The Mark of the Assassin (46 page)
They passed behind the cottage, where a porch light burned. Delaroche considered entering the cottage and killing the occupants. But there had been no activity on the grounds, no sign that their presence had been noticed, so he passed behind the cottage and started across the rear lawn.
A dog barked, then another. He turned and saw a pair of large golden retrievers running toward them. He chambered the first round in his Beretta and raised the gun at the advancing dogs.
The dogs awakened Michael. His eyes opened wide, and he was suddenly alert. He heard the first dog, then the second. Then both fell silent. He sat up in bed and swung his feet to the floor. On his bedside table were the Browning automatic, a portable radio, and a multiple-line telephone. He snatched up the radio and said, “This is Osbourne. Anyone there?”
Elizabeth stirred.
“This is Osbourne. Is anyone there? I heard dogs barking.”
The radio crackled and a voice said, “The dogs are fine, sir. No problem.”
Osbourne set down the radio, picked up the telephone, and dialed the number in the caretaker’s cottage. He let the phone ring five times before slamming the receiver back into place.
Elizabeth sat up in bed.
Osbourne quickly dialed a special emergency number at Langley.
A calm voice answered.
“This is Osbourne. Shelter Island security detail is off the air. Call the local police and get some more men out here now! Move it!”
He hung up the phone.
Elizabeth said, “Michael, what’s wrong?”
“He’s here,” Osbourne said. “He’s killed the security team and he’s got their radio. I just spoke to the bastard. Get some warm clothes on. Hurry, Elizabeth.”
Charlie Gibbons had been the caretaker at Cannon Point for twenty years. He was born and raised on Shelter Island and could trace his ancestry to the whalers who worked from Greenport three centuries earlier. He lived only ninety miles from New York City but had been there just once.
Charlie could hear the telephone ringing in his cottage as he walked across the lawn in his bathrobe, shotgun in one hand, flashlight in the other. He spotted the dogs a moment later and ran clumsily toward them. He knelt beside the first and saw his yellow coat was soaked with blood. He turned the beam of his flashlight on the second and saw it was in the same condition.
He rose and shone his flashlight toward the bulkhead. He played the beam back and forth for a few seconds and spotted something bright blue. The security men had been wearing blue waterproof jackets. He ran toward the fallen figure and knelt beside him. It was the man named Matt Cooper, and he was clearly dead.
He had to wake Michael and Elizabeth. He had to telephone the Shelter Island police. He had to get help quickly. He got to his feet and turned to run back to the cottage.
A tall blond woman stepped from behind a tree, a gun in outstretched hands. He saw the muzzle flash but heard no sound. The rounds tore through his chest.
He felt an excruciating pain, saw a flash of brilliant white light.
Then darkness.
48
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
“The security team is off the air,” the duty officer said. “Osbourne believes October is on the premises.”
Adrian Carter sat up in bed. “Goddammit!”
“We’ve alerted local police, and another detail is en route.”
“They’d better fucking hurry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be at headquarters in five minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, connect me with Monica Tyler.”
“Stand by, sir.”
Michael had slept with his clothes on. Elizabeth pulled on a pair of gray cotton sweatpants and a beige woolen sweater. Michael slipped on his shoes and collected the Browning, the radio and cellular phone, and the keypad for the home’s security system. The system was activated. The alarm would sound if October tried to enter the house. A number would read out on the keypad’s digital display, showing which door or window the intruder had breached. If October tried to break inside the house, Michael would instantly know where he was.
Michael shut off the bedroom lights and led Elizabeth into the darkened hallway. They followed the stairs down to the entrance hall. Another light burned there. Michael quickly killed it.
The stairway to the basement was just off the large kitchen. Michael took Elizabeth’s arm and led her through the darkness. He opened the doorway to the stairs and led her down to the basement.
Delaroche and Astrid crouched next to the door of the screened porch. Delaroche worked a knife inside the crude latch. It gave way after a few seconds. They picked their way across the veranda, around overstuffed rattan furniture and low tables, to a set of French doors. He tried the latch. It was locked. He crouched and worked his lock pick in the keyhole. The lock mechanism snapped. Delaroche pushed back the doors, and they slipped inside.
The house, in fact, had three entrances—the main front doorway, the rear sun porch, and a small basement doorway on the north side of the house, hidden behind a set of recessed steps. Michael and Elizabeth moved through the finished rooms of the basement until they reached the doorway.
The alarm sounded in his hand. Michael quickly killed the tone and reset it. October had entered the house through the French doors off the living room.
A few seconds later the alarm sounded again, then a third time. Two motion detectors had been triggered, one in the dining room, one in the living room. The detectors were several feet apart. Unless October was moving through the house very rapidly it was unlikely that he set off both; the house was dark and unfamiliar to him. Michael assumed Astrid Vogel was in the house too. He turned to Elizabeth and said, “Go to the guest cottage and wait there until the police come.”
“Michael, I don’t want to leave you in—”
“Just do it, Elizabeth,” Michael snapped. “If you want to live, just do what I say.”
She nodded.
“The police will be here in a few minutes. When you see them, run for them. It’s me he wants, not you. Do you understand me?”
She nodded. Michael said, “Good.”
He punched in the disarm code and opened the door. Elizabeth kissed his cheek and started up the stairs. At the top she paused and looked in all directions. The night was pitch-black; she could barely make out the faint outline of the guest cottage overlooking the water.
She ran across the lawn, windblown rain beating against her face, until she reached the door of the cottage. She opened the door, stepped inside, then turned and took one last look at Michael.
The basement door closed, and he was gone. She closed the door and locked it, leaving the lights off. Then she went to the window and looked in the direction of the front gate.
It was Astrid Vogel, standing in the living room, who spotted something moving across the lawn toward the guest cottage—a light-colored sweater, a woman, judging by the slightly awkward stride.
“Jean-Paul,” she whispered, and gestured toward the lawn. “The woman.”
“Take her,” Delaroche whispered. Then he laid a hand on her arm and said, “Alive, Astrid. She’s no good to us dead. And hurry. We don’t have much time.”
Astrid slipped out the French doors, crossed the veranda, and set off across the lawn.
Michael reset the alarm system. He found a rechargeable flashlight plugged into an outlet—the senator had flashlights positioned throughout the house because of the island’s frequent power outages. Michael switched on the light and played the beam back and forth across the walls until he found the fuse box. He opened it and shone the light inside. The master switch was the largest. He threw the switch and killed power to the entire house. The alarm system ran on batteries, so it would remain functional. He set the alarm on silent.
He followed the beam of light up the stairs and returned to the kitchen. On the wall, next to the telephone, was an intercom box for the front gate. The intercom operated on the telephone system, and the gate had a separate power source. He pressed a button and went quickly to a living room window overlooking the lawn. Outside, at the head of the property, he could see the metal gate rolling open on its track.
The guest cottage felt like an icehouse. Elizabeth couldn’t remember the last time someone had stayed in the place. The thermostat was set to the lowest level to keep the pipes from bursting in a hard freeze. The wind tore at the shingled roof and beat against the windows overlooking Shelter Island Sound. Something scratched against the side of the house. Elizabeth emitted a short scream, then realized it was only the old oak tree that she had climbed countless times as a child.
It wasn’t the
guest
cottage; in the lexicon of the Cannon family it was known as
Elizabeth’s
cottage. The place was comfortable and modestly furnished. There were light-finished hardwood floors and, in the living room, rustic furniture arranged around the large picture window overlooking the harbor. The kitchen was tiny, just a small refrigerator and a stove with two burners, the bedroom simple. When she was a child, the cottage had been hers. When the main house was filled with her father’s staff, or some delegation from a strange country, Elizabeth would come here to hide among her possessions. She adored the cottage, cared for it, spent summer nights in it. She smoked her first dope in the bathroom and lost her virginity in the bedroom.
guest
cottage; in the lexicon of the Cannon family it was known as
Elizabeth’s
cottage. The place was comfortable and modestly furnished. There were light-finished hardwood floors and, in the living room, rustic furniture arranged around the large picture window overlooking the harbor. The kitchen was tiny, just a small refrigerator and a stove with two burners, the bedroom simple. When she was a child, the cottage had been hers. When the main house was filled with her father’s staff, or some delegation from a strange country, Elizabeth would come here to hide among her possessions. She adored the cottage, cared for it, spent summer nights in it. She smoked her first dope in the bathroom and lost her virginity in the bedroom.
She thought, If I could choose a place to die it would be here.
She blew on her hands and wrapped her arms tightly around herself against the cold.
Reflexively, she touched her lower abdomen.
She again thought, Are the babies all right? God, let them be all right!
She went to the window and looked out. A tall woman was running toward the cottage, gun in hand. She could see enough of the face to realize it was the same woman who had pursued her in Washington. She walked backward from the window and nearly toppled over an armchair.
It’s me he wants, not you.
She knew Michael was lying to her. They would use her to get to Michael, but they would kill her too. Just the way they killed Max. Just the way they killed Susanna.
She heard the scrape of boots on the wooden steps to the front door. She heard the metallic clicking of Astrid Vogel trying the doorknob. She heard a loud thud as Astrid Vogel tried to kick the door down, and she summoned every ounce of self-control she had to keep from screaming. She moved to the bedroom and closed the door. She heard a series of low thuds—three or four, she couldn’t be certain—and the sound of splintering wood: Astrid Vogel, shooting her way through the lock. Another kick, and this time the door crashed open, slamming into the adjoining wall.
It’s me he wants, not you.
And you’re a liar, Michael Osbourne, she thought. They were merciless and sadistic. There would be no reasoning with them and certainly no negotiating.
She backpedaled into the corner, eyes on the closed door. God, how many times had she been here before? On beautiful summer mornings. On chilly autumn afternoons. The books on the shelves were hers, and so were the clothes in the closet. Even the threadbare rug at the foot of the bed. She thought of the afternoon she and her mother bought it together at an auction in Bridgehampton.
She thought, I can’t let her take me. They’ll kill us both.
She heard the woman walking through the cottage, the footfalls of her boots on the hardwood floors. She heard the wind rushing through the trees, the screaming of gulls. She stepped forward and put the hook on the door.
Hide in the closet, she thought. Maybe she won’t look.
Don’t be silly, Elizabeth. Think!
Then she heard the woman call out. “I know you’re in here, Mrs. Osbourne. I don’t want to hurt you. Just come out now.”
The voice was low and strangely pleasant, the accent German.
Don’t listen to her!
She opened the closet door and slipped inside. She closed the door halfway—she couldn’t bear the thought of being sealed in the tiny dark room. Finally, she heard the wail of sirens, far off, carried by the wind. She wondered where they were—Winthrop Road, Manhanset Road if they were coming from mid-island. Either way, Elizabeth knew she would be dead before they arrived.
She backed away from the door. Something sharp dug into her shoulder blade—an arrow, sitting on the shelf. She groped along the wall; she knew it was here somewhere, the bow her father had given her when she turned twelve. It was hanging from a hook on the wall, next to an ancient set of golf clubs.
The woman tried the bedroom door and discovered it was locked.
Elizabeth thought, Now she knows I’m in here.
Panic shot through her. She forced herself to breathe.
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