Frederic Forsyth - The Cobra

Below his nose was a small white feather on the water, the V wake of a tiny fisherman. He dived toward it, converting height to speed, raced across the staring faces at 1,000 feet, then hauled back, converting speed to height, pulled the ejector seat handle and blew out straight through the canopy.

Messrs. Martin and Baker knew their stuff. The seat took him up and away from the dying bomber. A pressure-operated trigger tumbled him out of the steel seat, which fell harmlessly to the water, and left him dangling in the warm sunshine under his parachute. Minutes later he was being hauled, coughing and spluttering, onto the aft deck of a Bertram Moppie.

Two miles away, a geyser of white foam erupted from the sea as the Buccaneer plunged nose first into the Atlantic. The pilot lay between three dead wahoos and a sailfish, as the two American charter fishermen leaned over him.

"You okay, buddy?" asked one.

"Yes, thank you. Fine. I need to call a man in the Bahamas."

"No problem," said the elderly sportsman, as if naval bomber pilots were always dropping out of the sky on him. "Use my cell."

Major Mendoza was arrested in Bridgetown. An official from the American Embassy secured his release by sundown and brought a change of clothes. The Barbadian authorities accepted a tale to the effect that a training flight from a U.S. carrier far out at sea had suffered a catastrophic engine failure, and the flier, although a Brazilian, was on secondment to the U.S. Navy. The diplomat, himself puzzled by his order, knew it was nonsense, but they are trained to lie convincingly. Barbados was content to let the Brazilian fly home the next day.

THE MODEST COMPACT TRUNDLED INTO THE SMALL TOWN of Pennington, New Jersey, and its driver stared around at the landmarks of his home, which he had not seen for so long.

South of the junction marking the center of town, he passed the Civil War-vintage white clapboard house with the shingle of "Mr. Calvin Dexter, Attorney-at-Law." It looked neglected, but he knew he would enjoy fixing it back up and seeing if he still had a practice left.

At the junction of Main Street and West Delaware Avenue, the heart of Pennington, he toyed between a strong black coffee at the Cup of Joe cafe, or something more at Vito's Pizza. Then he noticed the new food mart and recalled he would need provisions for his home on Chesapeake Drive. He parked the car, bought from a lot close to where he had landed at Newark Airport, and entered the mart.

He filled a whole shopping cart and ended up at the checkout. There was a lad there, probably a student working his way through college as he had once done.

"Anything else, sir?"

"That reminds me," said Dexter. "I could do with some sodas."

"Right across there in the cold case. We have a special offer on Coke."

Dexter thought it over.

"Maybe some other time." IT WAS the parish priest at St. Mary's on South Royal Street who raised the alarm. He was sure his parishioner was in Alexandria because he had seen the man's housekeeper Maisie with a cartful of shopping. Yet he had missed two Masses, which he never did. So after morning service the priest walked the few hundred yards to the elegant old house at the junction of South Lee and South Fairfax streets.

To his surprise, the gate to the walled garden, although seemingly closed as ever, opened with a light push. That was odd. Mr. Devereaux always answered on the intercom and pressed a buzzer inside to release the catch.

The priest walked up the pink brick path to find the front door also open. He went pale and crossed himself when he saw poor Maisie, who had never harmed anyone, sprawled on the hallway tiles, a neat bullet hole drilled through her heart.

He was about to use his cell phone to call 911 for help when he saw the study door was also open. He approached in fear and trembling to peer around the jamb.

Paul Devereaux sat at his desk, still in his wing chair, which supported his torso and head. The head was tilted back, sightless eyes gazing with mild surprise at the ceiling. The medical examiner would later establish he had taken two close-bracketed shots to the chest and one to the forehead, the professional assassin's pattern.

No one in Alexandria, Virginia, understood why. However, when he learned of it from the TV evening news at his home in New Jersey, Cal Dexter understood. There was nothing personal about it. But you just cannot treat the Don that way.