who was he to play games with professionals like this? Hammond, a professional, already lay dead, the result of one small mistake. Was Thomas that much better than Hammond? He doubted it.
His common sense screamed at him.
"Turn it around Go back!
While you still have fuel enough to return!"
Leslie spoke.
"It's together," she said, raising the rifle and checking the sight.
"I'm loading it!"
She bolted the rifle and slid a long six-bullet magazine into it.
She stood up and looked over his shoulder.
"Straight ahead' she said, tense but encouraged.
"I think you're gaining, " "Impossible," he muttered.
He squinted at the horizon. No, she was right. For some reason Zenger had cut his engines. They were gaining.
Thomas looked at the compass as their craft continued to move in a straight pattern toward Zenger's boat. The speck on the horizon was larger, more elongated. The compass told them that they'd altered their course.
Leslie stood behind Thomas, glancing at the compass, frowning.
"What's he doing?" she asked in a half whisper.
Thomas paused for two or three seconds before answering, a signal to her that he wasn't sure.
"It looks like he's turning," she said.
"But why? There's nothing to turn to."
She looked back to where they'd come from. The island was smaller now.
They approached international waters, greater depths, and trickier currents. The fuel needle was on E. The water was tangibly choppier, the bottom of their small boat being battered hard by the four-foot waves.
"He's crazier than we are," he said.
"He doesn't do anything without a reason," she answered.
He nodded. He knew that.
Zenger's ship took a zigzag pattern now. Their pursuing boat traveled a'straight line after it, drawing closer. Then Zenger's craft seemed to turn in an arc, going out to deeper waters. Its radar scope was on, spinning quickly amidst the elaborate antennae on the roof of the boat.
Several more minutes passed. They knew they were beyond U.S. territorial limits now. No other boat was in sight. They drew nearer.
Zenger seemed to be leading them in an arc now, as if he were looking for something or waiting for something, but were still trying to keep a respectable distance from his pursuers. It was starting to rain. They were within a half mile.
Then zenger's craft veered sharply left ward as if he had seen something. He had. Moments later Thomas knew what.
Perhaps a mile away, there was a thin black vertical line breaking through the water, leaving a long silver wake. The line resembled a large iron pipe, traveling upright as if to defy gravity. It broke the surface suddenly and was moving toward Zenger's craft.
Leslie and Thomas saw it at the same time, through the gray rain and water.
"What the…?" she began to ask. And then she knew. It was all so painfully obvious. Yet Thomas had realized it, not her.
"It's his escape" said Thomas.
"We're not going to catch him. He's made it' She slammed the loaded carbine against the cushioned seats. The sound made Thomas jump, scared the weapon would discharge.
"Full speed he said.
"Come on," he coaxed the boat.
"Move!"
He glanced to the fuel needle. It was below E. No way they'd have the fuel to return, he realized. Only if they could overtake Zenger's boat.
He watched the black line traveling through the water, rising now, cutting a brisker wake.
"Holy Jesus he said.
"Just look at it" The black line rose and was joined by other black lines. Lines of iron and steel. They were closer and the line was readily identifiable. A periscope. And the rest of the Soviet submarine gradually became visible.
Thomas felt an incredible shudder. As Zenger's ship neared its destination, the contours of the submarine rose like a slumbering giant from the ocean. Its outline was gray and jagged, like the waves, the water, and the sky. It was far larger than he had ever imagined one would be, far larger than a small cruise ship, for example. It rose to the surface, cut its own engines, and seemed to come about, turning its side to the two small pleasure craft that approached it. They resembled minnows charging a whale.
A few yellow deck lights were visible. Thomas drew closer.
Zenger's small craft drew near the submarine and turned its side to it.
A party of sailors emerged on the deck, lowering along rope ladder down the sub's side. Zenger drew closer to the submarine.
Thomas looked up. Through the gray mist he could see the markings on the topmost point of the submarine. The red hammer and sickle of the workers paradise to the East, defiant and strong in the international waters off Massachusetts. They were on a rescue mission of sorts, picking up a spy of three decades' service. The least they could do was whisk him away in fluorescent, air-purified, underwater safety back to the Motherland.
Zenger was alongside the submarine. He abandoned his own small craft, leaving it to drift to oblivion in the north Atlantic. He was pulling himself up the ladder, aggressively and gamely, a man of fifty-odd well-conditioned years rather than a man of seventy-six or eighty-two.
Their own boat lurched and the engines spat and hesitated.
Thomas looked to the fuel needle a final time. Their supply was finished. The last drop was gone. A red light flashed on the dashboard and the needle pointed far below E. They were, at half a mile from the submarine, as far as they could*O.
The boat rocked with the waves, starting to turn sideways in the current which would carry them farther into the Atlantic.
"We're out" he said.
"Finished. Failed." He whacked the dashboard in disgust with his fist.
Zenger was scrambling up the rope ladder.
"Not quite," she snapped bitterly.
She went to the rifle, grabbed it angrily and went to the starboard side of the boat. It was rocking with the waves but she started to kneel. She pointed the rifle across the railing of the boat, seeking to steady it.
He looked at her, almost disbelieving what his eyes saw.
"You're not?" he asked.
She looked at him.
"After everything I've done?" she asked, as if to imply insanity to his question.
"You'd let him go?" She paused, then added,
"We're even, you know. He tried killing both of us three times "What's the range of the rifle?"
"Five hundred yards with accuracy," she said.
"Beyond that?
Wind and luck determine everything."
The rain spattered the boat. They stood in the back, getting wet with the gray mist. She looked at the safety catch and seemed to fumble with it.
"Ever fired one of those?" he asked.
"I know how it works," she allowed. She looked at him as if to offer it. The boat rocked spasmodically. She said ncithing, asking with her eyes.
Suddenly his instinct propelled him forward. He thought of his life, arranged for and conspired against by forces he'd never known.
He went to her side and pulled the rifle away.
He examined it quickly. Zenger was at the top of the ladder, being helped onto the deck by sailors with sidearms.
Thomas looked through the sight, zeroing the two fine cross hairs in on the man on the submarine deck.
Zenger was on his knees, stumbling slightly.
The small craft rocked, then eased slightly. The rifle was moving with the boat.
"Put your hand on the barrel," he said, propping it on the railing.
"Help me steady it' She did.
"All I can do is aim high and hope' "You know your way around rifles" she commented.
He glanced at her, taking his eyes off the cross hairs for only an instant.
"My father taught me," he reminded her, realizing the irony.
"We used to go deer hunting."
She looked at the deck of the submarine.
"An impossible shot," she said.
"Damn!"
He aimed high, waited for the peak of the wave, sighted the weapon again. He fired in that one instant the boat stood atop the wave crest.
They watched the deck. No reaction at all. The bullet had sailed into the gray expanses over everything. He lowered slightly and fired again on the next crest. Nothing. A third time. Nothing.
Zenger stood, seeming to brush the dirt and water off himself, secure in the knowledge that the pursuing ship had run out of fuel and was stranded. Perhaps the submarine would wham it on the way home. Why not?
Thomas lowered his sight dramatically, approaching desperation.
He fired the first of the last three bullets in the magazine.
The sailors on the deck and Zenger looked in his direction with suddenness. Perhaps theyd heard the rifle for the first time. The wind had shifted slightly. Instead of blowing from the side it now blew from behind the smaller boat.
They could hear the noise. And they'd looked below them, hearing the sound of a steel bullet hit the seamless iron hull of the submarine.
Thomas fired again. A second or two later a large yellow deck light several yards from Zenger seemed to burst and extinguish itself. Now the sailors began to scramble, back toward the hatch which would lead them down and under the deck to safety.
Zenger stood alone on the deck, looking back as if to inquire indignantly as to who was shooting at him. Never imagining that another shot could come so close.
A siren sounded on the submarine. A dive signal.
"He's got us beat'" Leslie cursed.
Thomas fired again. And missed.
He felt a sickened sensation in his stomach.
The siren on the submarine was still audible through the gray mist.
Thomas glared through the sight at his tormentor. Almost instinctively, Zenger sensed that his opponents had thrown at him their last offensive weapon.
The master spy stood calmly on the dleck, exhilarated at being shot at and missed, and grinned in their direction.
Then, with the quintessence of the American gestures that he'd learned over thirty years, the spy raised two hands toward the small boat. Each hand's extremity was marked with a sole upraised center finger, the universal but particularly American gesture of ill will.
"We're beaten" Thomas mumbled bitterly. He slapped the rifle in a fury.
"We can't be" she snapped coldly.
He looked at her in frustration and almost anger. What did she want him to?
"Try another magazine" she said.
And disbelievingly she 'held out another steel-cased magazine, six long bullets therein.
He looked at her and looked at the weapon. He looked at the deck of the submarine.
Zenger had turned. He walked defiantly and cockily toward the open hatch which would lead him on a fluorescent and air-purified trip to another world, one in which he would be a hero.
"No way," Thomas Daniels said.
"He's gone' ' She grabbed the rifle from his hands as an inspecting dill sergeant might. Quickly her hands had torn out the empty magazine, sent it overboard and slammed the full magazine into its place.
The wind felt the same. The boat eased from its rocking for a few seconds. She braced herself against a cabin wall and held the rifle's butt against her shoulder, quickly bringing the weapon into a perfect firing position. Her movements were precise, practiced, and comfortable.
Moments later she began firing, aiming not quite so high and not quite as left ward as Thomas had. She pulled the trigger quickly in a rapid succession, firing four, five, and then six shots, trying to spray the area where Zenger was.
There was a delay of several seconds before any bullet sailed the distance between the rifle and the submarine. Thomas souinted and watched.
He had no idea which bullet found its mark, whether it was the first or the final. But the fact remained that as Zenger stepped the last few yards to the hatch, the lower half of his skull exploded with the impact of a viciously tumbling bullet.
The man's body went limp and fell immediately, the red explosion in the back of the head being instantly apparent even at that great distance.
The gray rain continued to fall.
Other sailors emerged from the watch, gawking, incredulous at first.
Thomas and Leslie stared with their naked eyes as three sailors pulled the fallen body toward the hatch.
Leslie set down the rifle. She had no quarrel with the Russian sailors. They had their duty just as she and Thomas had had their-S.
The seamen reclaimed a body; Thomas and Leslie had reclaimed a soul, an identity. The body had always belonged to the Soviet Union. The identity? That had been borrowed.
Leslie picked up a floodlight from the small boaes cabin. The light could be flashed on and off. She blinked an internationally understandable cease-fire signal to them.
The sailors stood on the deck, working nervously for a few seconds, hoisting the fallen, semi beheaded body by its red shoulders.
They dragged it below.
Minutes later the submarine began to move. Thomas and Leslie wondered if it would ram them or sink them; it easily could have.
But, as if in reciprocation for the voluntary cease-fire and the surrender of the spy's body, the submarine turned east in the ocean. It began moving on the gray surface, pointing away from them, until it was lower on the horizon.
Then only the periscope was visible, breaking through the waves.
Then nothing. The ocean was vacant, except for two small pleasure craft, both adrift and powerless. For a moment it was as if the underwater goliath had never been there. Then they felt its wake, rippling from a mile away.
Leslie sat on a cushioned seat within the cabin, her dark hair soaked and matted, an expression of exhaustion across her face. For her, the long intrigue with her father was over.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then,
"Lucky shot" she offered.
He looked at her, understanding.
"No, it wasn't."
There was a pause and he continued.
"No one makes a shot like that on luck. No one guesses how to fire a rifle with accuracy like that" She nodded and a slight, unwilling smile crossed her face.
"How long have you known?" she asked.
"Known?"he answered.
"For about two minutes. Suspected? For a long time. Ever since I learned you had gulled your own foster father, George McAdam, into thinking you were dead. Where'd you learn it all? From him?"
She nodded.
"Learn from the best' she said.
"George McAdam was one of the best British agents of is day.- "And now I'll bet you're one of the best. But not British. American."
She shrugged.
"I try," she answered.
"It's really the only thing I'm trained to do. Not much money in painting, you know."
"Would you honor me with an honest answer or two?"
"Of course."
"Why me?" he asked.
She almost laughed.
"It's not obvious?"
"Oh, I understand that part" he said.
"My father was a double agent, recruiting for the Americans while all the time he was working for the Russians. And he headed a postwar network-" '-financed by counterfeit English and American banknotes she continued.
"A,network which grew old but continued to compromise British and American Intelligence. When William Ward Daniels died, he was just about to be uncovered. He was lucky he died when he did ' "But then why'd you come to me?"he insisted.
"Because the network was still working very well after his death' she explained.
"From our perspective it was clear. He'd passed the leadership on to someone else. You."
Thomas Daniels was without words. The final piece fit neatly into place. He knew the reason he'd been sucked into this treacherous vortex of events: He'd been under observation the entire time, by the American government and by the British government. He was a suspected spy, suspected of inheriting the position from his father. just as William Ward Daniels had probably intended.
"Of course," she said cheerfully, 'we soon saw that we'd been wrong.
You knew nothing. The ranking spy was someone else. We were totally baffled, but you solved it for us. You led us to Zenger."
He considered it. The drizzle persisted.
"What about the money?" he asked.
"The Sandler estate?"
"It's yours, isn't it?"
She shrugged.
"A fortune built on treason and counterfeiting? I can hardly ask my employer for that now, can I?"
"No' he mumbled.
"Of course not" Thoughtfully, he added,
"So there's really just one final question."
She knew what it was.
"Montreal" she said.
"That part's all true.
I teach. I'm an artist. It's a fine cover. From time to time I disappear on an assignment, none ever as special as this, though."
"And there's a man, isn't there?"
She thought for a moment.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I live with him.
I love him" He would have said more, though he didn't know exactly what.
But then suddenly she was looking past him, over his shoulder. She bolted upright and suddenly screamed,
"Thomas! Jesus!.
She pointed, her soft fatigued expression exploding into a look of wide-eyed terror.
He whirled. He saw it, the submarine, rising near them no less than a hundred yards across the water, streaking straight toward them. His mouth flew open, and like most instants of stark, heart stopping fear, the moment seemed frozen in unreality.
The submarine was going to demolish them. Unmistakably.
They would have jumped, but there was nowhere to jump to.
They would have swum, but swimming was suicidal. The water was too cold, the current brutal, the waves enormous.
The sub steamed in at them. Fifty yards. Thirty.
Then it bore sharply left ward kicking up a gargantuan wake.
Thomas realized, thinking, So that's it! Brilliant to the end! They won't smash us, theyt capsize us instead!
No direct hit on an American ship, merely a deluge of water.
The submarine, slashing through the surface of the ocean, passed within twenty-five yards and then began diving. A massive wave, followed by another and another, burst forth from the sub's wake and-rising thirty feet in the water-rolled violently toward the small Chris-craft.
The first wave battered the small boat, the second threw it lopsided up upon its crest. The third wave hit it head-on, propelling it sideways through the water.
Thomas and Leslie clung to the boat with all the strength they had. He remembered yelling "Hang on! Hang on!" and they did.
But their boat was on its side now, and the frigid water was still rolling over it, rising steadily.
Beneath the waves, Thomas thought. Zenger's words raced back.
Slowly, but inexorably, as the sub dived from sight a final time, their small ship was going down.