Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

“And the true one is the more accurate?”

“That’s right,” Levi answered. Flacco and Gordo turned to look at him. “That’s working off the GPS, so it’ll be right on the nose, every time. You just dial in latitude and longitude, and it’ll tell you how to steer, stay right on course. But ships have to carry both. Even if we lost electrical power, the magnetic compass would always work.”

The Mexicans nodded approval. “That’s the truth, man,” Gordo said. “You ever drive?”

“No,” Levi said. “I was just on board a lot while I was in the Corps. But I’m a good listener.”

He was a good watcher, too. It was just getting light as Levi stood at the rail, a pair of binoculars to his eyes. “Christ,” he said, softly, “that’s a fucking Zhuk.”

“A what?” I asked him.

“A coastal-patrol craft. The Russians started making them thirty years ago. For export only—who’d try and patrol the Russian coast?”

“Where’d they find buyers? Something like that must cost a few million bucks, right?”

“Maybe once. Now one, one and a half max. The mobs in charge over there have been selling off the military surplus for a long time now. Hell, you could probably pick one up for half what I said, if you knew where to look. Nicaragua was a big buyer.”

Russian surplus , I thought to myself. Another piece falling into place. “So it’s nothing like … this one?”

Levi made a snorting sound. “That one’s packing enough horsepower to fly a good-sized plane. Probably has a crew of fifteen, twenty men. She can make thirty knots and cover over a thousand miles if they go to half-throttle. And that’s if it’s nothing but refurbished stock. If they replaced the original diesels with General Motors or Volvo Penta jobs, it’d be a lot stronger.”

“So it’s much faster than—”

“That’s the least of our problems,” he said. “You look close, you can see the fixed machine guns. Those they had to have replaced. We’re probably looking at .50-calibers. Enough to turn this barge into shredded wood.”

“How could they just run around with stuff like that? They’ve had to dock it somewhere.”

“Each gun’s on a tripod,” Levi explained. “They could just remove the guns and stow them below when they have to enter a port.”

“How are they going to get him on board?” I asked, watching the gray metal gunboat slice through the water toward us.

“When they get close enough, they’ll cut their engines. So will we. After that, we can just orbit—you know, make minor position adjustments—so we’ll be close enough to make the transfer. But I don’t think they’ll come alongside, not with the firepower they’re packing. It’d be like coming down to handgun distance when you’re holding a rifle—makes it harder to use it right.

“Besides, it’s real calm now and … There! See how their wake is disappearing? Their engines are off now. Go down and tell Flacco to cut ours, too.”

By the time I’d gotten belowdecks, Flacco had already cut our power. And when I got back up top, Levi handed me the glasses, said: “What did I tell you? Here comes their Zodiac.”

“That little rubber thing?”

“It’s not rubber, it’s … never mind. There’s four men on board, three of them openly packing. I’ve got to get into position. And you better get out of sight, quick!”

When only one man came down the steps, I knew the others were still waiting in that Zodiac. If they’d tried to board, any of them Levi didn’t pick off would have met Max in the shadows where he waited. And our boat would be flying as fast as it could.

I’d expected a military uniform of some kind, but the man Gem ushered into the stateroom was dressed in a dark-blue suit over a white shirt and wine-red tie. Very presidential.

Gem ordered the two stick-thin Cambodian girls in matching schoolgirl outfits out of the room in a harsh, commanding tone. Then she escorted him over to where I was sitting in the wheelchair, the oxygen mask in place over my nose and mouth.

He shook my extended hand, then took a seat in the deep white leather armchair right across from me.

“May I offer you coffee? Or tea?” Gem asked him, bowing at the waist like a stewardess. Or a geisha.

“No, thank you,” he answered, politely.

“Then perhaps—?”

“Nothing,” he said, dismissing her. He turned his full attention to me: “So, Mr. Preston, we finally meet.”

“It is my honor, sir.”

“I am honored that a man of your stature would consider becoming one of us.”

“If we can come to agreement,” I wheezed through the mask, “it can be done today, as I promised. Surely you have a means of confirming a currency transfer on board your vessel?”

“Certainly.”

“I have people standing by,” I told him. “A transfer could be completed in minutes.”

“Very well. Then let me take this opportunity to answer whatever questions and concerns you have.”

I pulled the oxygen mask off my face and stared at him, making sure. Dead sure. It was him, no question. The only change was that his remaining hair was cut very short.

He regarded me calmly, not a flicker of recognition showing in his own eyes. But when I asked, “Why did you try to have me killed?,” my voice penetrated right to his core.

“You’re—” he gasped.

“Right. You remember me now, don’t you? I’ve got a new face, but I’m the same man you met with in that fancy townhouse of yours.”

“Burke,” he said. Just a statement of fact. If he was frightened, it didn’t show.

“Yeah. And now maybe you’d like to—”

“I don’t know why you went through this incredibly complicated ruse,” he said, unruffled, the semi-British accent I’d remembered now completely erased from his voice. “But I’m sure you understand that you can’t do anything to me without fatal consequences to yourself. And to everyone on board this vessel. My ship—”

“Yeah. The Zhuk. I know. We’re outgunned. I didn’t bring you here to kill you. It’s all about some answers.”

“Answers?”

“Yeah. Answers. To the question I just asked you.”

His answer was to laugh.

I waited, as calm inside as the sea around us, gentle waves lapping at my insides. But not touching them.

“Here’s your ‘answer,’ ” he said, still chuckling. “And it’s not the one you think.”

I said nothing, waiting.

“I realized I had you to thank for my prison sentence—you and that cunt Wolfe—before I ever started doing it. But I am a professional. I wouldn’t spend a fortune on petty revenge.”

“A professional pedophile.”

“Yes,” he said, chuckling again. “That’s the problem. Your problem.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You want to know the truth? Here it is. You called me a professional pedophile. That’s only half right. I am a professional. A true professional. And you, you’re a rank, incompetent amateur. The reason for the assassination—which I now see failed—is not because of what I do, but because of your delusions about it.”

“It’s your story. Tell it.”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to. And when I’m done, I’ll be able to tell something else. I’ll be able to tell if you truly understand.”

“Why is that important?”

“You’ll see. The man you met in that townhouse was a fiction. The Israelis knew it, but, apparently, they didn’t see fit to share their knowledge with you. I was playing a part. A role. Espionage can’t make much use of certain … information as it once could. At least not in America or many European countries. Homosexuality, a mistress—even the most bizarre sexual preferences—those are not good blackmail tools anymore. At least, not reliable ones. But pedophilia … ah, that one is an ironclad guarantee.”