Borzoi powered up the engines, then released the brake and sped down the runway. At 120 knots, he rotated the wheels up. The Cirrus’s nose rose and the small aircraft climbed magnificently, rising like a leaf in an updraft. Borzoi smiled, looked at his copilot, and said, “Doesn’t this little devil just love to fly?”
The copilot did not respond.
When the Cirrus reached a height of one thousand meters above ground level, an explosive device containing fifty grams of high-grade plastique planted next to the gasoline tank automatically detonated. The Cirrus holds fifty gallons of high-octane aviation or test fuel. As Borzoi had earlier noted, the tank was filled. The explosion that ensued was monstrous. One moment the plane was climbing at a rate of two hundred meters per minute. The next it was a raging ball of flame.
The Cirrus cartwheeled and fell to earth.
There were no survivors.
The crash was ruled an accident and later graded “pilot error,” though no details were ever provided.
Word of Borzoi’s death reached Sergei Shvets less than five minutes later. The FSB was proud of its network of sources, and Shvets liked to brag that he was the best-informed man in the country. Upon receiving the news, he cast a dour face and professed his sadness. Borzoi was a friend of long standing and, of course, a fellow spy.
Privately, Shvets smiled.
Two down. One to go.
Only Igor Ivanov stood between him and the presidency.
57
Jonathan threw an arm over the gunwale and pulled himself into the skiff. He’d been swimming for two hours without cease. His neck ached. His shoulders burned. Worse, his stomach roiled with incipient nausea. Twice he’d come up for air only to find a patrol boat passing nearby. Both times he’d swallowed a mouthful of seawater in his hurry to disappear. He ran his hand over his face, skimming off a layer of oil and salt and effluents. Laying his head on the warm wooden slats, he let the sun beat down upon his face. He needed rest, but rest was a luxury he no longer possessed.
With a grunt, Jonathan sat up and took a long look at the shoreline. Here and there a couple sunbathed, a man walked with his dog. Up the beach, a trio of children labored over a sandcastle. By his reckoning, he’d covered 6 or 7 kilometers, much of it below the surface. Instead of drifting with the prevailing current, he’d headed north up the coast, battling a stiff tide all the way. Once clear of the harbor, he’d swum past the city’s industrial quarter and farther still, until he reached a stretch of beach with waist-high grass and modest vacation homes tucked among scraggly pines. An irregular fleet of motorboats was moored 50 meters offshore, but all were covered with canopies. It was with no small joy that he’d spotted the skiff bobbing nearby.
A spasm racked his stomach, and Jonathan retched into the sea. Feeling better, he turned his attention to the outboard engine. It was a compact Mercury 75, similar to the auxiliary motor aboard the 16-foot Avalon he’d sailed along Maryland’s Eastern Shore as a youngster. Unscrewing the fuel cap, he observed that the tank was half full, give or take. He returned the cap, then adjusted the choke. It would be best to wait until dark before stealing someone’s boat, but waiting was not an option. At that moment, Kate Ford and her Italian colleagues were canvassing the tourist district in the vicinity of the Hotel Rondo, questioning shopkeepers, restaurateurs, and hotel managers about whether they’d seen or spoken with him. It was only a matter of time until they reached the Hotel De La Ville. Caution demanded that he assume they already had.
Moving fore, Jonathan untied the skiff, weighed anchor, then took his seat by the motor. He gave the cord a yank and the engine sputtered to life. To his fugitive’s ears, the noise was as loud as a grenade. He guided the skiff out of the inlet north along the coast, keeping one eye on the shore. At any moment he expected the skiff’s owner to run out of one of the matchbox houses, shouting for him to bring the vessel back. But no one so much as glanced in his direction.
In minutes his clothes had dried and the sun beat hot on his brow. A weighted net lay in the bow, and he used the lead gumdrops to pin down the currency remaining in his wallet on the bench so that it might dry as well.
Gradually the character of the shoreline changed. The beach disappeared and was replaced by an endless jetty. The terrain grew mountainous, and slopes descended steeply into the sea, a succession of rugged cliffs curled around azure inlets.
Jonathan studied the coastline, looking for a place to put in. It was essential that he start to think aggressively. His respect for the law, and those who’d sworn to uphold it, was no longer appropriate. To a man in his position, the law was a hindrance. It was the law, be it in the form of Kate Ford, Charles Graves, or the blue-jacketed carabinieri who had pursued him across the docks in Civitavecchia, that sought to prevent him from finding Emma.
He grimaced, acknowledging a new and discomfiting emotion. No longer did he think of Emma as his wife, or even his friend. The events of the past forty-eight hours cast her in a cold, objective light, and for once he allowed her actions to paint her as she truly was. The portrait was unflattering. He forced himself to stare at this mental picture, to memorize its violent features and to put a proper name to her. Not Lara. Or Eva. Or even Emma. Something far more damning.
She was the enemy. And she had to be stopped.
But then what?
Jonathan did not yet have an answer.
Rounding the next point, he angled the skiff into a half-moon bay. There was no beach, not even a jetty, just rugged vertical cliffs that descended 20 meters into the water. At several points staircases cut into the rock ascended from private docks. A succession of seaview residences was built on the bluffs above them. Some resembled palazzos, others were stark and modern, and a sad few were uncared-for and dilapidated.
Circling back, Jonathan guided the skiff toward a recess in the wall, where he dropped anchor. Gathering his money and his wallet, he stripped to his undershorts, bundled his wallet and clothing into a ball, and swam to the dock, an arm held high to keep his possessions dry.
Once on the dock, he gazed at the house 30 meters above him. It was a weathered single-story residence, metal slats concealing its windows, a lonely flagpole standing sentry. To his eye, it appeared vacant, if not abandoned. He threw on his clothes, then climbed the stairs. An empty swimming pool fronted the home. He circled it, jumped a low gate, and came to the garage. Windows high in the wall offered a view inside. The garage was empty. No car. No bicycles.
Jonathan jogged up the road. In the distance he could hear the roar of speeding cars. In a few minutes he reached the highway. He looked north and south.