Haven, page 24
Bandari was stunned into silence.
“You know what's the best part?" Ozal poked him as if he were sharing a joke. "The bomb is one thing. Everyone knows a bomb. But hours will pass before anyone knows why everyone seems to be sick. There are some, downwind, five miles away, who won't start feeling bad for three days.”
“I must think about this,” Bandari said softly. "So many. I think it's too much.”
“Too much? Okay. I'll make something smaller. You say there's a women you especially want? Your Algerian lives on this island?”
“A woman and...and another young woman. Those two, I think, are enough.”
“Then we go there and get them. We shoot them or maybe we blow up their house with a bomb that won't kill so many others. My price, Bandari, will be your one nuclear warhead plus two warheads more when we're back in Suez.”
“One warhead I'll give you. Suez you can't touch.”
“One warhead, one Stinger. That is my price.”
“No Stinger. That's Tarrant. I don't have a Stinger.”
“One warhead..." Ozal's expression became sly, "unless I happen to find that a second one is hidden somewhere aboard this fine yacht.”
Bandari glanced over at Ozal's two soldiers, both of whom lowered their eyes. He knew in that instant that they'd found both containers in the two weeks he'd allowed them to live on the boat.
“Done. I agree." He took a deep breath. There were more where they came from but as for these two he was suddenly glad to have them out of his hands. Any guilt from now on would be Ozal's.
“Done," said Ozal. "One little bomb for these women, your enemies. It will give me good practice on this island of yours.”
“But the warheads you will use somewhere else. You must swear it.”
“Manhattan and then Tel Aviv.”
“What you do is your business, not mine.”
“Maybe first Tel Aviv. I will think about this. Does Manhattan or Tel Aviv have the most Jews?”
The soldiers looking on exchanged nervous glances because they knew the mind of Ozal very well. They knew that he was teasing and toying with Bandari. He was joking a little so Bandari would forget that Ozal did not actually swear. They felt sure that if he has only two warheads he won't try for either of those cities. Where he'll use one is Cairo, the west end of Cairo, in the big army barracks where they ruined his fingers and robbed him of one of his eyes. But first, as he promised, he will do a little practice.
He will use the first warhead on this island in America.
TWENTY THREE
The bodies were found after only four days.
A local man had gone out to set crab traps an hour or so before dawn. One trap became snagged in the boat Kessler sank. It seemed to be floating just under the surface, moving this way and that with the tide. A cushion of marsh grass had kept it from settling and being obscured by the mud of the bottom. Shining his flashlight, the man could make out the jagged hole that had sunk it. He did not suppose that the sinking was deliberate; he had once cracked the hull of a dinghy himself when a thirty pound battery slipped from his hands. Whoever sank this one must have waded ashore, most likely to the cabin whose outlines he could see, and decided that the boat was not worth trying to salvage.
The boat was worth something to the crabber, however. Salt water had probably ruined the motor but the fiberglass hull can be patched. After a little sanding and cleaning he could sell it and make a few dollars. He was rigging a tow line when he heard a loud hiss. Before he could pull his hands from the water a set of jaws lunged at his face. He got one elbow up which probably saved him but the teeth clamped onto his armpit. He shrieked and he kicked and he tore himself loose, leaving a large strip of flesh in those jaws.
In shock, he managed to reach his throttle and steer for a shrimp trawler out on the waterway. The shrimp boat's skipper called the harbor police while his crew packed the injured man's wound. A Coast Guard helicopter came and lifted the man to Hilton Head Hospital where the surgeons barely saved him from bleeding to death.
According to the account in the Island Packet newspaper, the wound left no doubt that an alligator had caused it but attacks such as this were almost unheard of, even for this time of year. Although the month of March was their mating season and male alligators were known to be aggressive, most of their posturing was aimed at rival suitors. Females will attack to protect their eggs and especially after their young have hatched but that wouldn't happen until April at least. Most unusual of all was that the attack took place well out in a salt water swamp. Alligators normally live in lagoons where the water is brackish at most. Now and then they will enter a salt water swamp in order to kill parasites on their bodies and sometimes to help heal a wound got from fighting.
When a human is attacked, whether fatally or not, the suspected attacker is hunted and killed. Such a hunt was undertaken in an area of swamp branching out a quarter mile from where the boat had been sunk. Four alligators were spotted in the immediate vicinity. The presence of four - even one would be surprising - suggested that there must be a considerable food source nearby. These creatures were shot and hauled out for study. Human remains were found in all four. The authorities ordered the entire swamp dredged.
Three bodies were discovered. Skeletally, at least, they were largely intact because their arms and legs had been wrapped in blankets. Their limbs for that reason were not easily torn free. The alligators had ripped away large bites of flesh but only from the buttocks and shoulders of each man. A spokesman for the authorities pointed out than an alligator's appetite is relatively small and its digestion is extremely slow. A ten-foot beast will normally eat only two to three pounds in a week. Nor can an alligator really chew. Therefore whatever it can't readily swallow must be left to soften and decompose until the creature can pull it apart more easily. These were in no hurry; the meat would still be there; the crabs could take their small share in the meantime. The crabs concentrated on the throats and faces because slits had been cut in each of the blankets as if done to deliberately give them access.
The dredging also produced two weapons, a Czech submachine gun and a pistol. It produced two cheap wallets, both of them empty, as was a bottle of single malt scotch. The bottle, they reasoned, could not have been there long. The label and price tag had hardly faded and almost no silt had worked in through its neck. The price tag might help them learn where it was bought. Gleneagles was a brand not sold every day.
The most shocking find was on the bodies themselves. It told the authorities that in all probability these murders had been drug-related. One man was Caucasian, his hair was blond, he was dressed in tennis attire. This led them to suppose that whoever had done this might have lured this man to a tennis game. The Caucasian's teeth had been badly neglected. What dental work there was did not encourage the hope that recent dental records could be found. The other two men were probably Hispanic. These two, from the look of them had never seen a dentist in their lives. All three had been shot but only two had died quickly. The Caucasian had been wounded by a burst from behind, perhaps while attempting to escape. What made it clear that drugs were involved was the fact that the throats of all three had been cut and their tongues pulled down through the incision. It's a signature well known to drug enforcement authorities. It is called a Colombian necktie.
The triple murder made headlines state-wide. A national magazine ran a story whose title, predictably, was "Trouble In Paradise." But the Hilton Head paper, The Island Packet, made it clear that these killings occurred more than ten miles west of the bridge. No evidence had been found to connect this event to the island. It took place, in fact, much nearer to the Interstate which had long been the route by which drugs and guns were transported north from Miami.
The cabin where bloodstains and bullet holes were found had been rented by a man whose description seemed to fit the blond Caucasian. He had certainly used a false name and false papers. The renting agent, now that she thought of it, said that the man had an odd sort of accent. It seemed Southern, she supposed, but a generic Southern of the sort that one hears from actors on TV who have never been south of New Jersey.
That description also seemed to fit the man who had rented the jitney they found in a swampland. It had come from an RV dealer in Savannah. These rentals were some help but not very much in establishing how long these men had been dead. It might have been three days. It might have been eight. A State Trooper noted that the cabin was near the scene of a false alarm to which he'd responded to four nights earlier. But the woman who had made that call said, when interviewed, that she knew nothing of the cabin and had heard no shots fired that evening. The trooper, all the same, checked the tires of the car she'd driven to a farm house near the cabin that night. They did not match the tracks that were found in the dirt. The tracks were many, some seemed oddly placed, but they seemed to have been made by the same mid-sized vehicle.
“Nice touch," said Elizabeth when she read the account.
“Which one? The twin Toyotas?" Kessler asked.
“That, too," she told him. She didn't mean the cars. She meant the Colombian necktie. Nor did she quite mean those words as a compliment. She understood quite well why he'd done it but it troubled her all the same.
He had stayed at the Players Club for two more days after the bodies were discovered. He waited and watched and listened for gossip. The girl's misadventure was no longer a topic, at least among the guests on whom he'd been eavesdropping. The murders off the island were all that they talked about. He confirmed, to his surprise, that the girl was still there. He said that he'd caught a glimpse of her twice, both times after sunset when she came out onto her terrace, both times in the company of either Nadia or Jasmine. She apparently took all her meals in her room. She did not join the others on the courts or on excursions but Martin had expected as much. They would certainly wait for her bruises to fade and would probably also spend time making sure that she knew what she could and could not tell her schoolmates. Elizabeth thought it was much more than that. She had probably been told about her parents.
After those two days Martin decided that it was probably unwise to stay on there. Someone would notice, if someone hadn't already, that he's never been seen playing tennis. He was also anxious to get rid of his Toyota but he knew that he couldn't do that without moving lest anyone wonder why he'd suddenly changed cars. Nor did he ask to move in with Elizabeth. To be seen as a couple would not be smart either. He rented a condo that overlooked Harbour Town and turned in the Camry for a Mustang convertible. He made a bundle of his new tennis clothing and dropped it in a bin at The Bargain Box, a charity center run by one of the churches.
Elizabeth came to his condo the first night he moved in. She brought with her a bottle of Chardonnay and some cheeses and a duck that she'd roasted at home. As he set the small table that was out on his balcony he heard her in the kitchen emptying ice trays in order to keep the wine chilled. He went in to tell her, don't use the bottom tray unless it's a very good vintage. She looked at him blankly but then realized immediately that the third tray was where he kept most of his diamonds except for those few he wore sewn in his belt. She suggested that he ought to leave some of them with her in case he ever had to disappear quickly. This was nice to hear her say. It meant that she'd be there for him. But the night was too pleasant to talk about running. For now, let's go nibble some cheese and some duck.
They sat on his balcony looking down at the lights of the yachts that now filled every slip of the harbor. It was nine in the evening. Other tenants were out on their balconies as well. Tourists were still standing waiting for their tables outside the Crazy Crab Restaurant of Harbour Town. Others were walking in and out of the shops or strolling the foot paths around the marina. It's a scene that is peaceful and pleasant or lonely depending on whether or not one feels part of it. Looking in lighted windows of comfortable homes had always left Kessler feeling wistfully sad. He assumed that was true of most men like himself. He felt sure that it was true of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth did not ask if and when he was leaving. She seemed content that he was near, not too close, and had shown no interest in moving into her house, nor had he attempted any physical initiative beyond a kiss on the cheek.
On that night of the killings he had also kept his word and had tucked her into her bed by herself. He sat with her telling her stories from his boyhood until she drifted off to sleep. Once or twice she reached a hand out to make sure he hadn't left. She needed him then. She needed him mostly to spend the evening persuading her that no, she isn't a psychopath. Damaged, yes, but she's hardly a monster. She could stand to narrow her mood swings a little but this was a suggestion that he kept to himself.
Her mood swung back to coolness a few days later when she learned of the Colombian neckties. This surprised him but not greatly because he knew where her head was. Elizabeth in her Black Angel mode could probably have done that while they were alive. Her coolness, he realized, meant only one thing. Elizabeth is wondering what the girl must have thought when she read these accounts in the newspaper. How will Cherokee feel about her hero, Martina, when she realizes that the woman who she'd wanted to hug hadn't chased those men off after all? Well, she'll feel what she feels but he, Kessler, can't help that. Elizabeth finally realized that she wasn't being fair which is one reason why she showed up with the duck. They had mostly consumed it under the stars when she got to her secondary reason.
“There's a tournament coming. A big tennis tournament." Elizabeth said this while sipping her wine.
“At the Van Der Meer Center? Don't be foolish, Elizabeth.”
She shook her head quickly. "No, not there. It's here. It's the Family Circle Classic here in Harbour Town.”
Ah, yes, thought Kessler. Women's tennis, professionals; he had seen the posters. Already the stadium at the tennis club here was putting up tents for the tournament sponsors and adding more seats built on scaffolds.
“Are you telling me this because you want me to take you?”
“Um...actually Jonathan called. He has tickets for the tournament. He asked me to go.”
Kessler looked away. He said nothing.
“Martin...I'm asking if you'd mind if I say yes.”
“Why should I mind? We've no claim on each other.”
“Like it or not, yes, we do.”
Kessler grunted, not flattered. She reached out to touch his arm.
“That came out wrong and I'm sorry. Martin, this is a tournament that everyone goes to. I'd just like to do something normal right now.”
“So do it. You now have my blessing, Elizabeth.”
“Can you understand that? That I'd like to feel normal?”
“I have news. I'm as human as you are.”
“No, we're different, Martin. Very different.”
“How so?”
“For starters, you think everything is a game. I'm not criticizing, Martin. I envy you sometimes. I don't think you've ever had a single regret, not once in the ten years I've known you.”
“You don't think there is much that I would change if I could?”
“Like what? Tell me one thing you'd change.”
“Never mind.”
“You see? You can't.”
“You're being stupid, Elizabeth.”
“Then tell me. I'd really like to hear.”
“In Bucharest...I moved left instead of right.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If I had dodged to the right instead of to the left you would not have been shot and we wouldn't be having this conversation.”
Her lips parted. She said nothing.
“By now you would have two children at least and you might, you just might, have had them with me. Don't tell me I don't have regrets.”
She fell silent for what seemed several minutes. She was watching the couples who were strolling the paths.
“You really do love me," she said at last, very softly.
“Always quick on the uptake," he muttered.
“I mean, do you? In your heart?”
“Yes, like it or not. Like it or not, yes I do.”
“Except now you're going to sulk. You're going to tell me to go.”
“No, I'll ask you to stay. That way you'll go.”
The wrong thing to do with Elizabeth is manage her. Kessler knew this as soon as he spoke. She promptly stood up and took off her shoes which she threw one by one down into the harbor. The second shoe bounced off the roof of a yacht before making a splash in black water. Heads turned on the boats and on the walkways. Next she stood and began to unbutton her blouse.
Talk about mood swings. "Elizabeth, stop. What on earth do you think you are doing?”
“I'm staying.”
The blouse came off and went over the side. It floated down onto the pedestrian path causing several young women to stop and look up. They soon found the source because next came the bra.
Kessler hissed, "That's enough, Elizabeth. You have had too much wine. This is not how a lady behaves.”
“He loves me," she called to the girls down below. They answered with laughter; one pumped her fist; another made a sound like a choo-choo.
Kessler was mortified. "What was it you said? That you needed to do something normal?”
“This is normal for horny. Sure you want me to go?”
Elizabeth did not say this softly.
“If he does, come down here," rose a young male voice. It came from the boat where she'd just thrown her shoe. A young female voice on the walkway below asked, "Don't you have anything in size 6?”
Kessler set down his wine and he picked up Elizabeth. He said, "Say goodnight to your fans." This brought groans of disappointment but a burst of applause as he carried her through the sliding doors, Elizabeth now blowing them kisses.
In the morning, thought Kessler, he must try to remember how he managed to manage Elizabeth Stride.
