Clive Cussler: The Assassin

“She’ll shoot other tanks,” said Van Dorn.

“She’ll start fires. We’ll put them out. Eventually, she’ll run out of ammunition and strength.”

Amanda Faire was bitterly disappointed.

The redheaded keynote speaker for the Staten Island Suffragette Convocation at the Cunard estate on Grymes Hill had expected her usual packed house rapturously chanting her catchy watchword “Women’s votes are only Faire.” But despite her appearance being advertised in all the New York newspapers, and her arrival heralded by a magnificent scarlet balloon tethered on the lawn, half the chairs in the lecture tent were empty.

“I’m afraid we lost some of our gentlemen to the firebug tourists,” apologized her mortified hostess. She gestured helplessly at the smoke-stained western sky. “New York, Jersey City, Newark, and the Oranges are all flocking to see the conflagration.”

“Well,” Amanda said, bravely, “those who took the trouble to come deserve to hear me.”

“I’ll introduce you.”

“I’ll make my own introduction, thank you.” That was all she needed, a windbag driving the rest of the audience to the fire.

Amanda, who had positioned her podium so that her balloon created a striking backdrop directly behind her, stood to thin applause. As she opened her mouth to begin her speech, she could not help but notice a restive stir in the seats. Now what?

They were staring at her. Past her. Mouths were dropping open.

A woman cried, “There goes your balloon.”

Nellie Matters never doubted the wind would be in her favor. Things always worked out that way. Just when she needed it, it had shifted south, blowing the red balloon north the short two miles from the Grymes Hill estate to Tank 14. From a thousand feet in the air, she could see what had burned in Constable Hook and what remained to burn. She was dismayed. The fires were going out. There was so much left untouched.

On the bright side, the Savage’s magazine indicator read “5.” Five of Beitel’s exploding bullets. Her exploding bullets. She had thought them up. She was their creator. The gunsmith had only made them.

Tank 14 would finish the job.

She spotted it easily, a huge white circle on the top of the highest hill on Constable Hook at the point where the cape met the mainland, smack in the middle of Isaac Bell’s shield. Clever Isaac. But the thin roof of the tank was hers. She aimed dead center, adjusted for the balloon’s swaying, and fired. Through the telescope she saw the bullet explode in a red flash. It didn’t pierce the roof, but it must have weakened it. One or two more shots striking that precise spot should do the trick, and the little red flash would detonate the flammable gas in the top of the tank, which would ignite the ocean of oil below.

She fired again.

Bull’s-eye! It hit the scar from her first shot. The powerful telescope showed a crack emanating from the scar. The next would do it. Isaac, where are you?

She looked about.

There you are!

He was leaning on the shield and pointing a rifle at her. Poor Isaac. I can’t shoot you. But you can’t shoot me either. What a pair we make. You better get away from the tank because it is about to explode.

As if he had heard her thoughts, he suddenly ran, crouched low, clutching his rifle. No, he hadn’t heard her. The balloon was moving and he had to shift his field of fire.

“What’s the use?” she whispered as she lined up her final shot. “We could never shoot each other.”

Isaac Bell had one exploding bullet. He doubted that the impact of striking the balloon’s thin fabric skin would detonate the gas. Nor would passing through the gas and the fabric as it flew out. If the shell could be set off that lightly, what would have kept it from exploding in his fingers when he loaded the rifle?

The only solid object on the balloon was the steel load ring at its mouth.

He found it in the telescope. It was almost too easy. The telescope was so powerful and the rifle was so finely balanced and the balloon so steady in the light breeze. He could not miss even if he wanted to.

He saw a red flash where the bullet exploded. In the next instant, thousands of cubic feet of gas billowed into flames above Nellie’s head. The balloon’s skin melted, but it did not fall, as if the heat of the burning gas somehow pinned it to the sky.

Nellie looked up. Bell saw her whole body stiffen with terror.

The burning gas snaked tentacles of flame down into the basket.

He would not let her die that way.

He found her beautiful face in the telescope. He exhaled lightly to steady his hand.

He caressed the trigger.

Archie Abbott barely made the train, running like crazy to answer a last-minute invitation from Isaac Bell:

“I’ll buy you breakfast on the Empire.”

When he entered the diner, Bell was already seated next to an exquisitely dressed gent about their age. Bell jumped up and intercepted him before he reached the table. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course I came. I’ve been worried. It’s been a while. Since… well, you know what since. How are you, Isaac?”

“Keeping busy,” said Bell. “Best thing when you have a lot on your mind.”

“Where’ve you been all month?”

“Back and forth to Chicago. Practically living on the 20th Century. Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“I’m stopping at Croton — appointment at Pocantico Hills. Would you help that gentleman onto the Ossining train?”

“What’s wrong with him? He looks fit.”

Bell handed Archie a key. “You’ll have to unlock him from the table.”

“Oh. Ossining. Sing Sing. Who are you taking to jail?”

“Laurence Rosania.”

“Rosania?”

Upon hearing his name shouted the length of the car, the Chicago jewel thief tossed Archie Abbott an elegant salute.

“Come on,” said Bell, “I’ll introduce you. High time you met.”

“Isaac! He was mine. I almost had him.”

“I just couldn’t think of a better way to keep busy than to catch a jewel thief.”

“Of all the terrible accusations voiced against you,” Isaac Bell told John D. Rockefeller, “I have never heard it said that you don’t pay your debts.”

“You’re implying I owe you something?” the old man said coldly.

“You owe me your life. Twice. Bill Matters in Germany and his daughter in Westchester. Not to mention most of your refinery.”

“I am disappointed in you,” said Rockefeller. “You never struck me as the sort of man who would try to cash in on saving my life.”

“I’m saving another life.”

“What will this ‘debt’ cost me?”

“You will pay me in full by granting Edna Matters an exclusive interview.”

“I never submit to interviews.”

“Speak to her openly and freely for as long as it takes and you and I will be even.”

Rockefeller sat silently for a time.

When he spoke he said, “I’m told Miss Matters is in bad shape.”

“Very bad shape,” said Bell. “She lost her father and she lost her sister. She loved them both.”

“A bitter man and a lunatic.”

“But still her father and still her sister. She is beside herself with grief and guilt and confusion.”

“Is interviewing me supposed to be some sort of rest cure?”

“It is my last hope.”

“That’s all you ask?”

“That’s all I demand.”

“I never submit to interviews,” Rockefeller repeated. “You are demanding a lot.”