But that pellet stung the tough hide of that stallion like a giant bee sting. The horse screamed and reared up, almost throwing Bradford off his back. Bradford dropped both reins and saber and clutched frantically at the stallion’s neck, hanging on to him as tightly as he could. Even three stories up I could hear him cursing loudly at the horse.
I reloaded and fired again.
The stallion bolted.
There wasn’t a damned thing Bradford could do except to hang on.
Again and again I reloaded that pellet rifle and fired, each shot becoming progressively more difficult. But I hit the stallion often enough to drive him in the direction I wanted him to go.
My last shot was at an incredibly far distance for an air gun, but it was all I needed. The stallion was now racing at a full, wild, panic-stricken gallop across the turf in an effort to escape the stinging pains in his haunches.
When a horse like that bolts, he literally goes crazy. He’ll run off a cliff; he’ll run full tilt into the heaviest brush. This one associated the rider on his back with the pain in his hindquarters.
Full out, his mane and tail flying wildly, the big stallion galloped madly toward the inner wire mesh fence. Bradford saw what was coming and began to curse. But he was helpless, unable to control the animal in any way at all.
And then there was the moment of impact when some 1800 pounds of horseflesh slammed into the electrified wire fence! The horrible, high-pitched scream from the big animal was cut off sharply. There was a blinding flash, almost as if lightning had struck them both. They went down together, Bradford and the stallion, sparks flying all around them, burning up horse and rider and even the steel of the mesh fence.
The men broke ranks, running helter-skelter around the grounds, none of them daring to come close to Bradford’s scorched body, which still leaped and twitched from the high voltage pouring through it.
At 8:55 someone had sense enough to throw the master switch, turning off the electricity. Bradford’s corpse lay still. The huge stallion partially covered his body.
Even at my distance — almost 200 yards away and three stories high — I could smell the stench of scorched horseflesh and man flesh drifting up on the soft morning mountain air.
I put down the pellet rifle and moved away from the edge of the roof.
My job was done.
Chapter Fourteen
“And how did you get away?” Hawk asked me, peering through the foul smoke of his cheap cigar.
“I was still dressed in colonial costume,” I answered. “So were more than a hundred other men. And everyone of them had the same idea. To get the hell away from that place before they had to explain what was going on to the police. It was just one mad exodus!” I smiled at the recollection. “I stopped long enough in Bradford’s suite to pick up Hugo. I’d hate to lose him. Then I went down and joined the throng.”
“It was that easy?”
“Would you believe,” I asked, “that I actually was given a ride all the way back to Boston by three of them? And in a Cadillac El Dorado at that!”
Hawk made a harrumphing sound. It was about as close to a laugh as he ever came.
“By the way, sir,” I said. “I still have eleven days coming to me from my last vacation. Now that I’ve finished this assignment, am I entitled to another couple of weeks?”
Hawk looked at me from under his shaggy eyebrows.
“You’ll find your French girlfriend waiting for you in Aix-en-Provence,” he said before turning away. “Take the extra two weeks. You deserve it.”
I made my travel arrangements with Air France, but I made one stop in Boston first. There was a loose end to tie up.
The house at 21½ Louisburg Square seemed peaceful and serene in the morning sunlight.
Sabrina answered my ring. She looked at me silently and held the door open so I could enter.
I shook my head. “It’s not necessary,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you in person.”
“I can explain, Nick,” she said pleadingly, and then as my words sunk in, she asked, “What do you have to tell me?”
“You killed Julie,” I said. “That’s why I made the telephone call.”
“What call? What are you talking about?”
“To a friend in Marseilles,” I said coldly. “He’ll pass the word on to a double agent. We use him when we have to communicate with the KGB.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sabrina. The sunlight struck her hair and her face, and she truly looked like an elegant woman at that moment, a woman whose greatest concern would be her shopping trip to Shreve, Crump and Low, or to Bonwit Teller or Lord & Taylor.
“I passed on the word about Alexander Bradford’s ultimate plan to the Russians,” I told her in a conversational tone. “And I also emphasized that it was you who subverted him from his mission as a KGB officer.”
Sabrina’s face went pale.
“It isn’t true!” she gasped.
“I know that,” I said evenly, no emotion in my voice.
“They’ll kill me!”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, they will.”
With that I turned and walked away from the house on Louisburg Square and from Sabrina. I took a cab to Logan Airport and Air France Flight 453 for the first stage of my journey to Aix-en-Provence and the waiting arms of Clarisse.