The Perfect Assassin (27 page)

“You’d be good at that. The trusting part.”

Christine smiled.

“So what was your favorite rotation? Isn’t that what they call them?”

“Yes. OB-GYN. I delivered a baby a few months ago. It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever done. Have you ever seen a child born?”

He hesitated on the question, one that should have required no thought. “Once,” he said.

For the thousandth time Christine wondered what was going on in his head. They shuffled ahead silently and she hoped he would explain, that he’d lift the veil for once and show a part of himself. When nothing came, she decided not to push.

“This reminds me of a beach back home,” she said. “I used to go there when I was a girl. The dunes seem endless. Then, just when you think you’ll never reach the water, it appears out of nowhere.”

“Was this in Florida?”

“Yeah. Where I grew up.”

He nodded, “It’s good to have a place you can call home. Someday you’ll probably be taking your daughter to that same beach.”

She laughed, “I never thought about it, but I suppose you’re right. As long as someone doesn’t stack it with condominiums first.”

They crested a rise and suddenly the Atlantic was before them. The waters were dark, almost black in color, punctuated by white streaks of foam. Waves broke up and down the beach, producing a never-ending series of hollow thuds, weary travelers slamming down to announce their arrival, then churning and clawing the last few feet up to shore. They stood in silence, mesmerized by nature’s perpetual show.

“Every beach sounds a little different,” Christine said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Lots of variables. Sandbars, the steepness of the upslope just offshore. Then the bottom might be any combination of sand, rock, coral, or loose pebbles.”

“Now that’s one thing I’ve never tried to deduce scientifically.”

“But you are a scientist, Dr. Palmer.”

“Maybe, but some things are better left a mystery.”

He dropped their belongings to the sand and set out toward the waterline. Christine followed suit.

“It was part of some training I took many years ago, waterborne as-sault. The water might be an ocean, a lake, a swamp, or a ditch full of sewage. Whatever it was, you had to know the line where water met earth like the back of your hand. A moonless night or zero visibility in the water was no excuse. Use the compass and watch, feel your way if necessary.” His voice grew detached as he went on, “The water was your way in, your way to get close, the sanctuary you owned. But sooner or later the time would come to get out. And you’d better be in the right place. Not too far from your partner or too close to the guard shack where …” his voice trailed off. “Sorry, here you are trying to show some heartfelt appreciation of nature, and I give you a short course on covert amphibious assault techniques. You’re right. Some things are better left a mystery.”

She gave no reply.

“I guess I’ve learned a lot of peculiar things over the years.”

Christine remembered, “When I found you in the ocean there were shoe laces tied around the bottom of your pants legs. Was that one?”

“Yeah. It’s a cold-water survival trick, on the same concept as a wet suit. If you can’t keep cold water out, at least contain a narrow warm layer next to your skin. It buys a little time. I don’t remember where I picked that one up. Probably on a beach at three in the morning with some big guy behind me screaming it would save my life someday.” He stopped and shifted his gaze to sea. “Maybe it did.”

“Then I’m glad you learned it.” Christine watched for a reaction, but like always, there was none. He simply stood staring at the frigid ocean.

They sat down together facing the water. Neither spoke as the bitterly cold ocean rose and fell to meet the shore. An occasional cry from a seagull punctuated the surf’s rhythmic chaos. Evening was fast approaching and the overcast skies accelerated the loss of light. Christine looked to their right up the coastline. It was straight and featureless as far as she could see. In the other direction the beach made a gradual curve out to sea, then turned back in, disappearing from view four or five miles away. There, at the point, she could barely discern a pair of faint, yellow lights. The only other sign of civilization was an old fishing dory overturned on the beach behind them. It was parked above the high water line, probably for the season. The isolation seemed almost complete.

“It feels good to be out here, away from everything,” she said. “It’s as though I’m back on
Windsom
.”

“But you’re not alone here.”

“I don’t need to be alone to feel relaxed,” she paused and then added, “do you?” Christine suddenly realized the question might seem barbed. “I’m sorry,” she fumbled, “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

He looked at her squarely, his eyes holding more feeling than she ever thought he might possess. But Christine couldn’t tell what that feeling was. His reply caught her completely offguard.

“I saw a child born once. My daughter. I was there in the delivery room, and you’re absolutely right — there were doctors, nurses, lots of blood. But all I can remember is the moment my tiny daughter came into the world. It has to be the most magnificent, awe-inspiring event on earth.”

Christine was stunned. She had weighed this complex man in so many ways, from so many angles, yet it had never crossed her mind that he might have a family.

“You have a daughter!” she exclaimed. “That’s wonderful!”

He turned back to the ocean and shook his head. “She’s dead.”

The weight of the earth came crashing down. Christine felt helpless as she grasped for something to say, something beyond the standard, pointless, “I’m so sorry.” Nothing came to mind.

He pulled out his wallet, delicately removed a photograph and handed it to her. The picture was of a small girl, probably two years old. She was laughing as a woman pushed her on a swing. The young woman had beautiful, dark features, and a vivacious sparkle in her eyes, a characteristic unmistakably reiterated in the little girl.

“She’s beautiful,” Christine said, trying to recover. “This is her mother?”

“My wife. She’s dead as well.”

“My God! What happened?”

“Katya, my wife, and little Elise were riding a bus home from the library and …” he struggled to find words and Christine noticed his hand digging into the beach, a fistful of sand squeezed remorselessly.

“Was there an accident?”

“No. It was no accident. It was three men with AK-47s and grenades. They got on the bus and wiped out twenty-two people, three of them children.” His hand kept clenching, faster and harder. His voice rose, “My daughter survived for a few hours. But I couldn’t get there in time to be with her. Do you know what a fragmentation grenade does to a two-year-old body, doctor? Do you?”

Slaton closed his eyes and Christine put her hand over his. She held it until the grasping stopped, then kept holding. Neither said a word.

Gradually, the light faded, and an occasional drop of rain gave promise of more to come. Neither seemed to care as they sat watching the open sea, both mesmerized by their own private thoughts.

It was Slaton who finally broke the silence. “You know, I thought about becoming a doctor myself. A long time ago, back when I was at university. There must be a tremendous sense of satisfaction, working to save lives.”

“You make it sound like we’re all saints. I know a lot of people who went to medical school just because they wanted to make good money, or satisfy their egos.”

“Maybe. But even those types can justify what they do. It’s a noble calling.”

Christine handed back the photograph and he slid it carefully into his wallet. She shivered as a gust of wind swept by.

“It’s getting cold.” he said.

“A little.”

“Let’s get a fire started, then we can eat.”

They both went foraging at the high tide line and easily scavenged enough driftwood and dry grass for a small fire. Slaton set up camp next to the old wooden dory, using it as a windbreak. The boat, about fifteen feet in length, had probably not been used since the summer. Only a few flakes of red bottom paint remained on its weather-beaten hull. Behind the boat was a rusty old fifty-five gallon drum. Slaton gave it a kick and the hollow rapport confirmed that it was empty. He started building a fire right next to the boat.

“The weather’s about to take a turn for the worse,” she said, pointing out at the water. The dark clouds that had hung over the sea now seemed to reach down and touch it. A heavy, moisture-laden blanket was enveloping the horizon to the east and north.

“I think you’re right.”

“I’d hate to head back to the car,” Christine lamented. “I like it here. The rest of the world seems so far away.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

A light drizzle started to fall. The fire caught and began to burn steadily, notwithstanding the occasional hiss of a raindrop. Slaton threw on a few more sticks and looked at the boat.

“I’ve got an idea.”

He went to the boat and lifted one side slightly to test its weight.

“What is it?”

He rolled the empty metal drum right up to the boat. “I’ll lift this side up, you roll the drum underneath.”

“All right.”

Slaton put both hands under the gunnel of the dory and heaved up with all his strength, raising it just far enough for Christine to maneuver the drum underneath. With the drum in place, he lowered the side of the boat to rest on it, creating a makeshift lean-to. He gave the arrangement a few shoves to ensure it was solid, then spread out a blanket under their newly formed shelter. Moving the rest of their belongings in, they found enough room to be able to sit up.

The wind calmed as the drizzle thickened to a steady, light rain. The fire was situated just outside their new shelter, its smoke drifting up and away, but the radiant warmth filling their refuge. Dinner was a loaf of French bread, tart cheese, and bottled water. They took the meager meal in silence, both enjoying the simple fare and, accordingly, the simple sound of raindrops tapping the thick wooden hull overhead. Afterwards, they watched as the fire’s flames danced and reflected obscurely off the rusted metal drum.

Christine spoke in a quiet voice, not wanting to interrupt the rain’s soothing echoes. “How long can we stay here, David?”

Their eyes met, and Christine noticed how completely he was looking at her. There was no caution, no glancing over her shoulder. The alertness that had always encompassed him was now completely gone.

“We can stay as long as we like.”

No other words were spoken. On their knees, they faced one another. She leaned forward and kissed him gently. She felt him tremble as she ran her hands up his arms to his shoulders. She slowly unbuttoned the front of his shirt, and with each unclasping he took a breath. When she finally removed his shirt and put her hands on his bare chest, he drew in a short, sharp gasp. It was as though he was being touched for the first time. Christine ran her hands along his naked back, feeling the hardness and the scars. Then she leaned back, unbuttoned her own shirt and pressed her naked chest to his. His hands began to respond, enveloping and stroking. Her own breathing quickened and they laid down.

The kidon’s hands trembled no more as he reveled in a glory he could scarcely remember.

Chapter Thirteen

The rising sun stirred them both from a deep sleep, its warming rays reflecting into their quiet retreat. Their bodies lay entwined in a blanket beneath the old fishing dory, still and close. Neither wanted to disturb the sanctuary they’d discovered, and so both maintained a deliberate silence. Words could only lead back to reality.

Christine was watching a seagull glide silently by when she felt him tense. He cocked his head, then sat up abruptly.

“David, what is it?”

Slaton scrambled over to the fire, which had long ago died out, and began shoveling sand over the spent ashes. Then Christine heard it too — the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approaching. With the fire well covered, he pulled her back as far as they could go under the boat. The noise from the aircraft got louder and louder, drowning out the sounds of the sea that had held them for so many hours.

“Do you think it’s the police?”

“More likely the military. I doubt they routinely patrol the coastline here, so it’s probably just a crew making a sightseeing run up the beach. But they could have some kind of infrared sensor. That’s why I doused what was left of the fire.”

“It burned out hours ago.”

“There might still be enough heat in the embers to contrast with the cool sand.”

The sound reached a crescendo, then changed in pitch as the helicopter passed overhead. They peeked out to watch the big bird. Christine saw it maneuver inland, then reverse course back to the coastline, a big sweeping
S
turn. The sound began to fade, and soon the craft disappeared into a curtain of haze.

“He didn’t seem very interested.”

“No …” Slaton replied.

They dressed and came out from under the shelter. Christine stretched her limbs while Slaton stood alertly, a hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the low eastern sun. His attention was still fixed on the sky, as if he expected the big machine to come swooping back at any moment.

“We’ve got to go,” he announced.

Christine said nothing. Of course they had to go, she thought. They had no food, the water was almost gone, and their accommodations were comical. Yet after last night, not running like a hunted animal, but feeling secure, relaxed, even loved. She wished they could stay here forever.

“They may have seen our car.”

“Would the engine still be warm?” she asked.

“No. But the car is metal. At dusk it cools faster and at dawn it warms more quickly than the sand and vegetation. It would stand out like a star in the night sky on an infrared scope.”

“So you think they saw it?”

“Actually, I doubt it. But there’s no way to be sure. If they did spot it, the fact that it’s parked back in the scrub would only make it more suspicious. We can’t take the chance. If we get caught out here in the open there aren’t many ways out.”