continued from Electric Acorn 7

Key Biscayne,
Florida.

Victor Kasparov pulled his Bronco off the road and into the trees that grew thick around the sheltered cove on Key Biscayne. It was a calm evening, dark but moonlit. The few boats in the cove lay at anchor in the silent black water. Everyone had gone home. The vista looked more like a large painting than a scene from real life. He checked his watch. Midnight. If everything went according to plan he reckoned that he would have to wait only forty-five minutes. He took out his binoculars, infrared for night vision, and laid them on the dashboard. Then he yanked a cold can of Budweiser from the plastic ring holding the six-pack together. Popping the aluminum ring, he took a gulp and settled back for the wait.

Everything had indeed gone according to plan. Fifty minutes later he saw the shape of the Russian diesel-driven Kilo submarine surface just outside the cove and watched as two figures climbed into a dingy and detached themselves from the sub. He waited until they were closer and then flashed the prearranged signal. They didn't return his signal but he knew he had made contact. Watching through the binoculars he saw them change direction and head directly toward the northern point of the cove where he had positioned himself. Sweeping the water beyond he could no longer see the sub.

Twenty minutes later, they had disposed of their wet suits and dingy and were in the Bronco heading out of Key Biscayne and north on US 1. Victor had given each a Bud from his sixpack.

"Victor, good beer. But I need some Stoli, babe!", laughed the stockier, younger one in an almost too perfect American twang. The older, cavernous one said nothing.

"Rudi, you're going to my place tonight and you can have anything you want. Stoli! Girls! Whatever! Tonight you party. Tomorrow we go to work."

Thirty minutes later Victor was edging his Bronco into his reserved space outside his strip club, Lucky Vic's, under the flyover west of Miami International Airport. A large floodlit helium balloon proclaiming 'Girls, Girls, Girls' on one side and 'Triple XXX Rated' on the other, intended to lure drivers off the highway, hung overhead. Dancers from the former Soviet Union and Latin America stripped to the grinding, erotic beat of the music as sailors, East European businessmen and victims lured from the highway downed their Stoli and beer. Victor deposited his guests at the runway that connected the center stage with the large horseshoe bar that bordered the interior. He ordered a bottle of Stoli for them and watched as one of the dancers enticed Rudi to put a dollar in the luminous string bikini she barely wore. Then he made an exit to his office in the rear of the club.

Easing his large frame into his leather upholstered executive chair, he turned on his PC, brought up the Microsoft Network, moused into his e-mail system and sent a message to Misha in Moscow: 'Dolphins arrived safe'. Then he poured himself a double Chivas Regal, noting that he now preferred scotch to vodka, and tilted back in his chair contemplating the next days with some relish. He hadn't been on a 'field' assignment in a long time but he had insisted on leading this one. He supposed that Misha considered him too valuable to risk but had to balance that against the need to succeed this time. This assignment seemed like a piece of cake. His biggest problem might be Rudi and his silent partner but he had to admit they were well qualified. Nyack. He let the word roll around on his tongue. He liked the sound of it and he liked the place. Just north of New York, nestling on the hillside overlooking the Hudson right beside the Tappan Zee Bridge. Maybe he'd manage to squeeze in a couple of days in the Big Apple with Connie, soak in her jacuzzi, hit the best restaurants, hang out in some clubs. The Chivas and the daydreaming were as good as a sedative for Victor Kasparov that night.

Nyack,
New York.

Joe Kearns reminded himself for the umpteenth time that he would have to fix 'that damn gate'. It clanged loudly every time the wind picked up. Gales were forecast for tonight but he never believed the weathermen. Just a bunch of glib talkers, picked for their ability to perform in front of the camera. Image. That's what it was all about these days. But sometimes they got lucky and got it right. Maybe they'll get lucky tonight. It felt like a storm in his bones. His arthritic hips were acting up again. 'Jeez, I'm only sixty-seven. That's not old. Not these days. Still, I should have fixed that damn gate', he told himself as he eased his car out of the short steep driveway and onto the road that meandered down the hill in front of his home.

Once through Nyack village he checked his watch. 7:15 pm. If the bus had left the George Washington Bridge station on time, his wife and daughter should be getting off at the bus stop on route 303 in ten minutes. He was in good time. Five minutes later he swung the Ford Taurus into the parking lot outside the diner, adjacent to the bus stop. He hadn't seen his daughter in a couple of months. Sarah had caught the 'acting bug', just like her mother, and was studying at the American Academy of Dramatic Art while she made her living at an endless string of waitress jobs. Nora never made the big time. She'd never been out of work though, always off-Broadway or more often off-off-Broadway. It was Nora who decided they should live in Nyack after he left 'the company'. Just a 'hop and a skip' into Manhattan so they could be near her beloved theater. And, of course, Helen Hayes lived in Nyack and 'so did Richard Kiley's mother'. All these thoughts just tumbled through Joe Kearns' mind as he waited. He didn't have long to wait. About six minutes later the distinctive yellow and red number 10 bus pulled in and four or five people got off. Nora and Sarah were the last two, in animated conversation. Joe hurried to meet them.

At about the time Joe Kearns was picking up his wife and daughter, Victor Kasparov and his two associates were getting off the shuttle bus in the long term parking lot at Kennedy Airport. It didn't take long to find the Toyota Previa, parked exactly where Victor had been told. Feeling under the rear bumper his hand encountered the small square box anchored by a magnet. The car keys were inside. He opened the door and Rudi and his silent partner jumped in. Victor opened the rear door and found the sports bag hidden beneath a pile of black plastic garbage bags. The weapons they had requested were inside. Satisfied, Victor jumped in the driver's seat, confirmed that he had a full tank of gas, turned the key in the ignition and headed towards the airport exit. Checking his watch he could see that it was 8 pm. If the traffic was moving they should be in Nyack within the hour, he reckoned.

*******

Owen MacDara winced as he and Leslie Scott stepped off the elevator at the Plaza Hotel.

"You're still hurting"

"I'll hurt for a while. But there's no damage, nothing broken. The x-rays proved that."

"And what about this Conor Brady? He's still out there."

"That's right. But I'm not going to let him intimidate me. Redington's men are on his ass. Last report said they believe he's left the city."

"What do you think?"

"I don't know. He's a slippery customer. But we must get to Kearns. We can't let Brady stop us."

Owen noted that it had just passed 9 pm as he and Leslie Scott walked down the front steps of the Plaza toward the door of his dark green Jag, held open in anticipation by the eager young valet. MacDara tipped him generously and they moved out into the sparse early evening traffic around Columbus Circle. No grid lock. They should make the east side in five to ten minutes. He was headed for the entrance to the East River Drive. That would take him to the Harlem River Parkway and directly onto the George Washington Bridge. Once across the Hudson it would be a pleasant thirty minute trip north on the Pallisades Parkway before he reached the Sparkill exit onto Route 303. Another five minutes or so should see him in Nyack. As though reading his mind, Leslie Scott said:

"Should be there by 10 o'clock?"

"You're right. You must have been reading my mind. Of course, there's no guarantees in New York. I remember one night it took me six hours to get to the Harlem River Parkway! That's normally a fifteen minute ride."

"What are the odds that Kearns will be at home?"

"I don't know. Better that fifty fifty? We're certainly not going to tell him to expect us. Besides, it's a nice night for a drive."

Just then the first rain drops began to patter the windshield, as though nature was letting him know precisely who was in charge of the evening.

*********

Victor Kasparov drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel as he watched the ambulance pull away from the crash scene up ahead. The two cop cars were still straddled diagonally across the Tappan Zee Bridge and the flashing lights on the tow truck only acted as an irritant. It was 9:15 pm and they'd been stuck for half an hour. He knew they'd spoken too soon when they praised themselves for making good time as they crossed Westchester towards the Hudson river. Now they sat in silence. Even Rudi had stopped humming to himself. A Budweiser would have helped. But Victor had a strict rule: no alcohol on a 'field' assignment. Finally the logjam ended. The tow truck moved the second vehicle leaving enough room for a single lane of traffic and the cops started to wave them on. It was a snail's pace but, luckily, they were near the head of the line. At 9:30 pm they broke free. Victor put the accelerator to the floor and they sped off the bridge into Nyack.

*********

The logs blazed in Joe Kearns' large fieldstone fireplace throwing a warm glow around the three people sunk into the big cosy chairs in the living room. Sarah felt the warmth in her cheeks and the soft carpet caressing the sensitive skin between her bare toes. Flavors of red wine and her mother's cheese cake covered her tongue in a silky balm. The wind had blown up outside making a noise through the trees like a storm at sea. The sound made her feel safe inside, almost womblike, as she looked over at her mother's eyes gently fighting to stay awake. Lulled into a dream state it took her a while to realize that another harsher sound was disturbing her world. That and the swearing of her father tensed her again.

"That damn gate! Oh, no, your mother wanted wrought iron. A good teak gate would have been fine. I suppose I'd better go and see if I can stop the damn thing from driving us crazy!"

Zipping up his Goretex he squeezed himself outside, opening the screen door with his right hand as he shut the front door with his left. The light rain of earlier evening had now started to fall in gale swept sheets of water. He turned on the flashlight and started down the driveway.

"Your father's been out there for fifteen minutes. What's keeping him?," said Nora Kearns, more to herself than to her daughter, as she poured the hot water into the teapot. It was time for their bedtime snack: cheese, crackers and tea; a nightly ritual for as long as Sarah remembered.

"Oh, mom, don't worry! Dad's had tougher jobs than fixing a gate. If he's not back in five minutes, I'll go get him. OK?" Her mother said nothing. She busied herself with the cheese and crackers and had just put the cosy on the steaming pot of tea when the front door opened violently and crashed against the wall. Just as violently, Joe Kearns was propelled into the room, ending up in a heap on the floor. Sarah screamed and her mother dropped the teapot spilling the hot amber liquid in an ugly stain across the carpet. Three men stood in the doorway like an apparition. The taller, older one closed the door and spoke:

"Good evening, ladies. It's a shame we had to disturb your evening but we need a little co-operation from Mr. Kearns. As soon as we get that you can get back to your domestic bliss. Ah, blue cheese? I just love it. You must have been expecting us." Victor Kasparov walked to within a few inches of Nora Kearns, who had turned white as a ghost, grabbed a hunk of the cheese and shoved it into his mouth. The other two stood at the door but Rudi never took his eyes off Sarah who had now lost some of her fear and, in an angry voice, yelled:

"What do you want? Who are you? We don't have any money/ There's nothing worth stealing here!"

"Leave my wife and daughter alone, you bastards!" The words emitted in raspy gasps from Joe Kearns as he struggled to his feet, blood dripping from a split lip and his right eye puffy and closing. He rushed towards Kasparov but the silent one moved swiftly and pinned both his arms behind his back holding him firmly in place.

"What do you want with my husband?" Nora Kearns voice was strained but carried clearly in that room, a voice trained to reach the back rows in the theater.

"Just some answers to our questions. Convince your husband to tell us what we want to know and then we'll leave you in peace. We're really quite civilized you know. I find this all so distasteful. And you," Kasparov turned towards Sarah, " my young friend likes you. He's been starved for female company for a long time. Convince your father to talk and I'll do my best to restrain him."

"But I don't know! I never knew!", screeched Kearns.

"I don't believe you! You were the CIA number 2 in the Congo in '61. You and Zhukov paid to have Hammarskjold assassinated. We want to know who gave you the orders. It's that simple. I know you've been trained to resist. But don't even try. Comrade, take the young lady upstairs," said Kasparov.

"No! No! No!" screeched Kearns as Rudi, leering from ear to ear, grabbed Sarah and pulled her after him up the stairs while Nora, overcome, collapsed into the nearest armchair.

******

"What did I say? No guarantees in New York?," said Owen MacDara as they slowed to a crawl on the Pallisades Parkway. The mild patter of raindrops that greeted them when they left the Plaza had turned into a downpour, reducing visibility and slowing the traffic to ten miles per hour at times.

"At this rate we'll be lucky to get there by 10:30 pm. They'll probably be in bed. That's where all sensible people should be on a night like this, isn't it Leslie?," said Owen. Leslie pretending she didn't notice the lascivious tone in his voice, said: "There's nothing we can do about it so we might as well relax and enjoy." She reached over, inserted a Van Morrison cassette, and listened to Van warning that 'there'd be days like this.'

******

Sarah's screams reverberated through the house.

"For God's sake, Joe, if you know anything, tell them. Stop being a bloody hero!" Nora had mustered all her remaining strength to yell the words at her husband just as Sarah stumbled down the stairs naked and terrified with Rudi in pursuit. He caught her hair at the bottom of the stairs and pulled, knocking her off balance onto her knees in front of him.

"You see, Joe, we didn't need all this unpleasantness. But we still haven't convinced you that we're serious, have we?," said Victor Kasparov looking at the silent one and nodding his assent. It only took a split second. The silent one pulled a pistol from his pocket, stepped toward Nora Kearns and shot her right between the eyes. She stood there suspended for a brief moment, that new black opening in her forehead, a look of surprise on her face, and then collapsed in a heap exactly where she'd been standing.

"I so regret the necessity of violence," said Kasparov pulling Sarah away from Rudi and holding his pistol to her temple. The silent one had resumed his position holding a defeated and limp Kearns with his arms pinned behind him.

"Talk to Wainwright. He knows who gave the orders," were the last words that Joe Kearns ever spoke. A single nod from Kasparov and the silent one had Kearns neck in an arm lock. One quick twist, a snap, and Kearns neck was broken. Sarah screamed again just as Kasparov wielded the butt of the pistol against her temple like a mallot.

*****

Owen MacDara and Leslie Scott had just reached Kearns front door when they heard the muffled sound of the shot that killed Nora Kearns. Drowned by the gale the noise was still unmistakable to Owen.

"Jesus Christ! I think we're too late!," he said, advising Leslie to stay put as he made a quick reconnoitre of the ground floor to find a way inside. The garage door was unlocked. He slid it up a few feet, squirmed underneath and tested the door leading from the garage into the house. He was lucky. It hadn't been locked.

"We're done here! Rudi, pick her up and get rid of her. We don't need any witnesses," commanded Victor Kasparov just as the silent one backed into the fireplace from the impact of MacDara's bullet in his chest. Rudi dropped Sarah again, took cover behind one of the overstuffed armchairs and fired twice in Owen's direction, causing Owen to take cover. Kasparov had already concluded that this was a zero sum game and bolted out the front door knocking Leslie Scott to the ground with a solid blow. He disappeared into the dark rain drenched night. Inside, Rudi had made a fatal mistake. He left his cover behind the armchair and made a dash to follow Kasparov. Owen's shot picked him off in mid-flight. His brains mingled with the now drying amber tea stain on the carpet.

^