Slaton cued on Wysinski’s hesitation. It only took a moment for the ex-commando to realize his mistake and turn, but it was too late. Slaton rushed him from behind, crashing a shoulder into Wysinski’s side. He held his arm upright and they slammed headlong into the transom, Wysinski’s gun going over the side and into the harbor. The two struggled and fell entwined, crashing heavily to the deck. Wysinski recovered first and saw the gun Slaton had lost lying a few feet away. He scrambled over and grabbed it. Slaton struggled to his feet, looking stunned and grimacing in pain.
“You’re slipping, kidon,” Wysinski said with a smirk.
Slaton looked down the barrel of the weapon and slumped to one knee.
Wysinski glanced toward shore. “You let an old paratrooper get the better of you.”
“Those other two aren’t so smug,” Slaton said, gasping for breath.
“Joacham and Sergeant Heim? They were good men. You’ve been costing us a lot of good men lately, but not anymore.”
“The police will be here any minute. Your revenue from this fiasco is about to be cut in half,” Slaton said with a nod toward the hatch.
Wysinski laughed. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”
“What?”
“Do you really think we’re going to all this trouble for a few million in cash? It’s too bad you won’t be alive in a couple of days to see. It’s beautiful, the way everything will work.”
“How what will work?”
“If only you could have been on our side, kidon. Unfortunately, the person in charge has some history with you. Or maybe I should say, you with him. That’s why you’re here. In ten minutes the police will find the killer they’ve been looking for — dead. And with an alarming surprise below decks.”
“Where’s the other weapon?”
“In the hands of Pytor Roth, a mercenary and an imbecile who will unwittingly shape the future of our country. It all fits perfectly.”
Sirens and screeching tires announced the arrival of a large police contingent. Slaton stood straight, his eyes locked to Wysinski. “You say the person in charge has a past with me? Who?”
Slaton took a deliberate step forward. Wysinski straightened his arm and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked harmlessly. Slaton didn’t even blink, his movement steady and strong. Wysinski tried to shoot again with the same result. His smugness disintegrated as he realized he’d been duped.
Slaton closed in. “Who?” he screamed.
Wysinski backed up, his eyes sweeping, searching frantically for something to use against the kidon. Wysinski spat out, “He was one of the shooters on the bus in Netanya.”
Slaton stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”
“And the man who ordered Yosef killed. He’s the reason you are here today.”
“Netanya? That was the Palestinians, Anand’s group.”
“Rubbish! We never identified anyone, did we, kidon? We only rounded up the usual suspects. You of all people must know — no one was ever held responsible.”
“You? You and your sick friends? Working with the Arabs?”
“No. Don’t you see? It’s exactly the opposite.”
Slaton’s head spun. Wysinski was only trying to save himself. Nothing more. “No, not Netanya,” he said hoarsely. “No Israeli could do that. What would it accomplish?”
“Yes, what have we accomplished?”
Slaton took a step away, and slowly, agonizingly, he tried to comprehend the incomprehensible. A world he always controlled seemed to be spinning now, and he was at the vortex.
“And wait until you see what we accomplish this time. The policies of compromise for our country will be over. We will be strong once again and he will lead us there. He is leading us there.”
The words swirled in Slaton’s mind and one thought, one image overrode everything else. He was waiting outside the room, the nurse standing squarely in his way. Let me in! I have to get in! Do something — anything!”
The burly soldier charged Slaton, knocking him off balance, then ran. Slaton stumbled backwards as Wysinski clambered up to the dock.
“Who did it? Who?” Slaton stammered. He saw Wysinski racing away and realized the answers would soon be gone. All at once, the fog lifted. Slaton riveted on the man who knew, the one who could slay his nightmare once and for all.
Slaton bolted, immune to his pain, immune to feeling anything. He lunged across to the dock and caught Wysinski in ten strides, twisting an arm behind his back. Wysinski leaned ahead, clearly expecting Slaton to try and stop him. Instead, Slaton propelled him forward and the heavier man completely lost his balance. With all the force he could muster, Slaton slammed the stocky soldier head first into a concrete dock piling. Wysinski’s body crumpled to the dock and lay motionless.
Slaton dropped next to him and put his hands around a throat that would never again carry a breath. “Who?” he screamed. “Who did it?”
“Don’t move!” a voice commanded from somewhere up the pier.
Slaton was oblivious as he strangled the limp corpse.
Another shout, “You!”
This time he looked up. Three policemen were twenty feet away, approaching very, very slowly. Slaton looked down to see the lifeless eyes of Viktor Wysinski. It was the first time he had ever killed a man without planning, without premeditation. He had simply killed due to rage. The kidon had lost control. But now he had to regain it, because there was still someone else out there. Someone even more dangerous. And more deserving. Slaton stood slowly.
The policemen were an experienced contingent and they stopped five paces away, seeing no surrender in their suspect’s posture. What they saw in his eyes was closer to madness.
“Here now,” the one in front said, “let’s do this the easy way.”
It happened without warning. Their man dove to his right and disappeared with a splash into the inky water of the harbor.
“Bloody hell!” one of the bobbies said as they all ran to where the man had been. Two searched the water in vain while a third checked Wysinski, which didn’t take long. “He’s done,” the policeman said with certainty.
Another policeman came running up the dock and more were in the distance. All converged on the pier. They searched the adjacent boats, not finding any trace of their quarry. Then, at the very end of the pier, an outboard motor churned to life. The two who were closest ran out and spotted a small inflatable boat, thirty yards off and speeding toward the harbor entrance. The driver was hiding under some kind of blanket or tarpaulin.
“He’s makin’ for open sea!” one of them yelled. The constable in charge barked orders to the nearest man. “Get to the harbormaster and commandeer a boat. Something fast!” He pulled out his radio and put in an emergency request for a helicopter from the Royal Navy in Portsmouth. They watched the Zodiac as it headed out through the channel. At one point it crashed into a seawall, before bouncing crazily back to open water.
“He’s stark mad,” one of the bobbies said.
Another nodded. “Did you see the look in his eyes? And the way he killed that poor sod?”
“I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t bother me one bit that some one else will have to wrap him up now.”
Half an hour later, a Royal Navy helicopter, a Westland Sea King, intercepted the Zodiac. The little craft was two miles offshore, still at full throttle and making large, lazy circles on the choppy seas. The Westland’s crew moved in for a closer look and immediately noted three things. First was a tarp that was flapping along loosely behind the craft, slapping in and out of its wake. Second was a rope, tied from beam to beam, and in the middle secured to the little outboard’s steering arm. Of course the third, and most relevant observation was that there was no one in the boat.