Bandari looked around him for the source of this command. He saw the black man and the black woman. They were both holding pistols; they were both in a crouch. Their pistols were aimed at the man who killed the others. He saw them but ignored them. He seemed to be threatening the woman and Aisha that if they didn't go he would shoot them.

  The black man fired. But into the air.

  He shouted, "Kessler? Last chance. I said drop it.”

  Older man, yellow jacket, doesn't want him to shoot. The two blacks are ready to shoot all the same. But then Aisha moved between them. She is waving her arms. She is saying, "Roy, don't! He's a friend.”

  Kessler couldn't tell how much blood was his and how much came from the man he had finished. The bullet, at least, had not struck his rib cage but it probably did not miss a kidney. It was probably bad but the pain was not crippling. All he wanted was Elizabeth to get the girl out of here and maybe, just maybe, seem an innocent bystander who had nothing to do with these killings.

  Elizabeth, always stubborn, was doing nothing to cooperate. She must have known why he snatched the gun from her hand and why he let it be seen that it was him, not her, who ripped that man's throat with her trowel. All she was doing was grabbing the girl who was trying to shield him with her body. Elizabeth was more interested is shielding the girl in case those two from the tennis school shoot. She was even looking down at her Jonathan with concern. Kessler didn't blame her but he could help thinking that just once he would like to be first on her list.

  But the girl is struggling. She sees something else. Her eyes, already big, are now opening wider. She is trying to get away from Elizabeth.

  “Uncle Gamal!?!" She is looking past Roy. "Uncle Gamal, is that you?”

  Kessler saw the man who she must have been addressing. He was standing erect where all others were crouching, one hand to his mouth, he was biting his knuckle. Kessler knew this man from the Cyril Pratt tape. He's the man who had murdered Aisha mother, and surely, the man who brought Tarrant and his thugs to this island. That whole bunch from the tennis school turned and looked as well. There is Nadia who was momentarily stunned but is now begging Jasmine to give her the pistol. Too late. The uncle is running for his life. His binoculars bounce, they hit him in the mouth, but he runs with his hands to his face as if thinking that what they can't see, they can't shoot.

  Kessler saw policemen. They were moving up carefully, reluctant to act before they knew who was who. Only Elizabeth was looking at him. Her eyes were saying not, "Sit down, I'll get help." They were saying, "Let's get that fat fuck.”

  Kessler backed away toward the end of the trailer. He mouthed, "You stay." and touched a finger to his lips. She started to say no but she saw what he was doing. He could slip away now or not at all. She turned her back to him, ready to cover. Kessler stepped behind the trailer, unseen.

  Lawrence Tarrant and Loomis' remaining two men had taken a position at the edge of the marina. They stood near a ramp that led down to the slips. Bandari's Alhambra was three slips away. Bandari would have to pass within reach whenever he returned to his boat.

  But now Tarrant heard the shots in the distance. There were two, well spaced, one seemed louder than the other. By the second he saw people running. He muttered the name of Lester Loomis with a curse, sure that he must have shot Kessler.

  “I told him, damn it, to take him alive," he hissed to the men standing with him.

  “That was two guns," said one. "Two different directions.”

  “I better go look." said the other.

  A third shot echoed as this man disappeared. Many tourists, the curious, were hurrying toward it while others with children were hurrying away.

  “Mr. Tarrant. Over there," said the man who stayed with him. He gestured with his chin to an overweight figure who was scrambling down over the stone sea wall and jumping five feet to the walkway below. Tarrant saw Bandari. He fell as he landed. On rising he almost knocked over the cart that the one-eyed Ozal had wheeled there. Bandari grabbed Ozal by the front of his shirt. He was waving, gesticulating; his meaning was clear. He wanted Ozal to get on board at once. He wanted his boat moved immediately.

  “We take him or we wait?" asked the man.

  Tarrant gritted his teeth. The man was armed but he wasn't. There were four men to cover on that boat if they took it but he did not seem to have any choice. Ozal, however, seemed in no great hurry. He seemed to be telling Bandari to wait until they could load the provisions on that cart. Bandari, to Tarrant's surprise, was agreeing. He was nodding as if to say, "Yes. Do it now.”

  “We wait," whispered Tarrant. "But we move if they start to cast off.”

  “No, no," said Bandari. "I don't care about your bomb. We must go while we can. It's big trouble.”

  “You have seen them? The girl and the Algerian whore?”

  “They have also seen me. Get aboard.”

  “But the bomb is now ready. They will come, we'll be gone. But the bomb will be here and it will kill them.”

  Bandari hesitated. "You can do this with your bomb?”

  “I need only to set the timer. The timer plus one more ingredient.”

  Bandari had cared about nothing but fleeing but to him this idea made some sense. It would not kill the girl and those people with guns because that would be too much to hope for. They would have to come down here and stand near this slip saying, "Where could Bandari have taken his boat? We will wait here until he returns." It is stupid. But a bomb going off can help him escape. It will cause great confusion and panic. A bomb going off means no one will care where any of these boats may have gone.

  “Go do it," he said. "I will now start the engines. Tell your men to prepare to cast off.”

  “Go start.”

  Bandari noticed that the soldiers looked ill. "They are sick?”

  “It's the flu. Go start," said Ozal.

  Bandari nodded. So that's what it was. Ozal's soldiers, like himself, were dripping with sweat and Ozal looked the worst of them all. But the main thing now was to get out of sight and be ready to move this boat quickly. He climbed the boarding ladder and then up to the bridge. On the bridge was the shotgun that Ozal kept for dolphins. He would feel much more safe with a shotgun.

  Kessler had no trouble catching sight of Bandari because of the way he was dressed. He kept one arm pressed hard against his belly. The hand of that arm held his Walther out of sight inside the folds of his jacket. The jacket was maroon. It hid most of the blood.

  Bandari, he hoped, would lead him to Tarrant because Tarrant had gone this way as well. He saw Bandari, not bothering with the ramp, climbing over the sea wall and jumping toward his boat. He counted three others but not Tarrant. He gathered himself, not sure what to do. If Tarrant appeared he would finish them both. But he could not wait long. His strength might go quickly. He did not wish to settle for Bandari.

  A flash of color caught his eye to his right. He saw a another of those four baggy jackets. This man was moving away from the harbor and back to where the shots had been fired. He was alone. Kessler realized that Tarrant would have sent one man back to see what had happened at the trailer. Kessler traced the direction from which this man had come. That way, he hoped, he'd find Tarrant.

  One of the soldiers was still on the slip. He did not look as if he would have enough strength to even free the lines from their cleats. The other, on the quarterdeck, looked worse. But Ozal, who has gone to the galley for some reason, knows how to make them jump when he speaks.

  Ozal was banging pots.

  Bandari shouted, "Will you hurry?”

  “Two more minutes.”

  More banging, then quiet.

  He heard Ozal on the stairs. Ozal was calling to his soldier on the slip to help him climb down the boarding ladder. Bandari looked out. He's so sick he needs help? It was then that Bandari saw in his hands what he knew to be one of the warheads.

  “What are you doing? Are you trying to kill us all?”

  In response came a smile. "You believed that it's flu?”

  Bandari stared down at the face of Ozal. The Tuareg, as hurt and sick as he was, had a look of great joy on his face. Bandari had seen looks such as that on other Muslims. He had seen it on the faces of volunteer fighters who believed, and who hoped, that martyrdom was at hand. Bandari squealed. He snatched up the shotgun. He scrambled to the steps leading down to the deck.

  “Ozal! Put it back. Put it back or I shoot.”

  The Tuareg snapped his fingers at the soldier on the deck. His gesture said, "Take this fool's weapon.”

  The soldier tried to obey. He reached for it but feebly. Bandari pulled the barrel away and clubbed him in the face with the stock. The soldier reeled backward. He fell over a deck chair. He sat feeling teeth with his tongue. Bandari, once again, aimed the shotgun at Ozal.

  The Tuareg scoffed. He said, "You won't shoot. You're a coward." He turned to back down the ladder.

  This insult was more than Bandari could bear. Even so he was afraid to pull the trigger. The noise would bring those people to the sound of the shot. Ozal was on the ladder; he was halfway to the dock. Bandari turned the shotgun in his hands and swung it like an ax. Ozal saw it coming. He raised an arm but not quickly enough. The stock grazed his temple and slammed into his shoulder. He fell; his hands lost their grip on the canister. It bounced to the deck of the boat. Its lid flew off and the thing like a football rolled free from its packing. Bandari saw at once that it was all marked and scarred. Ozal had done something to the warhead.

  Ozal had fallen to the slip with a crash, taking with him the soldier who was helping him. He struggled to his feet and was cursing Bandari. Now his face showed no joy, only rage. He stood breathing heavily as if judging his chances of fighting his way back aboard. He realized that he had little chance. But then a new light came into his eyes. He shouted, "Bandari, you don't like bombs? Watch me, I will show a bomb.”

  He stumbled to the cart on which his bomb had been assembled. Bandari realized he was going to explode it, nuclear warhead or not. Bandari, frantic, ran to his bow and cast off the first of his spring lines. He shouted for the soldier whose teeth he had smashed to throw of the stern lines as well. Ozal, by this time, was calling to the tourists, those walking the paths above the sea wall. He was calling them in English, saying, "I am Ozal. Come and see the reward I have prepared for you.”

  Tarrant saw Bandari trying to cast off his lines. He wanted to move but he hesitated. He had seen Bandari clubbing people with a shotgun and so had half the people who were crowding the promenade. These tourists were no longer looking toward the shots, they were looking now at the one-eyed Ozal who is haranguing them from that cart. Tarrant saw Ozal pull up one side of the tarp and was fiddling with something inside. Bandari, meanwhile, had run back to his bridge where he started his engines with a sputtering roar.

  “Now or never," said his man. "We can take them.”

  “No, wait. Bandari's still tied to his slip.”

  Bandari was trying to gun his cold engines. They coughed and trembled; they did not yet have strength. Even so he moved his throttle forward. More trembling and groaning. The boat barely moved.

  Ozal, his hands were still under the tarp, saw and heard what Bandari was trying to do. He snarled aloud but then he saw that the stern line was still in place. He turned and yelled something to Bandari in Arabic. Tarrant didn't know the words but they were surely not a warning that the boat was still tethered to the dock. Their tone was too mocking for that. His words were barely out of his mouth, however, when a great spark flew out from the cart. Ozal yelped. Then he cursed. Wringing his hands which seemed burned by the spark, he reached back inside to repair what had shorted.

  “Oh, Christ," Tarrant muttered. It was just as he'd feared. "Let's get the hell out of here. Now.”

  Tarrant's man made a grunt and started to move forward. Tarrant reached to stop him. But the man wasn't walking; he was falling on his face. Tarrant reached to try to catch him, he thought the man had tripped. It was then that he felt the pistol jammed under his jaw. He heard a voice behind him that he knew must be Kessler's, a voice that seemed forced, one that sounded of pain.

  “Move with me or die. Your decision.”

  THIRTY FOUR

  Elizabeth had managed to snatch up the pistol that Martin had taken from her hand. Aisha saw her do it and knew her intention. She knew that she hoped to slip away in the confusion. Aisha helped her by pointing in another direction and shouting that her uncle had run off that way. Roy heard her, as did Nadia and so did the police. They all turned their heads and it was enough. Elizabeth was melting into the background, the pistol already in the pocket of her apron.

  Neither Roy nor Nadia nor Jasmine were fooled. They had seen which way the uncle had gone and they had seen that Kessler, wounded, had followed. Their immediate interest, however, was in Aisha but she too was backing away. Nadia ran toward her. A policeman shouted "Stop." Now Peter was waving his arms at the policemen. He was saying, "Don't shoot," he was saying his name, he was reaching very carefully into his jacket in order to produce his ID.

  But this same policeman nearly shot Roy because Roy swung his pistol on a man who had come running but who now was trying to slip away as well. Roy had seen that his jacket was like those of the others. More than that, he had seen the expression on his face, not fear, not shock, but a snarl of dismay. Roy ordered this man to stop, raise his hands, lie face down on the ground or he'd fire. The two policemen saw Roy's combat stance and realized that he must be officer himself. They swung their weapons toward the man in the jacket. The man in the jacket surrendered.

  Nadia had turned, distracted by these shouts. When she looked back Aisha was gone. She could see two directions that Aisha might have taken. One would have followed Elizabeth Stride and the other her uncle, Gamal. Nadia hissed at Jasmine to get her attention. Once again, she asked Jasmine to give her a gun. Jasmine brushed past her, shaking her head.

  “The uncle can wait. Let's find Aisha," she said.

  Elizabeth had reached the circular harbor having failed to spot Kessler or Bandari. But she did hear the voice that rose from the marina and she did see the crowd that was gathering at its source. The voice was muffled; she could not make out the words. Her thought was that Martin might have fallen from his wound and someone was calling for help. In her mind she upbraided him for getting himself shot. She remembered the vision that had gone through her head of Martin in a shoot-out at this very tournament, looking perfectly stupid in shorts. This vision, and her anger, and her fear for his life crowded out what her brain was trying to tell her - that the words of the man who was shouting were English but the voice had a mid-Eastern accent.

  “Over there," said Aisha who appeared at her side. "That's an Arab voice shouting over there.”

  “You get back, damn it. Get back, stay with Nadia.”

  “It could be my uncle. Let's go see.”

  Bandari, realizing that a stern line still held him, put his engine in idle and scrambled back down to the quarterdeck. Ozal didn't turn; he did not see him coming. Ozal was too intent on haranguing the crowd but his voice was now shrill with pain and frustration. The pain, Bandari realized, was coming from his fingers that were now raw and bloody from the chemicals that burned them and from the sparks that had leaped from the detonator he built.

  The soldier on the walkway had pulled out his scarf and was wrapping it over his head and face so that he would die as a Tuareg. He was doing it with difficulty in the manner of a drunk. Bandari saw vomit on his shirt. He hissed at him, "Soldier! Cast off this line." He hoped that Ozal couldn't hear. Ozal did; he glanced back; he showed little interest. He was much too absorbed by relating in detail what awaited these people in hell. He did notice, however, his man with the scarf and proceeded to try to unravel his own. Bandari lunged at the cleat on his deck and furiously tried to free the line from that end. But the line was too tight because the boat had strained forward. He pulled on the line with all his strength in an effort to produce a little slack. He still could not manage. With his foot he prodded the soldier still on board, the one whose teeth he had broken. But that one waved him off as he would a fly. He was too busy reading a prayer book with one hand and holding his jaw with the other. It was then that he heard his name called from the crowd that had gathered to listen to Ozal.

  “Uncle Gamal!?!”

  It went through him like a knife. He knew at once it was the voice of his niece. It called out again as he struggled with the line.

  “Why have you done these things, Uncle Gamal? Why have you murdered my mother and father?”

  He wanted to shout out that it was none of his doing. All these sins were on others, not him. But when he found her face at the edge of that crowd, he saw rising behind it the face of that woman, the one in dark glasses and headscarf. The woman who must be the Algerian whore was stepping up to the concrete sea wall, one hand in the pocket of her apron. Her eyes locked on him, her mouth a thin line, she was preparing to jump to the walkway.

  Bandari gasped. He let go of the line and ran to the place where he thought he had put down the shotgun.

  “Keep moving," said Kessler, his gun at Tarrant's spine. Tarrant had gone rigid and tried to pull back when he saw the black smoke rising out of the cart. He held his briefcase before him as if it were a shield.

  “I'm telling you, damn it. That thing is a bomb.”

  “Move or die. Last warning," Kessler told him.

  To Kessler it looked more like a revival meeting. Maybe even a magic show for the tourists. The man with one eye was making smoke and fireworks and seemed to be preparing the crowd for his finale by wrapping his face as he spoke. Kessler feared, however, that Tarrant could be right. This could be the bomb that keeps killing.

  The girl appeared. They both heard her shout. They heard her anguished accusal of her uncle but Bandari was nowhere in sight. Suddenly his head popped up and then his hands. He was spreading the hands in denial. His boat was straining on the one line that held it. Suddenly, on the sea wall, there was Elizabeth. Bandari saw her. He clearly knew her because his eyes went wide and he stood up and ran from the quarterdeck.

 

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