Solano fired her up. Twin engines turned over like a dream, purring with smooth power. Needles flipped to their marks on the gauges and dials.
"She's a beauty!" Solano said.
The powerboat's advanced design and curvilinear gullwing hull identified her as a Superbo Mark V, a top-of-the-line vessel not so much built as lovingly handcrafted by the world-renowned Genoese boatyards of the Agnelli family. She could make the fastest patrol boat look like the proverbial slow boat to China by comparison.
The mooring lines were untied. The boat shoved off, slowly steering clear of the Melina.
"Look." Elias pointed out a solitary figure standing at the ship's stern rail, silently seeing them off. "Mokhtar."
Vernex waved to him. His fluttering arm trailed off limply as he realized Mokhtar hadn't the slightest intention of returning the farewell salute.
Vernex shrugged and settled into his seat. "A strange sort of fellow."
Abu-Bakir could not resist a little anticipatory gloating. "He is deep… very deep. Deeper than you could ever dream. And his master is deeper still."
"Oh? And who might that be?" Vernex asked. "I think we'd all like to know the identity of the mysterious employer who recruited us for this job."
Had he given away too much? Abu-Bakir wondered. He decided to play it cagey. "Mokhtar's master? Why, none other than God, of course. Allah is the master of all men."
"Deep," Vernex scoffed. "That's very deep."
Steering one-handed, Solano rapped the boat box bolted to the floorboard. "What's inside?"
Vernex flipped open the lid and rummaged through the gear. "Charts… floats… flare pistol… line… first-aid kit… everything one needs for a sea cruise. Our boss is very thorough."
"Whoever he is," Solano said.
"My boss is the People, the masses."
"Yes, yes, anything you say."
The Superbo emerged from the ship's shadow into the dazzling fullness of the noonday sun. Solano slipped on a pair of polarized Porsche sunglasses. He opened up the throttle. The boat zoomed south.
Vernex shouted to be heard over the roaring twin inboard engines. "I don't mind telling you, I'm glad to be off the ship!"
Abu-Bakir seized on this. "You were afraid."
"Of the ship blowing up? Certainly!"
"Hah! I was not afraid." Grinning, Abu-Bakir sat back with an air of superiority, as if he had one-upped Vernex for all time.
Aft, the Melina dwindled in the north. West, the open sea stretched to the curved horizon. To the east lay Tel Aviv's urban sprawl, modern buildings sprouting like crystals from the rocks of that ancient land. The present gave way to the past as the old port city of Jaffa swung into view in the south.
Less than a quarter-hour's forward hurtling motion brought them within reach of their target.
Some miles north of Ashkelon and Ashdod, the shoreline curved outward into the sea, forming a cape. On its tip sat the Shamash petroleum complex, a newly built oil depot containing storage and refining facilities.
The rocketeers' target.
Silence fell as Solano cut the motors, idling the boat far enough out to avoid attracting the attention of the curious.
In the distance, numerous small craft sailed about the man-made harbor. Berthed at the site's quarter-mile-long piers were two transatlantic supertankers unloading their precious cargo. Precious indeed for a nation that imports 100 percent of its fuel.
The massive main complex rose above the harbor like an enchanted city. Huge silvery cylinders and spheres bore the bold blue-and-white sunburst logo of the state-owned Shamash company. These storage tanks were threaded with a delicate web of catwalks, pipes, and support struts. It was a scene of bustling activity.
Vernex licked his lips and broke the silence. "A duck shoot."
"Easier," Solano said. "Ducks don't sit still, waiting for you to blow them away."
"Let's not keep them waiting."
"Break out the launchers!" Elias rumbled.
"Yes, by all means." Vernex made his way aft, where the weapons waited. They were bagged rather than crated to minimize weight, maximizing boat speed.
In effect, the Superbo was a seagoing rocket-launching platform. The rocketeers would zip into the harbor, destroy the complex and any other convenient targets — such as the tanker ships — then race to the rendezvous point.
Vernex, Elias, and Abu-Bakir tore at the fastenings of the bright orange nylon bags. The unveiling of the weapons caught them up in a primal quickening, a kind of sexually intense trance. In the thrill of the moment, Abu-Bakir even forgot his queasiness, though not his intended double cross.
Except that Solano got there first.
"Hey!" Solano said it two more times, loudly, before the others looked up. When they did, they saw the gun in his hand.
It was a chunky, squarish, Soviet-made Tokarev TT-33 pistol, and it was pointing at them.
At that moment, their nausea had nothing to do with seasickness.
Only the gentle swell, slapping the hull, broke the intense stillness.
Finally Vernex said, "What's this, Solano?"
"The end of the line."
Vernex's forced smile crumbled at the edges. "We have much to do, so please don't joke."
He was faking. He knew it was no joke. His eyes narrowed as he calculated his chances. He couldn't believe that he was on the wrong side of a gun.
"Traitor!" Abu-Bakir cried.
"Spy, actually," Solano said. "The party's over, boys."
Solano was over too. In that instant, he ceased to exist. He had never really existed at all, despite the evidence to the contrary. Because "Giacomo Solano" was a man who never was. His was an artificially constructed identity, a «legend» in the jargon of the trade. The trade being espionage, specifically espionage of the AXE variety.
AXE was the ultrasecret action component of the U.S. intelligence community. One of the last real secrets left in an open, democratic society, and quite possibly that society's last bullwark against global anarchy.
The AXE agent who was «Solano» now took off that identity like a suit of clothes. His name, his real name, was Nick Carter.
Code-named N3, Carter was AXE's top Killmaster.
Three
Elias raged.
A fatalist, he knew that someday his number would come up, just as he knew he'd never go to prison, never be taken alive. When he thought about his own death, he always fancied that he'd go out in a blaze of glory, taking along a gang of policemen to keep him company in Hell.
Who was this absurd Judas, this treacherous insect threatening him with his ridiculous popgun? Such arrogance was insulting, not to be borne.
"A spy! A goddamned spy!" This development struck Abu-Bakir as so funny that he burst into hysterical laughter.
Roaring, Elias rushed Carter.
The Killmaster didn't waste words. He snapped off two shots into Elias, both hits scoring in the torso. But when a body that big gets moving, it's hard to stop.
Carter tried to sidestep the Basque's headlong rush, but the cramped forward compartment left him little room in which to maneuver. Elias crashed into him, taking him down.
Carter fell hard, shoulders slamming into the boat box with stunning impact. His pistol slapped up against the hull with a wicked smack, but somehow he kept hold of it.
Elias wallowed on top of Carter, crushing the breath out of him. Huge hands sought the agent's throat, found it, squeezed.
The power of that crushing grip was awesome. If Elias hadn't been weakened from taking two bullets in the belly, he'd have wrung Carter's neck as if it were a chicken's.
"Kill him! Kill him!"
Vernex clawed a pistol out of his pocket and started shooting. He was fast, but not accurate. Three shots exploded: one passed harmlessly out to sea, and the other two missed Carter, hitting Elias.