“What if there isn’t a leader?”
“Then make one. Set him up on a pedestal, pin a damn medal on him. I smell something big here. And you know what? In thirty years, I’ve never called a bad one.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Ritts.” Harriman tried to keep the contempt out of his voice. He would do what Ritts wanted, but he would do it in his own way.
Ritts sucked deep on his cigarette, tobacco hissing and spitting. Then he tossed the butt onto the floor and ground it out again with his foot. He coughed and smiled, displaying a rack of uneven teeth as yellowed as the stem of a corncob pipe.
“Go get ’em, Harriman!” he cackled.
{ 42 }
Vasquez worked off a piece of green chile beef jerky, chewed it meditatively, swallowed, and took a swig of bottled water. He went back to the cryptic crossword from the Times of London, pondered, made another entry, erased an earlier one, then set the puzzle aside.
He sighed. He always felt a little nostalgic at the close of an operation: knowing he would have to leave, that all his preparations and deliberations and the cozy little world he had created would quickly become ancient history, pawed over by police officers and photographers. At the same time, he looked forward to seeing sunlight again, breathing fresh air, and listening to the thunder of surf. Funny, though, how he never felt quite so free and alive outside as he did within a cramped kill nest, on the brink of a kill.
He checked his equipment yet again. He looked through the scope, made an infinitesimal correction with the windage adjuster, then raised his eye to examine the flash hider. Just a few minutes now. The box magazine held four rounds, with another in the chamber. All he’d need was two. Once again he shed his clothes and put on his disguise.
Five minutes to one. He glanced regretfully around his nest, at everything he would have to leave behind. How many times had he actually had the opportunity to finish a Times cryptic? He rested his eye against the scope and watched. The minutes ticked past.
Once again the door to the porte-cochère opened. Vasquez slowed his breathing, slowed his heart rate. Once again Pendergast’s head and shoulders appeared in the reticle. This time Vasquez couldn’t make out the butler, who must have been standing too far inside the door to be seen, but he was clearly there, because Pendergast was faced back toward the doorway, obviously talking to somebody. So much the better: an off-center shot to the back of the head would be just as hard to analyze later.
His breath suspended, timing his shots between heartbeats, Vasquez pressed his cheek against the pebbled stock and squeezed the trigger slowly. The weapon bucked in his hands; in a flash, he’d drawn the bolt, resighted, and fired again.
The first shot had been perfectly placed. It spun the target in exactly the right way, the next shot coming a split second later, entering just above the ear, the head exploding in all directions. Pendergast fell back into the shadows of the door frame and disappeared.
Vasquez now moved with a swiftness born of years of practice. Leaving the lights out, he threw the gun and laptop into a duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and snugged on the night-vision goggles that would help him to get out the back of the darkened building. He plugged the shooting hole, strode to the door, and with the battery-powered screwdriver backed out the four screws that held the door shut. Then he stripped off the gaffing tape sealing the jambs and quietly opened the door, stepping noiselessly into the hall.
A flash of light overloaded his goggles, blinding him; he tore them off, reaching down to pull out a sidearm, but a figure in the hallway moved too fast; he was slammed into the wall, still blinded, and the gun went skittering down the passage.
Vasquez swung wildly at his attacker, barely connecting, and received a tremendous blow to the ribs in return. He swung again, this time connecting solidly, dropping his assailant. It was the Southampton cop. In a fury, Vasquez yanked out his knife and leaped on him, aiming for the heart. A foot lashed out from one side; he felt it connect with his forearm, heard the snap, fell to the floor, and was immediately pinned.
The cop was on him. And there, beyond the brilliant glow of the lamp, he stood. Pendergast. The man he had just killed.
Vasquez stared, his mind instantly rearranging the facts.
It had been a setup. They must’ve known almost from the start what was going on. Pendergast had played his part perfectly. Vasquez had shot some dummy, some special-effects dummy. Mother of God.
He had failed. Failed.
Vasquez couldn’t quite believe it.