"It's dying time again, you're going to leave me." O'Kane softly hummed his own words to the old Ray Charles classic as, around him, a shipboard casino flashed and binged and hummed with the low, hope-filled conversations of gamblers who never quite grasped the concept of the house odds.
"I can see that faraway look in your eyes." His voice was so low that even the gray-haired lady at the slot machine next to him couldn't hear him. The plugs of cotton in his mouth distorted his voice.
He plugged another quarter into his machine and pulled the handle, hoping, as he had for the past three hours, that he wouldn't win. Keeping his left hand carefully tucked into his pocket as he had done since boarding, he checked the bulky Omega Seamaster on his wrist, felt the mechanical whir of its old self-winding mechanism as he moved his arm.
Eight minutes.
The deck vibrated faintly under his feet as the huge cruise ship sliced through the midnight seas at flank speed, racing to make the run from Los Cabos to Puerta Vallarta by morning. O'Kane wore a baseball cap with the ship's name emblazoned on it. He had pulled it down to hide part of his face. His undercover work for Customs had made him a master at changing his face. He became so good at it he conducted seminars for other agents on how to use a thousand different techniques, including stage make up; oral prostheses that distorted the lips and cheeks; wigs; silicone cheek ridges, cemented on and covered with make up.
Tonight, like everytime he went all out, his own mother -- were she still alive -- wouldn't have recognized him if she'd been plugging quarters into the slot machine next to him.
He'd carefully chosen his clothes, too, to blend in with the onboard crowd. The ship's name and cruise line logo emblazoned the expensive navy blue warm-up suit purchased at the ship's store. At least a third of the slots players were similarly dressed. Only his black running shoes and plain fanny pack had arrived in his own luggage.
He plugged in another quarter and pulled the handle of the one-armed bandit, which had obligingly eaten more than $100 in quarters so far without giving back a single coin. Through the slim space between sparkling chromed slot machines, he watched as Tawfiq el-Nouty motioned the blackjack dealer for another card then slid his hand between the thighs of a tall, bosomy woman whose thin, white Spandex mini-dress rode up far enough for O'Kane and everyone else in the casino to know she was not a natural blond.
O'Kane set down his plastic cup of quarters and took a sip of Cabernet, studied the man he would never forget. Tawfiq was a tall, lean man with a sharp face and eyes that looked straight back into Hell. Judging from the various pneumatically endowed pick-ups O'Kane had watched him escort out of the casino on the past five evenings, a certain type of woman found Tawfiq attractive.
With the approach of el-Nouty's hand, the woman spread her legs to accommodate him; she rubbed one of her large breasts against his shoulder. The movement freed one breast. She giggled then efficiently tucked the breast and its large, erect nipple back in the skimpy dress.
Just then, an equally blond and almost equally endowed waitress arrived with the Iranian terrorist's eighth Chivas of the night. As she set his drink down, she glanced disapprovingly at his hand and the bimbo in the nearly transparent dress. From the pre-dawn session of fellatio the waitress had given Tawfiq just three nights before on the fantail, O'Kane knew the waitress's look was more one of disappointment than moral approbation. She wouldn't be getting into Tawfiq's chips tonight.
Six minutes.
O'Kane went back to mechanically plugging quarters into the machine and pulling the handle, without ever taking his gaze from his target. On the far end of the slot machine section, a jackpot spewed clinking silver into an elderly woman's lap and showered the floor. She clapped her hands like an excited child and cheered her good fortune with a crone's crackling voice. Heads turned toward her. More limber bystanders helped her scoop the change off the carpet. el-Nouty glanced over for just an instant, his face wearing the look of someone who has just smelled something foul. Judgment passed.
For more than a decade, Tawfiq el-Nouty had been a faceless, and elusive killer known for cruel acts of violence, rape and death. He targeted children -- the younger the better.
Judging by el-Nouty's public seductions in the casino for the last five evenings, it was obvious the Iranian government's favored agent still didn't know someone had connected his face to his crimes against nature and her creatures.
The Iranian obviously felt secure in his cover as a rich Persian expatriated by the Shah's fall. Intelligence indicated that the Ayatollahs had assured el-Nouty that Allah would reward him for his revenge against the Great Satan America and its lackeys and forgive him the sins he had to force upon himself in order to maintain his role as a decadent Westerner.
O'Kane checked his Omega again, smiled an instant later when he saw el-Nouty take a gulp of the Chivas then check the diamond-encrusted Piaget on his wrist. 1:57 a.m. Three minutes to go.
el-Nouty disengaged his hand from the far northern reaches of the blond's thighs. O'Kane saw her pout and grow angry as el-Nouty handed her his cards, indicated the stack of hundred-dollar chips were hers and walked away.
"Tomorrow," el-Nouty said to her as he neared the slot machines. Her smile returned; as soon as el-Nouty turned his back, she signaled the dealer she was out of the game and scooped up the chips, leaving a single $100 chip as a tip.
As el-Nouty headed for the exit, O'Kane bent over as if to pick up a quarter fumbled to the floor; he strolled out the casino's other exit.
The envelope from Customs passed on to him by the gray bureaucrat indicated that el-Nouty was on his usual luxurious way to meet with leaders of Mexican drug gangs to teach them how to better terrorize police and government officials by striking where it hurt most -- at their families.
Taking the stairs two by two, O'Kane climbed effortlessly up two flights to the promenade deck and pushed open the door. A bracing wind howled through the opening and cleared his head of the fuzziness brought on by the tedious hours of surveillance. He stepped quickly now to the rubberized jogging track and set off at a seven-minute-mile pace, leisurely for him.
By day he had worked out in the ship's weight room, then every night, he had pounded the track, run the stairs, explored every part of every deck, noted the abundance of private nooks and spaces tucked away among cranes, lifeboats, stairwells, machinery closets, deck appurtenances, liferaft launchers and other maritime necessities.
By the end of the third night, he had found enough furtive gropes and assignations of every sexual permutation and combination to keep a divorce court -- or the illustrator of sex manuals -- churning along in full gear for months. Using a small monocular starlight scope the size of a roll of quarters O'Kane missed few of the graphic details.
The din of the casino fading in his ears, O'Kane tucked himself into a locker used for storing paint, brushes, primer, scrapers, ladders and other paraphenalia employed in the ship's perpetual battle against rust. Moments later, el-Nouty arrived; O'Kane caught his breath for an instant as el-Nouty strolled past the paint locker and made for the nook carved out by a bulkhead and a towering rack of life raft containers. This had been the Iranian's love next for the past nights. O'Kane guessed El Nouty brought the women here, instead of his stateroom, because of the thrill and because he didn't want his casual pick-ups to know where to find him. The hunter did not want the hunted to show up unexpected or unwanted on his doorstep.
Through the starlight scope, O'Kane saw the Iranian look around, obviously expecting someone to be there by now. el-Nouty walked back past the paint locker, scanned the deck and returned to the nook.
A look of annoyance twisted the vain killer's face as he paced the private nook. O'Kane smiled faintly as the Iranian reached into his trouser pocket and pulled from it a piece of the ship's memo paper.
Without being able to read it now, O'Kane knew the paper was covered with frilly, florid handwriting, complete with Xs and Os and little happy faces to dot the Is. Only a handwriting professional could distinguish it from the true writing of a woman who should now be knocking at the door of el-Nouty's stateroom. O'Kane had sent both notes -- each promising the other exotic sexual acts -- in sealed ship's envelopes anonymously delivered by the purser's desk the previous morning.
el-Nouty looked again at his watch, angrily crumpled the paper and tossed it overboard. He was a man who kept others waiting; he was insulted when others kept him waiting.
O'Kane remembered it had been that way five years before.
The others had done the preliminary work, the subduing, the trussing, the grunt work. Then el-Nouty and the woman had made their grand entrance. He brought along his two favorite weapons: his penis and a straight-edged razor that folded neatly into an antique mother-of-pearl handle. The woman wore a hood over her head and seemed to derive a sexual enjoyment out of directing el-Nouty's moves: "Stick her there with the knife, in there with your prick!" O'Kane remembered the exact words, the way her husky voice was charged with sexual excitement. And what she did with Andy.
The woman was definitely the ringleader. After el-Nouty, she was the last. O'Kane knew he could never rest until he brought her to justice as well.
Fighting back tears of anger and sorrow, O'Kane gently traced with his fingers an almost-invisible scar that ran along his hairline. The plastic surgeons had done a remarkable job of nearly erasing the slice el-Nouty had made as he had prepared to remove the scalp. Only the approach of police, alerted by a neighbor whose driveway had been blocked by the terrorists' cars, had prevented the Iranian sadist from proceeding farther.
Panicked, Tawfiq and his gang had shot up everything in sight, including O'Kane, with automatic weapons. The two police officers, who thought they were responding to a simple traffic call, were survived by their widows and a combined total of five children -- three girls, two boys -- all under the age of ten.
O'Kane struggled now to keep his heart from racing, to prevent the anger from taking control, to keep the memories from flooding back.
He thought of his son Andrew -- good old Andy, big and curious, just like his daddy, with the same deep, penetrating gray eyes. O'Kane remembered the terror in those young eyes as the boy watched the men do unspeakable things to his mother, first with their bodies, then with the knives.
They'd made them watch -- father and son -- as the wife and mother was destroyed, painfully, disgustingly, slowly. Before the police interrupted, they made him, O'Kane, watch the evil things that could be done to a five-year-old boy before he died. O'Kane still had nightmares filled with screams. No images, just darkness and the screams.
Before this, before the men came five years ago and took away the only woman who could reach inside the loner he was and connect with his heart, before he had been too slow to protect her and his son, before this he had been frustrated at not being able to remember things. Now, being unable to forget had frozen his life into slow-motion hell.
As the stiff winds blew off the Sea of Cortez and whistled through the railings, O'Kane watched el-Nouty for another moment as the man stood facing the sea, his elbows propped on the polished mahogany rail. Then O'Kane slipped the starlight scope quietly into his fanny pack and pulled a metal cylinder from his pocket. It was the diameter of a broom handle, somewhat less than six inches long. He twisted one knurled end of the cylinder and heard the very faint whish of the CO2 cartridge pressurizing. He slipped the other end off the cylinder, exposing a hypodermic needle, not a thin one used to minimize pain, but a thick one, the kind O'Kane's father used to refer to as "horse needles," designed for maximum flow of contents in minimum time. In this case the diameter assured that the pressure-sensitive valve would release its deadly load of succinylcholine hydrochloride in less than a tenth of a second.
O'Kane stepped out of the paint locker and took one soundless step toward his target. An angry voice boomed out of the darkness.
"You fucking rag head son of a bitch!"
Nearly pricking himself with the deadly syringe, O'Kane leaped back into the concealment of the paint locker. He re-capped the syringe, slipped it into his warm-up pockets and pulled out the scope just in time to watch a tall, bull-like man in his early 40s stride quickly past. After a second, O'Kane recognized the man from the ship's weight room. The man was almost the same height and build as O'Kane.
What the hell?
As O'Kane watched through the scope, el-Nouty turned, reached for the pocket in which he used to carry his straight razor. Before the Iranian's hand even reached the pocket, the big man hammered him in the face with a wicked left hook that caught el-Nouty just under his jaw, lifted him completely off his feet and spun him around. The Iranian crumpled against the metal deck with a thud that sounded like a broken bell.
"You shit-sucking camel jockey," the man snarled. "I'll teach you to fuck around with my wife."
Wife?
"Oh shit," O'Kane said softly. In his surveillance, he had seen both this man and the woman, but in five days of cruising, never together. He had seen the woman -- the big man's wife -- leave the casino with el-Nouty and end up here. He had never associated her with this raging bull.
el-Nouty rolled over, face down and, with a gagging cough, spit out half a dozen teeth that rattled like spilled Chiclets. His teeth were still clattering on the deck when the big man kicked him in the side of his head, spinning the assassin halfway around and rolling him over on his back. Holding his head, el-Nouty sat up. Blood dripped from his mouth. He opened his mouth to scream.
"Miserable motherfucker," the big man grunted as he put all his strength into a punt that caught el-Nouty in the ribs. The blow knocked out Tawfiq's breath. The scream died before it ever got started. Wet cracking sounds of bones breaking filled the abrupt silence.
"See how this feels, you son of a whore," the big man hammered el-Nouty's groin with a crushing kick. The Iranian groaned and doubled up in pain, crying out as the jagged edges of his broken ribs ground against each other.
"No, no," el-Nouty begged, "In the name of God please stop. Have mercy, I beg of you." The words were mumbled through swollen lips, delivered in short quick breaths.
el-Nouty's words were live wires that shot electricity through O'Kane's body and made his fingers tingle. How many times had O'Kane begged el-Nouty with those exact words? How many times had el-Nouty ignored those impassioned words from other people?
It shocked O'Kane to realize he wanted to step out of the darkness and strike his own blows, to take the demented Iranian's own straight razor and pay him back in kind. Inside the paint locker, O'Kane closed his eyes and rubbed at his face, trying to damp his pleasure at the assassin's suffering.
"Please! Stop! Have you no mercy?"
The words opened a floodgate of images. Anne. Andy. el-Nouty. The razor. The rapes.
Hands trembling with barely controlled rage, O'Kane fought the pleasure that burned in his gut. This was not right. To enjoy this suffering was to make a connection with el-Nouty and his kind O'Kane did not want; it dragged him down to Tawfiq's level. Good people did not enjoy suffering, no matter what grounds could be used for rationalizing it.
"I have money. I 'll pay you. Just stop."
"I got money, too, pal. It's time for me to pay ... you."
Another kick, then a groaning, retching, gagging. O'Kane opened his eyes and again looked through the scope. el-Nouty lay semi-conscious, his hands feebly fluttering at the darkness while the big man kicked furiously at the assassin's groin, a pile driver working at pulverizing the weapon that had so wounded him.
In all of the other "consulting assignments" he had performed for the Customs Service, O'Kane had dispatched his targets quickly, cleanly, like stepping on cockroaches. But now, as the hammering and groaning continued, O'Kane felt justice was being done.
Abruptly, the kicking stopped. The big man's heavy breathing filled the small confined space. E-Nouty's now-feeble groans were barely louder than the wind.
"Think about this the next time you go poking somebody's wife," the big man said. He leaned over, spit in el-Nouty's face. The Iranian reacted sluggishly.
Finally, the big man looked down and gave the battered man a nod of satisfaction, much as he might a pile of firewood carefully split. He walked away.
O'Kane stood in the darkness for what seemed like two lifetimes, listening to el-Nouty's labored breathing, amazed -- dismayed -- that the man was still alive.
Stepping out of the paint locker, O'Kane stood in the darkness and strained his ears to catch sounds above the wind, sounds of alarm. It was late; this part of the deck was isolated. The wind and the steady rumbles of powerful engines laboring at flank speed played a basso continuo that smothered other sounds before they could travel more than a few feet.
After several moments, O'Kane stepped over to el-Nouty's crumpled form, which had ended up supine, hands bloodied trying to protect himself. The fallen man cupped his battered groin. A monster in agony.
Wonderful Annie. Good old Andy.
DearGodPleaseStopHaveYouNoMercy?
O'Kane looked down on the man who had stolen his life. He nudged el-Nouty's leg with the toe of his shoe and got a groan. To make this man suffer was so very easy now. Nausea and joy struck at O'Kane's bowels.
He nudged el-Nouty again.
Another groan, but this time the Iranian opened his eyes.
Part of O'Kane wanted to hear to this man scream, wanted to see the mortal fear in his eyes, wanted him to beg for mercy. Instead, O'Kane pulled a key-chain-sized flashlight from his fanny pack and shined it in his own face. Then O'Kane spat out the cotton wads, pulled out the oral prosthesis, pulled off the fake cheek ridges and used his sleeve to wipe off the makeup. Finally, he took off his hat, removed his wig and stuffed it in his pocket along with the rest of his disguise tricks.
It took several seconds for el-Nouty's eyes to grow wide with recognition and fear.
"Oh, no," el-Nouty cried. "No. Please. No."
O'Kane fought against the impulse to hammer at the broken ribs, to aggravate the battered testicles. el-Nouty watched the O'Kane's struggle, fear showing naked in the killer's eyes.
"Money," he said again. "I have money in Swiss banks. Help me, and I'll pay."
O'Kane hesitated, cocked his head as if considering the request. Then he leaned low over the Iranian's face, smelling then the fear and the blood and the way the man had lost control over his bowels.
"The number?" O'Kane asked. "Then I will show you the mercy you denied me and my family."
el-Nouty's eyes brightened. "Take me to my stateroom. I will get you the numbers."
O'Kane shook his head, gently reached over and thumped el-Nouty's broken ribs with the stubs of two fingers on his left hand. The Iranian would have cut them all off had the police not arrived.
"Yes! I will tell you now," el-Nouty cried. Then he whispered the numbers, the banks. "Now please! Have mercy; I am bleeding."
Reaching into his pocket, O'Kane withdrew the pressure syringe. He swiftly slipped off the cover and tossed it overboard. Using the index and middle fingers of his left hand to locate el-Nouty's sternum, he counted up two ribs.
"Look carefully at my face," O'Kane said. "Look carefully at the mercy you deserve." He plunged the needle between two ribs, directly into el-Nouty's heart, then pressed on the cylinder to release its contents.
O'Kane stood over the twitching body for several moments to let the tension drain from his own body. He took the pocket starlight scope out and scanned the area, looking, listening, for someone out for a walk. Finding no one, he bent down and cleaned out the Iranian's pockets, took his stateroom key, watch, rings and looked for other objects that might be used as clues in tracking down the woman and the people who funded her band of terrorists. He stripped the Iranian naked, examined each piece of clothing closely before throwing it overboard. In the unlikely event the body was recovered, O'Kane wanted identification to be as tough as possible.
He leaned down to pick up the body, grabbing el-Nouty's left arm in preparation to haul him up into a fireman's carry. As O'Kane hauled the assassin's naked body up, he saw a small tattoo on the inner surface of el-Nouty's left bicep, almost to the armpit.
"Hello?" O'Kane retraced his movements and laid the Iranian killer back on the deck.
Using the starlight scope, O'Kane focused on the tattoo, saw that it was a caduceus -- two snakes entwined about a staff -- the symbol of the medical profession. On closer examination, he saw that there was a sphere at the top of the caduceus staff. It was hard to make out in the monochrome display of the starlight scope. So after checking for intruders one last time, O'Kane put the scope in his fanny pack and pulled from it, instead, a penlight flashlight.
Shielding most of the beam with his fingers, O'Kane illuminated the tattoo. It was multicolored, very well executed. The caduceus staff was black, the snakes green. The sphere was composed of a white star in the middle of a blue circle, the blue circle was superimposed on top of a red rising sun symbol. Underneath it all, in black lettering, were the numerals "4046."
"Bizarre." O'Kane turned off the penlight, replaced it in the fanny pack and pulled out his Swiss Army knife. He had seen nothing like this on the other ones. But all of those had been "accidents" that had placed him far away from his targets. He had not seen any of the others as intimately as this one.
This required further examination. O'Kane unfolded the knife's razor-sharp blade and used it to make an incision around the tattoo. Then, as if skinning a chicken breast, he peeled up the tattoo-covered skin, teasing at the underside to leave the fat and connective tissue attached to the arm. Searching through el-Nouty's wallet, O'Kane pulled out one of the killer's business cards and stuck the piece of skin to its back, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles.
He tucked everything into the fanny
pack, zipped it up, and finally, heaved the assassin's body over
the rail.