The Death Freak

They call Arteaga the knifeman, but he's a lot more than that. For example, he plays chess. All right, you're good, Vasily, you can beat me three times out of four, but Romeo could spot you a rook and trim your ass every time. Back in Havana, they called him a budding Capablanca. So he's got the brains as well as the guts. He was the one who wrote the script on how to extract Castro.

I heard about that. Skin penetrants and heavy metals on Fidel's cigars, wasn't it?

That's right, the part he'd hold, not the part he'd smoke. Something like a 60-day lapse period. Fidel drops dead and there isn't a doctor in the world who can say what did it. When the State Department killed the operation, I thought Romeo was going to cry.

What about his diving? How good is he?

He's a pro. I wouldn't stand a chance with him down there. Just remember that. If he gets to me, I'm finished.

He'll never get to you, I promise. It's my job to see that he doesn't. It's your job to be the bait.

I know, and I feel like I've been practicing for it all my life.

Eddie moved slowly along the jagged edge of the coral reef, drifting with the current, glancing up occasionally at the dark shape of the fishing boat 60 feet above him. The water was so clear that he could see down to the bottom, nearly 200 feet, to where the reef sheered off to yet another level. A myriad of fish swam there in the stillness, singly and in schools, jewel-like blue and gold Beau Gregories, gray groupers, banded angelfish and awesome barracudas. The sun poured down, blinding him whenever he looked up from the depths. Bubbles floated serenely, reassuringly, toward the surface. The world was as it should always be: calm and beautiful.

"Nice," he murmured.

"Repeat, please," Vasily said from the beach.

"Sorry, I forgot that the Wet-Phone was on." He spoke clearly into the mask. "I just said it was nice down here, even for the bait."

"How is your air?"

"Three hundred pounds. Time to come up. Anything happening on top?"

"Nothing in sight but your boat."

Vasily crouched at the edge of the jungle that ran down to the beach, looking out over the still water. In his left hand, he held the phone. Next to his right hand, propped against a coconut palm, was an SVD Dragunov rifle with a telescopic sight and ten bullets chambered below the breech. The bullets---a special blend of rare metals---could strike an arm and send the victim into critical shock. If they struck a man's chest, there was nothing left to bury.

"This is the bait calling the fisherman," Eddie said through the Wet-Phone. "That's it for today; I'm coming up. Make sure to cover me when the boat pulls into the dock."

"Fisherman to bait. You won't see me, but I'll be there."

"The bait is grateful. What time do we meet tonight?"

"Ten o'clock, the beach at your hotel."

"Right. Bait signing off."

Eddie surfaced gently, inflated his BC vest and snorkeled in lazy strokes toward the fishing boat that bobbed on the swell off the Palancar Reef. The owner of the fishing boat, a cheerful, villainous-looking young man named Isidoro, hauled him aboard. The boat had been rented for two weeks at a good price and the Mexican had asked no questions of the silent little American who broke all the rules by diving alone, carrying a spear gun with which he speared no fish, a Nikonos underwater camera with which he took no photographs and a Wet-Phone with no surface unit on the boat. The gringo had said he was looking to photograph a hammerhead shark.

"I find for you" was Isidoro's promise, though he knew that the sharks were asleep for the summer in the caves near Isla Mujeres. To turn one's back on such a blessing---a tourist in the slack season---would have been sinful. A winter paradise, the island of Cozumel was packed with tourists and scuba divers from Christmas through Easter; but this was June. The tourists had been replaced by mosquitoes and torrential afternoon rains.

"Hasta mañana," Eddie said to Isidoro when the boat reached the dock at the center of town. Nearby, Los Mariscos Café was nearly empty, with only a few stray tourists sitting in the shade drinking beer and eating turtle steak. Eddie checked them out dutifully before hailing a taxi and setting out with his diving gear for his hotel. He was dutifully vigilant during the ride as well, but the vigilance was a matter of form only. Neither he nor Vasily expected the attack to come on land. He was too much of a tempting target circling baitlike underwater each day. After all, went their reasoning, who would shoot a fish out of water?

He dozed through the rest of the afternoon in his hotel room, dined lightly and at ten o'clock stood on the soft, warm sand of the beach, listening to the lap of the surf. A shadow moved among the coconut palms and white starlight slanted off Vasily's bony face. Eddie walked off the beach and into the trees where the Russian waited.

"Which do you want first?" Vasily asked. "The good news or the bad?"

"Neither. I want to go back to bed and pull the covers over my head."

"The good news is that Arteaga is here."

"You call that good?" Eddie asked, but he was instantly alert. "Where did you spot him?"

"When you docked this afternoon. He was in a parked car across from Los Mariscos."

"Jesus, he could have popped me right then and there."

"He'd never do it that way. He wants you in the water. He wants you to disappear."

Eddie shivered. "You said something about bad news?"

"Your boatman, Isidoro. You've got to figure him as being turned. Arteaga spoke to him after you left, then they went off together in a rented car. You'll have to take care of him tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? You think he'll hit right away?"

"Why should he wait? He has you spotted and he's got your boatman in his pocket. Yes, he'll hit tomorrow."

"Isidoro's no problem, just a complication," Eddie said thoughtfully. "But what about Parker? Any sign of him?"

"None, and I don't like it."

"Maybe he sent Romeo solo."

"Perhaps, but I doubt it. In any event, we'll have to play it as if Parker were here. We're not taking any extra chances."

"OK, we stick to the game plan. Let's run over it one more time."

"Now? You should know it inside out by now."

"Come on, pal, be patient. You're the big smart fisherman. I'm just the poor dumb worm."

The game plan was simple enough: an old-fashioned lure, with Eddie acting as the bait, swimming aimlessly underwater and waiting for Arteaga and Parker to strike, while Vasily covered him from the shore with a high-powered rifle. Once the two CIA men had made their move, then the worm would turn and the last of the O Group would be eliminated. The odds were good enough, two against two, and the plan was simple enough to be foolproof. Still, they went over it one more time.

They spoke for another several minutes under the star-laden sky, and then they parted, Vasily walking down the beach to the Cabañas del Caribe, Eddie going up the beach to the Mayan Plaza. Once in front of the door to his room, he took a six-inch plastic pick from his pocket. He did not use a key to open the door. A key, or any other piece of metal, or the forcing of the door itself, would have set off a nitroglycerin bomb built into a can of shaving cream that hung from the inside doorknob. The plastic pick deactivated the detonator, and Eddie was able to enter safely. Once inside the room, he reactivated the device and checked a second, similar bomb that protected the window from intrusion. Then he lay down on the bed and composed himself to wait for the morning. He had not expected to sleep, but he did.

•

At his hotel, Vasily had no time for sleep. Once in his room, he went to work taking plastic bags and jars from his suitcase and spreading equipment on the bed. In the bathroom sink, with his hands sheathed by rubber gloves, he ground up a kilo of a chemical that looked like ordinary salt, sprinkling it with warm water to speed the process. From the bed, he took three jars of common petroleum jelly. Mixing it with the chemical, kneading it and punching it as a baker makes dough, in ten minutes he had worked the ingredients into a lump of pliable paste, which he divided and pressed into a dozen thin plastic bags.

Then, from the suitcase, he took out three long strips of a common insulation material and a bottle of sulphuric acid. He dumped the acid into the bathtub, ripped the insulation into long, spiky strands and dropped them in to soak. Hardly enough for the purpose, if he wanted to deny the area completely. He frowned, glancing round the room. There was always something. The mattress? He slit it open with a knife. It contained polystyrene foam in small, soft white chunks. He added three armloads of the foam to the insulation material in the bathtub. Still wearing his gloves, he stuffed the wet contents of the tub into two pillowcases and wrapped the rest of it in a blanket that he stripped from the bed. Outside, in the darkness, he loaded everything into the back seat of the Safari. Then he set off for the beach opposite the tip of the Palancar Reef.

The island of Cozumel was in the shape of a fat sausage snuggled north to south against the Yucatán coast. A single narrow road ran round the perimeter of the island, from the hotels bunched on (continued on page 130)Death Freak(continued from page 94) San Juan Beach on the northwest coast, past the yacht-club basin, then through the town, then south past El Presidente Hotel and Chancanab Lagoon to the Palancar Reef. The interior of the island was a flat matting of scrub and jungle, with a few seldom-used dirt tracks, hidden Mayan villages and a scattering of small ruined temples dating to the time before the Spaniards. Vasily reached the reef in darkness, but even as he began to unload the Safari, the weak light of the moon showed through the trees. A faint breeze rustled banana leaves. Battling his way through the brush and creepers, in ten minutes he reached the edge of the beach, sweating, breathing hard. The breeze had died and the air was thick with heat. Just enough moonlight bled through the jungle mist for him to see.

He worked quickly, removing the doughy substance from the plastic bags and planting each lump a few inches below the cool sand in the open spaces between the palms, then tamping down the sand with his foot, smoothing it out in some places, deliberately leaving his footprints in others. His footprints from the other mornings were everywhere and he made no effort to obliterate them; they would serve nicely as a guide for the trackers. Wet, the petroleum-jelly mixture was not yet volatile, but the first rays of the sun would begin to dry it. By nine o'clock, the full heat of the morning would harden it into plastique. Using a random pattern, he distributed the load of insulation and chunks of polystyrene foam soaked in sulphuric acid. He scattered it from the edge of the jungle all the way to the water line. Again, the sun would convert it lethally. He smiled in satisfaction. With his homemade devices, he had effectively denied the beach area to any potential intruder. His position for covering Eddie was now secure.

Vasily drove back to his hotel in the starry darkness and parked the Safari off the road. He carried his room key in his pocket and was just passing the lobby desk when the clerk hailed him.

"Señor Victor? A message for you."

Vasily studied the scrawled handwriting on the small pink slip. It said: "I miss you. Call soon." And that was followed by the area code for Washington, D. C., and a telephone number.

"You received this call?" Vasily asked politely.

"No, señor. Our telephone operator."

"Is she here?"

"No, señor. Gone home."

"It doesn't say when the call came in."

"Undoubtedly, when you were out, señor."

"Yes, undoubtedly." Vasily offered his warmest smile. "Would you place the call for me, please? Right away."

"Ahorita, señor."

Vasily slid a 100-peso note across the counter and it vanished instantly. "Please try to make it even sooner than that."

In his room, he sat in a chair, arms folded, and waited. He was calm. The cooling breeze from the air conditioner swept across his cheeks. He waited for an hour, then called the desk. The clerk was apologetic.

"I am trying," he explained, "but there is only the one line that goes from the island. Please be patient."

"Of course," said Vasily, but there were chips now in the surface of his calm. He went back to the chair, tried to sit but found that impossible. From a pocket in his suitcase, he took out a portable chessboard and a book of problems. He laid out an ending, white to mate in four, and pondered it. Lost in the dynamics of the problem, he was still aware of the passing of time. He fought against looking at his watch, and when he finally did, he saw that it was almost two in the morning. He reached for the telephone. The clerk was still apologetic but with a note of defensiveness in his voice.

"Señor, please to understand," he said. "This is not Mexico City here. This is Cozumel and the telephone service is not very . . . elegante, you understand?"

Vasily understood very well that the telephone office was most likely staffed by one sleepy Indian girl who should have been tending bar at a cantina, but he said only, "Yes, I understand. But please try again. It is important."

"De acuerdo."

Vasily hung up the telephone but stood with his hand still on it, his eyes still staring down at it, his mind finally forcing to the surface the fears he had tried to bury.

It's trouble, and it has to be big trouble, he thought. She wouldn't call for anything trivial. And until I know what it is, I can't make a move.

He tried to go back to the chessboard, but the problem, which at first had been intriguing, now only irritated him. He swept it away and laid out another ending, but he could not concentrate on the moves. He forced himself to lie on the bed with his eyes closed, breathing slowly. That actually worked; he dozed off for a while, but he was up again in 15 minutes and pacing the floor. He debated calling Eddie and alerting him, but that would have gone against all the rules of security they had established. Tapping nervous fingers on the table, his calm now completely cracked, he knew that there was nothing he could do but wait.

He waited that way through the night, the tension growing hourly. Every 30 minutes, he called the desk, and each time he was told that his telephone call was in progress. Despite his nervousness, he kept his voice cool and polite when he spoke to the clerk, knowing that one flare of anger might be enough to cancel the call. He watched the first gray cracks of dawn and then the rim of the sun coming up over the sea. He watched it rise, helpless, willing it to stop, begging it for time; but the dawn was established and the sun well up over the water when the desk clerk finally called with the triumphant announcement.

"Señor, we have succeeded. After great effort, I am now able to proclaim that your conferencia is about to begin. One moment, please, for the city of Washington."

A moment later, Chalice's voice came on the line. She wasted no time with politeness. "My God, what took you so long? I've been waiting all night."

"I've been calling all night. Quickly, what is it?"

"They know you're in Cozumel. Both of you."

Vasily took a deep breath. "They know I'm here?"

"That's right; both sides do. Ours and yours. They've figured out your next move and they've got their own little surprise planned. This is an open line. How freely may I talk?"

"As freely as you wish. If you don't tell me, I'm dead anyway."

"They're working together in a combined operation, six CIA agents and six K. G. B., with the Cuban in command. Yours is a lure, theirs is a counterlure. That's all I know. He wouldn't tell me any details."

"The usual source? He's there in Williamsburg?"

"Of course."

"I was hoping he would be here."

"No, he's up here safe and sound. Darling, don't you think this calls for a change in your vacation plans? Why not try the mountains instead of the ocean?"

"My thoughts exactly. I must jump now. Many thanks, my love."

He hung up to the sound of her chuckle, but there was no joy in his voice as he called the desk and asked to be put through to Eddie's hotel. The sun was high, his watch read after seven o'clock, and there was no time now to worry about security.

Vasily listened, drumming his fingers lightly against his cigarette case. The telephone buzzed and stopped, buzzed and stopped, with that peculiar, inexplicable monotony that somehow tells the caller after the second ring that it won't be picked up, that no one is there.

The polite but tired Mexican voice said, "Señor, no contesta."

"Are you certain you're ringing the right room? Two-oh-four? ¿Dos cero quatro?"

"Si, señor, pero no contesta. Señor Morrison ha salido."

"How long ago did he leave?"

"¿Quien sabe? Ten, maybe fifteen minutes."

For the second time in moments, Vasily hung up the phone and stood staring at it. Eddie on his way to dive, perhaps already on the boat, and no way to warn him that the odds had changed. From even money, two on two, they had gone to six-to-one underdogs. He resisted the impulse to pull the telephone out by the wire and hurl it across the room, forcing himself to examine his options coldly. His mind rolled over them, but he could find only two.

There are no true options, he told himself, but only two unpalatable choices. Either I stay or I go. If I stay and cover him, I am going against suicidal odds. Every instinct tells me to get out of here quickly. Borgneff's First Law of Survival. It's too late to try the ferry, but there are plenty of fishermen who'd take me to the mainland for a price.

The trouble is . . . I like Eddie. After nearly 50 years of the business called living, he stands as my only friend.

The thought took him by surprise, yet he realized that it touched an area of truth. Eddie was his friend, and to abandon him would not be easy, but it would be in conformity with his lifelong principles. To attempt to save him, given the new odds, would be difficult, almost impossible, and probably fatal. Yet, as he voiced the choices silently, he knew that he was going to try.

I owe him that much, and I owe myself the opportunity to make the beau geste. Besides, Chalice would never forgive me if I didn't.

Smiling to himself, secretly pleased by his lapse into romanticism, he grabbed his two prepacked suitcases and raced down the stairs to the lobby. In minutes, he had paid his bill to the yawning clerk and was in the Safari, driving along the broken, pitted road that led to the yacht basin. He kept his speed down, glancing often into the rearview mirror and scanning the sea as well as the road ahead. The sun was already hot, baking down. The breeze dried his sweat. Just before the yacht-club basin, a few hundred yards ahead on the road, he saw two Mexican workmen in the left-hand lane. One of them was tarring the road surface with a roller, the other held a tattered red flag in his hand.

Mexican workmen at 7:30 in the morning?

Vasily took his foot off the accelerator and lightly touched the brake, shifting down into second gear.

The Mexicans looked up casually and the man with the red flag waved it, beckoning him ahead. Both men wore sombreros, the white guayabera Mayan shirts, baggy white trousers and sandals. But under their sombreros, even at that distance, Vasily could see that their faces were pale. Too pale.

He swung the Safari into a tight turn, braked, jammed to a stop and backed up. Give them a chance, he thought . . . could be wrong. If they're workmen, they'll shrug and go back to their tarring. If not. . . .

The man with the red flag suddenly dropped it to the ground and, from the brush, two BMW motorcycles catapulted out onto the road, bouncing hard, engines backfiring and spitting. Vasily wrenched the wheel to the left, slammed the gearshift into second and brought the Safari screeching round on the road, gunning it, right foot down to the floor board. In less than ten seconds, he was in third gear and up to 50 miles an hour, streaking toward the hotel. The wrong direction, he realized. And with nowhere to go. A few yards beyond the Mayan Plaza, the road ended. There was nothing but jungle to the right, the sea to the left. On those BMWs, they would overtake him even before he reached the Cabañas del Caribe.

Gripping the wheel tightly with his left hand, with the other he reached behind and pulled one of his suitcases into the front seat. In the rearview mirror, he saw the BMWs looming larger, the goggled heads of the riders tucked down behind the plastic shields. He spun the wheel hard and hit the brake. The Safari bounded off the road and into the brush to the lip of the jungle. Then he was out of the car, hauling the suitcase with him, stumbling, running, a fresh pain shooting through one ankle. He kept the suitcase close to his body as the undergrowth tried to wrench it from his grasp. No shots so far. The jungle closed in around him. Suddenly, it was darker, the turf underfoot soft and muddy. A monkey screeched and a bright-green macaw fluttered over his head. He breathed in the foulness of the place as he ran, stumbled and batted back the creepers and vines.

Sorry, Eddie, he thought. I wanted to help, I truly did. But you're on your own now. And so am I.

Eddie, on his own, stood in the bow of the Santa Ysabel and scanned the smooth seas around him. The boat was alone on the sea, with no sign of other craft, but he knew one would come, and soon. Two hundred yards across the water, the beach and the low-lying jungle also showed no sign of life, but he knew that Vasily was in there, waiting. Behind him, he heard Isidoro cut the engine and come running forward to drop the hook. The Mexican paid out cable until the anchor hit bottom. The Santa Ysabel coasted forward, then pulled up short, swinging with the current.

"Bueno," Isidoro said. "You dive now?"

"First a beer. You want a cerveza?"

"Beer is bad before dive," said the Mexican, but he licked his lips.

"One is OK. And you're not diving."

Eddie snapped open a can and handed another, unopened, to Isidoro, who smiled his thanks. The Mexican snapped open the can, tilted it to his lips and swallowed.

"Hits the spot, doesn't it?" said Eddie.

"You sold-out son of a bitch."

Isidoro didn't answer. His eyes rolled and the can slipped from his fingers. He sat down heavily on the deck. His eyes closed and his head tipped over to one side. Eddie checked the eyes to make sure he was out, then pulled him into the cockpit, propped him against the slats in a sitting position and adjusted the sombrero on his head. Loaded with chloral hydrate and dead to the world for hours to come, Isidoro looked like every caricature ever made of a Mexican taking a siesta in the noonday sun.

There was still no other boat in sight. Eddie unzipped the dive bag and laid out his equipment. He made a final check, tested his tanks and then, after he had struggled into the Calypso and strapped on the weight belt and knife, he activated the Wet-Phone.

"This is the bait calling the fisherman. How's it going, tovarich?"

He waited patiently for Vasily's reply, then spoke again. "Hey, come on in; don't be shy. Or didn't you pay your phone bill?"

No reply came from the jungle. Eddie peered toward the brush, shielding his eyes from the glitter of sun bouncing off the water. He was within range and the equipment was functioning.

"Santa Ysabel calling. Confirm reception. Confirm reception, damn it."

Once again, he checked the battery pack and the potting compound around the electronics. The batteries were fresh and the unit dry.

"Santa Ysabel calling. Say something, (continued on page 218) Death Freak(continued from page 132) Vasily. Anything."

The water lapped against the hull of the boat and the mast creaked in the breeze. There was no other sound. He was alone on the sea. Nothing stirred on the shore.

Eddie sighed unhappily. This is terrific. What does the bait do when the fisherman is out to lunch?

He glanced over his shoulder, then slowly turned. A single fishing boat had appeared on the northern horizon. He could see the creamy white wave sliding by its bow as it bore down on him across the bright-blue water.

•

Sweating, gasping, his heart pounding fiercely, Vasily crouched behind the shelter of a stunted coconut palm. The jungle pressed in from all sides; 20 feet away lay only green darkness. He listened for footsteps, heard none but knew that he had only minutes in which to prepare. He spun the combination lock on the suitcase and unloaded the hardware. He quickly assembled the Dragunov rifle and clamped on the magazine. From another compartment he took three pieces of white plastic and screwed them together so that they became a modified hair drier. From the third compartment he gingerly lifted out a box of tea bags.

It took only minutes to distribute the tea bags in a wide circle round the coconut tree, but they were minutes of pounding fear. Back at the tree, he took deep breaths to calm himself, listened carefully but again heard nothing more than the rustling of fronds overhead and the distant call of monkeys. Crouched on one knee, the rifle cradled in his arm, the hair drier resting on the turf beside him, he settled back to wait.

•

A low, flat boom sounded from the emerald-green jungle---then another. The two echoes flew out over the silver-blue shimmer of water. Every muscle in Eddie's body tightened. Half blinded by the glare, his eyes strained toward the beach. He saw nothing.

"Vasily!" he shrieked into the Wet-Phone. "What's going on?"

He heard the same buzz of static as before. No voice, no response. He struggled into the harness, tightening the straps with unsteady fingers, feeling the weight of the tank tug at his back and shoulder muscles. The Santa Ysabel rode over 30 feet of water on the high shelf just outside the reef. Hefting the second tank, Eddie pitched it overboard, watching it tumble and then slide downward through pale-green water toward the bottom, a school of blowfish veering hastily from the lazy path of its descent. The water was so clear that he could see the white patch of brain coral where it finally quivered to rest. By then, he had yanked on his fins, clamped the mask down over his face. He shot a quick look at the fishing boat now closing to within 100 yards of him. There were three men on deck, all divers in wet suits, the hooked tips of their spear guns glinting in the sun.

Three?

For the first time, he was truly fearful. He had expected Romeo and possibly Parker to back him up. But three? Three divers who could go like sharks, three sharks against one clumsy dolphin. If there were three on board, how many were there ashore? He began to understand why the Wet-Phone was silent.

He had just fixed the Nikonos camera to its harness and was reaching for his spear gun when he saw it happen from the corner of his eye. The figure of a man broke out of the jungle and onto the beach. Vasily? No. There was something strange in the way that the man sprinted awkwardly on the sand, kicking up gouts of it in flight. Then he suddenly twisted, stumbled, and a rifle spun from his grasp. He lay writhing on the white sand.

Understanding nothing, Eddie looked over his shoulder. The oncoming boat was within 50 yards, bearing down, bow slapping blue water, the wake frothing. The three divers bent within the shelter of the windward gunwales, using the coach roof as a shield. A machine pistol stuttered; chips of wood sprayed from the mast. Eddie jammed the regulator into his mouth, sucked sweet air, clamped a hand to his mask and launched himself over the side.

The water closed over his head and in seconds he was in that other world, cool and lovely and green, silent except for the sharp, labored sound of his own breathing. His bubbles blooped and bleeped reassuringly upward toward the surface. He flipped over, waggled his fins and shot downward too rapidly, feeling the pressure pound into his ears. He cleared them at ten feet, did it again at 20, then finally tilted his head back to purge the mask of water. The fog cleared and he could see. A grouper with bulging eyes watched him warily and three or four black-and-white-banded butterfly fish hurried prudently away.

At 30 feet, he saw his spare tank resting on the brain coral and, beyond it, a slanting bed of staghorn where the reef tumbled down and out in a series of tunnels and caves. He kicked himself downward, aware of the clear and brilliant water, cursing the brightness and the sun that was now his enemy. His choices were limited. If he sheltered in a cave, he would be hidden but immobilized. If he stayed in the open, he would be mobile but visible. He did not consider the choices; he simply acted. Panic drove him toward a tunnel and he plunged for it as fish floated by undisturbed.

•

The two men on the boat with Arteaga were also Cubans, Santos and Jimenez, both certified N.A.U.I. divers trained at the agency school at Key West. Like Eddie, the three had heard the explosions on the shore and had seen the man stumble and fall on the beach. Also like Eddie, they were totally confused. Arteaga spoke sharply into his radio.

"Come in, Beach Ops, this is Boat Ops."

Thomas Crowfoot's thin voice came back clearly and calmly. "Go ahead, Boat."

"Our man just went overboard. We're about to go in after him. What the hell is happening on the beach?"

"Continue with your mission, Boat. The beach operation has been temporarily disrupted."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arteaga said angrily. "Unless you get Borgneff pinned down, we can't move."

"Borgneff is nowhere near the beach. Carry on," said Crowfoot, and he signed off. He shook his head sadly and reviewed the situation on the beach.

The point man, an American from TSD, had been the first to go. He had crouched behind a palm tree and his knee had touched the sand. Beneath that sand lay one of the now dry lumps of the petroleum-jelly mixture that Vasily had sown last night. The homemade plastique charge exploded on contact. The American's left leg went in one direction, the rest of his body, smashed and shredded, flew against the tree. Less than a minute later, one of the Russians stepped on a second charge. He screamed wildly as the explosive tore upward and burst through his groin into his chest.

A third man, another Russian, vaulted up over the matted dunes onto the beach. He wore light summer clothing and a breeze blew in off the sea. He was struck immediately by a strand of insulation. It only touched his ankle above his shoe, but the pain threw him to the ground. He screamed, too. He began to crawl back toward the jungle and the heel of his hand came into contact with a tiny piece of polystyrene foam from the hotel mattress. He screamed again.

•

On the boat, Romeo spoke rapidly in Spanish to the two other Cubans. Santos tossed out the anchor and the boat rode over it until it bit. The fishing boat pulled up short. Jimenez cut the engine.

"Now, listen to me." Arteaga armed his spear gun and pointed inshore about 30 yards. "Look there. You can see his bubbles. Santos, you circle round from the direction of the beach. Jimenez, you come in from over there." He waved a hand toward the south. "I'll go straight in from here. He can't look in three directions at once. Take any shot you can get. You only have to wing him and he's finished."

The three divers spat into their masks, rubbed them clean, clamped them into place and tumbled over backward into the water. In a few seconds, the surface was calm again and they were undulating downward with dolphin kicks. At a signal from Arteaga, they spread out to encircle their prey.

That prey was huddled in a coral tunnel 40 feet below the surface of the water, sharing his sanctuary with a translucent jellyfish that waved its tentacles lazily, seemingly unaware of his presence. The tunnel hid him, but he knew that he was not truly concealed: his bubbles gave him away. It was only a matter of time before they came to him, and he could only wait.

He jammed the barbed point of his harpoon into the coral and unsnapped the Nikonos camera. The velocity of the dart would be sharply reduced by traveling through water, but the lethality would be unchanged. All he needed was a clear view. He pressed back against a ledge, gripping with his fins. He was out of sight of the tunnel opening, but when he pressed the button on the camera, he could see at right angles through the view finder. The view area was narrow and he moved the camera slightly up, then down, then traversed a short arc. The jellyfish swam into view, blocking the lens. Unthinking, Eddie reached out of his shelter with one hand and tried to poke with his elbow. Instantly, he felt pain, a sharp sting that spread upward toward his shoulder. Had he been able to, he would have cried out, but at that moment, he forgot the pain as the jellyfish moved out of view and its place was taken by a slim black shape approaching cautiously. Jimenez came on slowly, spear gun poised, eyes huge behind the mask, bubbles rising in the turquoise water.

The Cuban had spotted the bubbles of the prey, had seen the bright-orange flash of Eddie's BC vest retreat into the tunnel. Now all he saw was the jellyfish floating away and the bulky shape of a Nikonos protruding from the ledge, pointed in the wrong direction. No spear gun was aimed at him. His hand tightened on the trigger of his own gun and he gave a powerful flutter kick with his fins, coasting forward.

When he was in the view finder, less than ten feet away, Eddie pushed the button. The fléchette shot from the side of the camera. It took Jimenez in the shoulder, the little firecracker charge inside the dart exploding as it hit bone. The water turned from blue to red, blood flowing in thick ropy threads in all directions. Jimenez flopped over and the spear gun tumbled away toward the ocean floor.

Eddie's head emerged slowly from the tunnel and he watched the Cuban float away on the current, the blood streaming behind him. He would have stayed that way, transfixed by the sight, but the jellyfish was back again, wobbling toward him through the water. With the pain in his arm as a reminder, he jerked back his head, ducking quickly toward shelter. Something bright and sharp flashed by, inches away, then vanished, arcing down. A slender steel shaft. He whipped round and saw Santos.

The second Cuban had entered the other end of the tunnel and had come up from behind. He had fired from five meters and would have hit had it not been for the jellyfish. He was already reloading a second shaft. Eddie snatched at his own gun, freeing the barb from the coral. It was all reflex now; he had one chance, no more. As he brought the pneumatic gun up, it felt as if it weighed 50 pounds. Santos clicked the second shaft home. With his gun hip high, Eddie squeezed the heavy trigger. The powerful harpoon zoomed silently through the water, sliced across Santos' arm and plunged into his chest. As he died, the Cuban pulled his own trigger and his second shaft slammed through the tunnel, through the baggy pink shape of the jellyfish, and then off into nothingness. Wide-eyed, Eddie watched as Santos drifted downward, regulator dangling to one side, blood streaming from his mouth like curdled red milk. He yanked hard and the harpoon disengaged, sliding back to him on its nylon line. He checked his air: half a tank left. The blood and adrenaline pumped through him in surges, elating him. Two down, only Arteaga to go.

He came out of the tunnel smoothly, moving fast and breathing easily, a small white shark. The water cleared from the murky blue of the tunnel to a dazzling, sun-suffused green. He turned in a tight circle, searching in all lateral directions, then up and down. He saw Arteaga far above him and out of range. The Cuban was flutter-kicking toward the dark shape of his boat. Eddie moved slowly upward, spear gun ready, prepared to take him when he dived.

But Arteaga didn't dive. He turned once and Eddie, 30 feet below and behind, looked directly into his eyes. Behind the mask, Arteaga seemed to be smiling, and with one hand he waved, almost a salute. A moment later, he was gone, stroking powerfully toward the boat. Eddie saw his feet grip the rope ladder that hung from the side, then the legs surged up and Arteaga vanished.

Within a moment, Eddie heard the bark of the inboard engine as first it sputtered, then caught, and far above him he saw the silver flashing of the single screw. The sound of the motor was no more than a dull, distant hum that was lost as it penetrated the fathoms of green water: even the fish were undisturbed. Then he saw the anchor chain tighten as the dark shadow of the boat moved forward several feet and then stopped. The screw continued to whirl, the engine idling in neutral.

Eddie watched the long line of his bubbles ascending. They no longer bleeped and blooped merrily but went up in a sad procession. The elation he had felt after the first two kills was gone, replaced by a numbing depression. Then he had been ready to take on Arteaga mano à mano, but now he knew he would never have the chance. He checked his air again; 600 pounds of pressure left. That, plus the second tank resting on the brain coral, gave him no more than an hour of dive time. Bright, clever Romeo Arteaga, always four moves ahead in chess, was one move ahead once again. If Eddie swam, Romeo would follow the bubbles. If Eddie stayed still, Romeo would patiently wait. No mano à mano for Arteaga, not after losing two good men. He was simply going to sit up on top and wait until the prey ran out of air and had to surface. And there was nothing that the prey could do about it.

•

During the Vietnam war, the United States Army sowed untold numbers of antipersonnel devices known as gravel mines throughout the jungle areas of Southeast Asia. The tea bags that Vasily distributed around the coconut palm were modifications of this device. The first Russian who stepped on a tea bag, less than 50 feet from where Vasily crouched behind the tree, had his right leg blown to jelly from the foot to the knee. That man was Major Marchenko.

Vasily broke from cover as soon as he heard the muffled swat of the explosion, followed by the scream of agony. He ran low, keeping to the mine-free aisle he had left open, suitcase in one hand, hair drier in the other. It took him more than a minute to battle through the underbrush to the wounded man, who lay where he had fallen, moaning pitifully, bleeding to death. His weapon, a Makarov pistol, had been flung aside. Marchenko's eyes rolled in shock, then fastened on Vasily.

"Borgneff," he gasped. The Russian words broke painfully from his twisted lips. "Finish it. Kill me now."

Vasily stared down, swallowing hard. There had been a time when he had known the man well.

"Comrade, please." Marchenko was begging. "For the love of God, do it."

For the love of God? Vasily came close to smiling, as he thought: In the face of death, we are all of us virgins. This man would have killed me, and not for the love of God.

"Nyet, nyet," Vasily said softly. "Ni spishitye. U vas mnoga vryemini. Don't rush. You have plenty of time. Be patient, it won't take long to die."

He kicked aside the Makarov pistol and stepped into the fringe of the jungle, into the deep shadows. He clenched his teeth as Marchenko began to scream incoherently. Moments later, he heard the quiet crackling of brush, leaves being swept aside, damp branches bending and tearing but not breaking. Then there was a hush, the deep uncanny hush of the jungle. Then movement again, a cautious tread. Twenty feet away, Vasily guessed. I need him closer. But if he sees me first and he's carrying a machine pistol, I'm a dead man. He forced himself to wait, until finally he saw a darker hulk than the shadows, something black in the bottle-green foliage. And then a second silhouette, struck by an errant ray of sunlight. There were two of them.

Close enough, and he raised the hair drier waist high. He squeezed the trigger. A jet of red-orange flame spurted out, roaring, crackling, filling the jungle with terrifying light and sound, engulfing the black human shapes in its path. Again the screams came, again in Russian, but when he released the trigger and the flame swept back to leave only shadows, there was silence from the two charred bodies huddled under palm fronds.

Vasily picked up the pistol and turned back to where Marchenko lay. The blue eyes still stared up at him, but they were the eyes of a dead man. Vasily murmured, "I would have done it for you, comrade. But you were in a hurry. I understand."

Ten minutes later, he had reached the main road, approaching it cautiously. The last of the Russians waited there, bent on one knee next to his motorcycle, a Kalashnikov AKM under his arm. Very quietly, Vasily fitted a box of the rim-fire cartridges into the breech of the Dragunov. Gently, he slid the barrel between two banana leaves and notched the sights on the center of the motorcyclist's chest.

He sighed. After all he had done, it seemed such a prosaic way to kill.

He sighed again, but this time held his breath for a second, then squeezed the trigger. As if he had been snatched by a violent wind, the motorcyclist flew back five yards across the road and landed on the dirt shoulder, chest smashed, arms outflung and unmoving.

Vasily rushed for the Safari, its front fender crumpled against the trunk of a dead tree. The engine caught on the first turn of the key. He bumped up out of the ditch onto the road, hesitated a moment, then shifted into second gear and turned toward the Palancar Reef.

•

Thirty feet below the surface, on the bed of brain coral, Eddie's hands shook as he changed air tanks. He had not thought this possible underwater, but they shook with good reason. Caught by a mild wave surge, the second tank slipped away, bumping along the slope and down toward the blue-green depths. His eyes bulged out in panic. He had already taken the necessary deep breath, spat out his regulator and detached it from the first, nearly empty cylinder. The only air he owned was in his lungs. He grabbed for the second tank and his foot hit the camera, sending it floating off the ledge and down into the canyon. It was then that his hands shook. By the time he caught up with the tank and clamped his regulator to it, his legs had been badly scraped on the coral. He blew out the regulator and sucked deeply, taking in salt water that seared his lungs, and then at last the sweet fresh supply of air.

When his hands had stopped shaking, he figured his time again. No more than an hour. Above him, the propeller of Arteaga's boat turned lazily as the Cuban waited.

Fantasies crowded Eddie's head, complex plans for fouling the boat's propeller and making a run for shore, but he knew they were only dreams. The propeller was only four feet from the surface and, although a bullet would not be lethal at that depth, a spear gun would. He was still the prey, and nothing more. Wherever he moved, if he tried to circle the boat and clamber aboard, it would be simple for Arteaga to follow his movements and spot him as he broke the surface. He gripped his spear gun with one hand and with the other eased the diving knife into its sheath. He was armed, but he had no one to fight with.

•

Arteaga checked his watch as he sat in the cockpit of the boat. Fifty minutes had passed and he figured Eddie for ten minutes' more worth of air, at most. His eyes followed the bubbles that broke on the surface. They usually broke in the same place, though sometimes they moved off a few feet. He smiled coldly and flipped off the safety catch of the Colt Commando. As soon as Eddie Mancuso was six inches from the surface, he was ready to rip his head off. The trail of bubbles began to move forward swiftly.

He's going to come at me from the bow, Arteaga decided. He'll try to hide under the boat, then surface fast. He switched on his radio.

"Boat Ops here. He's coming out. I've got him."

Crowfoot said calmly, "Be careful."

"It's like a shooting gallery. I'll leave the radio on. You can listen."

Almost immediately, Crowfoot heard the faint and muted sound of an explosion come clearly through the radio. Another quickly followed.

"Beach Ops calling. Do you have him?"

He waited patiently, but there was no answer. Then there was a series of evenly spaced dry snaps: more firing. He was still patient, waiting for Arteaga to confirm the kill.

On the boat, the Cuban bent in the shelter of the coach roof on the starboard bow. The first shot from the jungle had missed his head by inches and torn away the handrail. If he hadn't been moving quickly toward the bow, he would have been dead. The second shot slammed through the coach roof, tearing out a chunk of wood the size of a fist.

"Chinga el diablo!" he muttered. He was pinned down, couldn't move. The pupils of his eyes dilated. Under him, the boat shuddered and he heard the steady crack of the rifle. The boat shuddered again. That's a high-powered rifle, he realized. What the hell is the son of a bitch using in it?

The miniature, metal-cased cherry bombs loaded into the Dragunov thumped solidly into the hull at the water line, exploding on contact, splintering wood, sieving the hull. Vasily fired with a leisurely regularity, but he could not see Eddie, and time was important. He slipped a fresh box into the magazine, sighting carefully through the telescopic sight until the cross hairs lined up on the stern. A hit on the gas tank would end it swiftly. He squeezed the trigger.

Arteaga felt the boat spin at least a foot as the impact of the cherry bomb sheered it round. On the third shot, the gas tank exploded, the stern of the boat disintegrating, smoke and flames licking up over the deck. The sea flowed through into the cockpit, fighting the fire, but the stern was settling, sinking, the boat already listing to port where the first charges had torn holes in the hull. Arteaga slipped into his tank harness and fins, clamped the mask over his face, dropped the Colt and snatched his spear gun. He launched himself over the side.

He had never known the shock of water to be so painful. He couldn't understand it. The water seemed to tear at his vitals, ripping up into his body as though it were bladed. His sight cleared for an instant as soon as he was below the surface: Everything was magnified through the glass of his mask, a green-and-red panorama. The green was water, the red was blood. His own blood. In front of him, staring through his own mask, was Eddie Mancuso. His hand was outstretched, as if in welcome. At the end of the hand was the shaft of a diving knife, and the knife was buried six inches deep into Arteaga's abdomen.

The regulator slipped from his mouth. Water flooded his lungs. The knife slid out smoothly, the world turned dark and Romeo Arteaga drifted away.

Eddie broke the surface, jammed the snorkel between his teeth and began to breast-stroke toward the Santa Ysabel.

•

Vasily waded out through the surf. He handed Eddie the suitcase, then the rifle, and then hauled himself over the gunwale and onto the deck.

"Get us out of here quickly," he said. "You know, you could have come in closer to the beach. I'm soaked."

Eddie spun the wheel, still in his glistening wet suit. He laughed. "So what? So am I. And I'm also alive."

Vasily came up to the cockpit. He looked down at Isidoro snoring happily. Then he looked over the side as they passed the spot where the other boat had settled to the bottom.

"Did you get Arteaga?" he asked.

"Him and two others."

"Marchenko's dead. Plus three more Russians in the jungle and a couple on the beach."

"Russians? Jesus, what the hell hit us?"

"A combined operation. Six CIA and six K.G.B. We were mousetrapped. I tried to warn you, but-----"

"How did you find out?"

"Chalice."

"Chalice? How the hell did she know?"

"I tried to warn you, but by the time I got the word-----"

"From Chalice?"

"Exactly. You had already left for the boat and there was nothing I could do. After that, things got rather hectic."

"But how did Chalice know . . .?"

Vasily waved the question aside and lowered himself to the deck with a weary grunt. He sat cross-legged on the planking and told Eddie what had happened in the jungle. He told it quietly and without dramatics, but his face showed the strain that his voice ignored. Eddie listened soberly, nodding.

"You could have split," he said when Vasily finished. "You didn't. Thanks."

"A moment of weakness." Vasily smiled faintly. "A sign of advancing age. Don't count on it happening again."

"About Chalice. Are you going to tell me?"

"All in good time." Vasily closed his eyes in concentration. "Right now, the important thing is to figure out how we get back to the mainland."

Eddie stared at him peculiarly. "Have you had a hard day at the office, dear?"

Vasily opened his eyes and said impatiently, "Come, come, start thinking. What do we do? Those people are bound to have the ferry and the airport covered."

"How about using a fishing boat?" Eddie asked quietly.

"A boat? Ah, yes . . . a boat." Vasily flushed and tapped the decking with his fingers. "Apparently, I'm more fatigued than I thought. Well, don't act so superior. I would have figured it out eventually."

"Sure you would have," Eddie said politely. "I just saved you some time. Any idea which way is Mexico?"

Vasily waved a languid hand toward the west. "Turn left at the corner and go that way. Then open a couple of beers while I tell you about Chalice. It's about time you knew, and there's a lot to tell."

"With his homemade devices, he had effectively denied the beach area to any potential intruder."

"He twisted, stumbled, and a rifle spun from his grasp. He lay writhing on the white sand."