Now, eying the cross-shaped wooden stand at the old firing range, he decided a little target practice might be productive amusement for the moment. He picked up a handful of small shells from the beach, walked over to the stand and placed them at intervals along the crossbar. He moved back a distance of about twenty-five yards and unholstered his weapon, a Sig Sauer P220 .45 semiautomatic. The German-made, Swiss-design pistol was an older version of the P226, recently chosen as the official weapon of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police's Specialty Team, a SWAT-type organization. He had ordered a special sight that improved accuracy at longer distances.
Overmyer popped in a magazine and raised the gun, holding it with both hands. He squeezed off round after round until eight staccato explosions had crackled through the humid air. Eight seashells lay in fragments around the revetment.
"Most impressive," said a deep, German-accented voice behind him.
He turned to find the towering frame of Hans Richter leaning against a pine tree on the edge of the beach. Overmyer grinned. "Just trying to keep from getting rusty, Hans. Eight out of eight ain't bad." Then a sudden thought hit him. "Hey, you'd better watch it. You'll have sirens wailing all over this damned island."
Richter smiled, looking something like a good-natured gargoyle. "It's Sunday, remember? The security is turned off. Today they allow us the luxury of walking on the beach." Then his face returned to its more normal context, that of a chiseled frown. "Tell me truthfully, Gary, do you think this operation will be successful?" They had now been given the full details.
Overmyer raised an eyebrow. "I'd say the jury was still out on that. I've seen mortars fired lots of times. They're an area weapon. You normally use a forward observer and adjust your fire to zero in on the target. Pinpoint fire like this, I've got to see. They sure talk a good game. If the equipment works the way they say it will, who knows?"
Hans spread his large hands. "Why not use one or two high-powered rifles? I would guess you are better with a rifle than with that pistol."
Overmyer nodded. "With a scope, I could knock a fly off a cow's ass at a hundred yards. But you couldn't get a rifle anywhere near these guys. The windows don't open in those high-rise buildings where they'll be. You'd have to break a hole in the glass, and as soon as you did that, they'd have a sharpshooter cracking down on you. You wouldn't believe the security they'll have. Snipers on roof tops, cops all over the streets, everybody tied in with walkie talkies."
"So, maybe we just have to wait, eh? When the weapon is fired this week, we see how good we shall do."
"Hans, we're gonna blow those bastards out of this world, or I'll kiss your cotton-picking German ass."
Richter gave him a lopsided grin. Then his eyes turned cold. "It's obvious why I'm here. The Russians ruined everything for me. I am an outcast. I can't go home."
The East German secret police had begun to burn their records as soon as it became obvious that the forces of change had become irresistible. Overmyer was familiar with the story of how the people had reacted, battling to halt the destruction. No doubt Hans Richter's Stasi file had remained intact. His doom sealed.
"But why,” he continued, “are you here, Gary Overmyer?"
With a swift, practiced move, Overmyer ejected the empty magazine from his P220 and inserted a full one into the base of the pistol grip. He shoved the weapon back into its holster. There was bitter hatred in his eyes as he spoke.
"I want the bastards who were responsible for the death of the only girl who ever really meant anything to me."
It had been two years ago when he first spotted Natasha Alexandrovna Grinev. He saw her across a hotel lobby in Chicago, a petite girl with bright, sensitive eyes and the open, innocent smile of a child. She seemed almost swallowed up in the big Russian coat, a diminutive figure no larger than the cello case beside her. For a moment, she appeared to be a lost soul awaiting a rescuer, and Overmyer had been at the point of rushing to her aide when a large woman with a dour look reached over to tug at her arm. She was ushered toward a waiting elevator. In the bat of an eye, she was gone.
He saw other musicians milling about the lobby with their instruments. Inquiring at the desk, he was told they were the touring Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra. Though his tastes tended more to country than classics, he rushed out immediately and bought a ticket to the evening's performance, finding a single seat close to the stage.
The next day, using his writer's credentials, he had bluffed his way through the protective cordon of Soviet functionaries and wangled an interview with what he learned was one of the orchestra's budding stars. The unhappy looking Amazon he had seen in the hotel lobby chaperoned the interview, but it had gone well. Natasha spoke passable English, and she was obviously impressed by the brash American writer.
He had followed the tour across the country and managed on occasion to sneak her out of her hotel after slipping a sleeping pill into her massive roommate's tea. It rapidly bloomed into a full-fledged romance.
After her return home, he had managed an assignment for an article on cultural exchanges and headed for Moscow. Caught up in the fervor of perestroika and glasnost, he had thought it would be a simple arrangement to marry Natasha and bring her back to the States. But he soon found the Soviets jealously guarded their art treasures, including virtuoso cellists. Attempts to get her an exit visa were rebuffed at every turn.
Overmyer traveled to Washington and sought help from a friendly senator, who put him in touch with the White House staff. With the President being courted by the Soviet leader, his hopes were raised. Phone calls and letters assured him the President had taken a personal interest in the case. But the answer was always the same maddening phrase: "be patient, these things take time."
He had tried going directly to the Soviets, contacting the Embassy in Washington and even writing a poignant letter to the Soviet president. The answer was virtually identical. "This is something it may be possible to work out, but it will take time."
Then disaster struck. On a trip back to Moscow to visit Natasha, he arrived to the shock of hideous news. She had been killed in the collapse of a poorly constructed concrete apartment building only hours before his arrival. He went completely berserk. He had tried to storm the Kremlin, pounding the impenetrable stone walls until his hands were bloody. They whisked him away and forcibly placed him on the next flight toward the United States.
A completely rational person would have realized that the accident was entirely unrelated to the delay in getting an exit visa for Natasha. But that description did not fit Gary Overmyer. Although he gave every appearance of being perfectly normal most of the time, he had not been completely rational for twenty years. As a result, he blamed Natasha's death squarely on the American and Russian leaders. He had been placed on the Secret Service list of people to look for in any area where the President planned to travel. The FBI had been asked to check on his whereabouts within the past week, only to be told that he had just left on a conducted tour of the Far East. The tour would not return until after June twentieth. The report was correct. However, what they did not learn was that, at the first stop in Hawaii, Overmyer had told the group leader he had been called home because of a family illness, but that he would catch up with the tour later. He had flown to New Orleans, where he was picked up by Ted and joined the caravan to Florida.
"Is her death what causes the dreams?" Richter asked when he had finished the story.