She turned and ran to the parked car, ripping open the back door, grabbing the black case, turning and running after Thomas.

They ran down the incline behind the house, down the hillside to the sh.o.r.e and the pier. To the remaining boat.

To Thomas it was clear. To Leslie it was becoming clear. What had the old impostor said about the ocean?

Beneath the waves.

Thomas cursed that Russian and Polish fishing fleet. Of course it was where it was, a hundred miles to the south, drawing the Coast Guard and naval reserves to the area. It was a diversion, and a d.a.m.ned good one, drawing all attention to that area The rendezvous vessel for the master spy would slip in and out virtually unnoticed. Brilliant, cursed Thomas.

He and Leslie ran the quarter mile from the flaming house to the dock, their sides aching and their lungs ready to burst. They ran down the dock. Canvas covered the remaining boat.

Thomas tore at it until it began to rip. The canvas peeled away from the Chris-Craft slowly, jerkily tearing from its fastening pins.

Once enough was pulled away for the two of them to crawl into the craft, Thomas led the way, pulling Leslie along.

The dashboard of the boat was locked, a wooden panel pulled into place over the ignition and controls. Thomas looked at it with anguish and smashed it with his fist.

Leslie was totally calm. She reached to the fire ax and handed it to him. He knew what to do.

With three or four crashing strokes, he broke through the panel.

He then cut through the woodwork that led to the ignition wires.

He crossed them and gunned the craft's diesel engine.

The boat roared to life.

"Where'd you learn all about ships?" she asked.

"My father joined a yacht club," he said.

"Remember?"

"I never knew."

"You do now," he said.

He threw the throttle into reverse, turning the ship in the small docking area. Zenger's craft was even less of a speck than it had been before. Thomas looked at his compa.s.s, estimating the direction Zenger had gone. He looked at the fuel gauge. Zenger's final revenge. Hardly any. No matter. He threw the throttle completely into the forward position, letting the craft speed forward as fast as possible across the choppy, b.u.mpy salt water.

Zenger was on the horizon, distant, perhaps three miles out now.

A mere dot.

"Come on, d.a.m.n it," Thomas cursed at the boat.

"Move!"

The boat skipped across the jerky waves, splatting and even banging on the choppy water as it bullied its way through the rough ocean. The pursuit was insane; Thomas knew it. But he also knew that Zenger's escape, or the escape of this man who had inhabited Zenger's ident.i.ty, had been planned for years. A standby, emergency escape, ready on a few days' notice whenever necessary.

Either Thomas stopped him now, or the master spy, his father's a.s.sociate, would never be seen again in the West.

Minutes pa.s.sed. The speck remained at a stationary distance on the horizon. Thomas watched the fuel needle sink toward the E. He pushed the boat. They did not appear to be gaining.

He heard clicks and the clink of metal behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Leslie was a.s.sembling the contents of the gun case.

A long-barreled, high-powered rifle, equipped with a special Browning telescopic sight. She had to be dreaming, he thought.

The only way would be to get close enough for a decent shot.

Then again, it suddenly flashed into his mind, Zenger had to be armed, also. A further thought hit him: Who was he to play games with professionals like this? Hammond, a professional, already lay dead, the result of one small mistake. Was Thomas that much better than Hammond? He doubted it.

His common sense screamed at him.

"Turn it around Go back!

While you still have fuel enough to return!"

Leslie spoke.

"It's together," she said, raising the rifle and checking the sight.

"I'm loading it!"

She bolted the rifle and slid a long six-bullet magazine into it.

She stood up and looked over his shoulder.

"Straight ahead' she said, tense but encouraged.

"I think you're gaining, " "Impossible," he muttered.

He squinted at the horizon. No, she was right. For some reason Zenger had cut his engines. They were gaining.

Thomas looked at the compa.s.s as their craft continued to move in a straight pattern toward Zenger's boat. The speck on the horizon was larger, more elongated. The compa.s.s told them that they'd altered their course.

Leslie stood behind Thomas, glancing at the compa.s.s, frowning.

"What's he doing?" she asked in a half whisper.

Thomas paused for two or three seconds before answering, a signal to her that he wasn't sure.

"It looks like he's turning," she said.

"But why? There's nothing to turn to."

She looked back to where they'd come from. The island was smaller now.

They approached international waters, greater depths, and trickier currents. The fuel needle was on E. The water was tangibly choppier, the bottom of their small boat being battered hard by the four-foot waves.