The Perfect Assassin (7 page)

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 before 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.

The thoughts rattled around endlessly in Christine’s head as she lay next to her captor. Her emotions tracked the ocean’s depths, from shallow hope to abysmal despair. Still, she always came back to the same thing in the end. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her, and he hadn’t. Christine would wait. She’d look for everything and anything to get out of this fix, but she had to wait.

He stirred an hour later. His body stiffened, but she sensed he was still asleep. She could feel his warm breath on her neck, more rapid and shallow than it had been. Suddenly the arm lying across her waist jerked outward, and his legs moved as he began to mumble. He was having a nightmare.

More than ever, she wanted to get away. Christine willed herself to lie still as he muttered through his semi-conscious state. She tried to make out what he was saying. Numbers.
Five? Something seven?
Then it sounded like he said
doctor.
Christine wondered if he was dreaming about her. His body began to twist violently and it was all she could do to keep still. She felt his damp sweat. She smelled him and it made her afraid. The convulsions reached a peak and Christine could take it no more. She threw his arm off and scrambled away from the bed.

He woke instantly, bolting to a sitting position. Beads of perspiration covered the man’s face. His clothes were soaked. He gasped for air and Christine saw something new in his wide-open eyes. Was it fear? Or perhaps pain? Some kind of terrible pain. It only lasted a moment, then the blank mask returned. Whatever had been there was gone, like a lone wave crashing into a seawall in an explosion of energy, then receding anonymously into the surrounding sea. Christine was pressed against the far wall, alert and ready, not knowing what to expect. The man laid back down and fell still, to a Zen-like tranquility.

Christine began breathing again. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

His reply was too quick.

“Bad dream?”

He made no attempt to deny the obvious. “Everyone has their share.”

“You’ve been through a lot in the last few days. Would it help to talk about it?”

He frowned, “Did you specialize in psychiatry, doctor? Because I suddenly feel like I’m on your couch.”

“I did a rotation there, but no, I’m just a general practice kind of doctor.”

“Then let’s leave the psychoanalysis to the professionals, shall we?”

“I wasn’t asking in a professional capacity. I just thought you might like to talk about it.”

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bunk. “And if you can get me to bare my soul and give you my inner thoughts, then perhaps you can make me your friend. Friends don’t harm friends.”

Christine tried to look hurt. Was she that transparent, or was he that omniscient? Or perhaps he’d been in situations like this before.

“Forget I asked. I was just trying to help.”

He had no reply, but looked at her appraisingly.

“What?” she asked.

If Christine had gone to the mirror she would have seen it as well. Deep lines of worry creased into her forehead and dark shadows were set under two bloodshot eyes.

“Didn’t you get any sleep at all? You look awful.”

“Of course I look awful. I just spent my afternoon in the arms of a foul pirate.”

“Don’t take it to heart.” He stood up and stretched gingerly. “It’s not a date, you know. It’s a kidnapping.”

A flippant remark. Christine remembered his frantic wake-up only minutes ago. He could certainly slap right through the gears.

He said, “I need you rested and healthy, so you can take care of me. Speaking of which, I’m famished. How about something to eat?”

She thought he was already looking better. In fact, amazingly so given the shape he was in yesterday morning. His color was good, and he showed no ill effects from the wound on his belly. The doctor in her wanted to check it, to make sure the gash was healing. On the other hand, where was gangrene when you needed it?

“You seem well enough,” she said. “You won’t need me around to take care of you much longer.” Christine suddenly realized what a stupid thing that was to say, but he seemed to ignore it as he busied himself looking through the two cupboards where provisions were kept. Next, he rooted around in the refrigerator.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m feeling better for the moment. Let’s say I do something to earn my keep. I’ll make breakfast.”

Grudgingly, she accommodated. “All right. I’ll go up top and check on things.”

Christine climbed above to find a crisp breeze whipping across the deck. She paused at the sight of the water and the stunning blue sky. It was so incredibly open and unconfined. She took deep breaths, overwhelmed with relief. Only now did Christine realize the tension she’d been under. She went as far aft as she could go to the transom and made perfunctory checks of the rigging, knowing she was really just trying to get as far away from him as she could. The air below had seemed stifling, but now her thoughts cleared. That was good, because a sharp mind was her best weapon.

The next twenty minutes were spent on deck taking care of
Wind-som
, and as she made her way around, Christine caught traces of the unmistakable scent of bacon frying. A carnivore. No surprises there. On her rounds, she discovered a reefing line on the jib that had frayed and was tending to jam. She made a mental note to fix it soon. Her last stop was to check the autopilot, which still held a tight, true course. Blessing or curse? she wondered.

He called from below, “Soup’s on!”