Part 111 (1/2)

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 sh.o.r.e 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 d.a.m.ned 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 cras.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+ps?” 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 s.h.i.+p in the small docking area. Zenger's craft was even less of a speck than it had been before. Thomas looked at his compa.s.s, 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, b.u.mpy salt water.

Zenger was on the horizon, distant, perhaps three miles out now.

A mere dot.

”Come on, d.a.m.n 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 ident.i.ty, 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 a.s.sociate, would never be seen again in the West.