Noel Hynd - The Sandler Inquiry

Where Hammond had been.

They staggered to their feet and ran. Leslie's hand had already wobbled to the pistol she carried. She'd released the safety catch, but it was meaningless now. The target had already fled, leaving only a trap for those who followed.

They rounded the house and saw Hammond, or what was left of him. It was immediately clear what had happened.

The career man, in his fatigue, had tired of knocking at the door and had tried the doorknob. Yes, the door had opened, but the -reception had been warmer than Hammond could have ever expected.

The front door had been booby-trapped, the last vicious act by a man of malice and deception. Zenger had fled, knowing that it was now a matter of time before others came for him. He had left his calling card.

The body of Hammond was thrown pathetically fifty feet from the front door. It lay broken and bleeding, the clothes on the front torn away, the skin roasted and seared by the force of the explosion.

Mercifully, he lay face down, his arms and legs twisted into impossible contortions and splintered at the limbs.

For the first time, Leslie showed signs of breaking, repeating "No, no, no," over and over and pleading with no one in particular,

"It was meant for me, it was meant for me!"

Thomas looked at the appalling sight, Hammond dead without question, Leslie standing, holding the pistol at her side, seeing what the years had brought her to, and the picturesque old house now starting to burn.

A rage built within Thomas, overcoming his fear. He was gripped with a sense of the unfinished, of wanting to add finality to this case.

He gripped the pistol in his pocket. He turned toward the house.

He ran through the burning doorway.

The wind, fortunately, was sweeping the smoke outside, though feeding the flames at the same time. He envisioned himself trapped in the burning house, dying of smoke and flames just as his office had died weeks earlier. Every streak of common sense told him to leave the house. His anger pressed him onward.

He wanted the man who'd inhabited Zenger's identity. Face to face, he wanted him. It was, of course, just what the quarry would never have allowed.

He barged through the hallway, feeling the heat of the flames behind him. Into the dining room where the table had been rocked against the walls and where the picture windows had now been blown out, along with the curtains. Every piece of china from the antique cabinet lay in particles on the carpet.

"Come on out!" Thomas roared to the man who'd creased his skull with a cane.

"Come on out, God damn you!"

In return, silence. There was no one there.

How brave you are! Thomas thought to himself. You know he's long gone. Failure again! You're used to it! You must like it!

He pushed through another doorway, the doorway to the den.

The door had been half unhinged by the explosion. Thomas stood by the old man's chair. (How old? No one knew now!) He recalled the old man's pontifications on the Sandler case.

Don't get involved! You'll get everyone killed! She's an impostor!

He looked around. The curtains in that room had been blown out the shattered window, too. Thomas looked at the sea.

Beneath the waves, the old man had ranted. A long trip. And I won't be coming back.

Thomas stared at the gaping hole where a window and curtain had been.

He stared at the sea beyond.

He saw the speck in the ocean. He knew what it was.

He ran to the window and glared down to the pier. One of Zenger's two boats remained.

The other was the speck. Zenger was on his way. His way where?

Home. After all these years. After decades in America, the master spy was on his way home. To his rendezvous beyond U.S. territorial waters.

The smoke was thicker. Thomas wondered whether he still had a way out.

He turned. He ran, stumbling over anovertumed rocking chair, coughing as he ran through the smoke of the hallway.

He could hear Leslie calling to him, pleading just as he suddenly emerged from the flaming front doorway. She was on her knees, uselessly, by the side of Hammond's scorched corpse.

"Get the rifle!" he yelled.

– What?- "He's already escaping. By boat! Get the rifle!"

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 shore 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 fishing 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 damned 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 crashing 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 ships?" 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 ship in the small docking area. Zenger's craft was even less of a speck than it had been before. Thomas looked at his compass, 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, bumpy salt water.

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

A mere dot.

"Come on, damn 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 identity, 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 associate, would never be seen again in the West.

Minutes passed. The speck remained at a stationary distance on the horizon. Thomas watched the fuel needle sink toward the E. He pushed the boat. They did not appear to be gaining.

He heard clicks and the clink of metal behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Leslie was assembling the contents of the gun case.

A long-barreled, high-powered rifle, equipped with a special Browning telescopic sight. She had to be dreaming, he thought.

The only way would be to get close enough for a decent shot.

Then again, it suddenly flashed into his mind, Zenger had to be armed, also. A further thought hit him: Who was he to play games with professionals like this? Hammond, a professional, already lay dead, the result of one small mistake. Was Thomas that much better than Hammond? He doubted it.