a speck than it had been before. Thomas looked at his compass, 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, bumpy salt water.
Zenger was on the horizon, distant, perhaps three miles out now.
A mere dot.
'Come on, damn 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 identity, 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 associate, would never be seen again in the West.
Minutes passed. 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 assembling 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 compass as their craft continued to move in a straight pattern toward Zenger's boat. The speck on the horizon was larger, more elongated. The compass told them that they'd altered their course.
Leslie stood behind Thomas, glancing at the compass, 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.
'He's crazier than we are,' he said.
'He doesn't do anything without a reason,' she answered.
He nodded. He knew that.
Zenger's ship took a zigzag pattern now. Their pursuing boat traveled a'straight line after it, drawing closer. Then Zenger's craft seemed to turn in an arc, going out to deeper waters. Its radar scope was on, spinning quickly amidst the elaborate antennae on the roof of the boat.
Several more minutes passed. They knew they were beyond U.S. territorial limits now. No other boat was in sight. They drew nearer.
Zenger seemed to be leading them in an arc now, as if he were looking for something or waiting for something, but were still trying to keep a respectable distance from his pursuers. It was starting to rain. They were within a half mile.
Then zenger's craft veered sharply left ward as if he had seen something. He had. Moments later Thomas knew what.
Perhaps a mile away, there was a thin black vertical line breaking through the water, leaving a long silver wake. The line resembled a large iron pipe, traveling upright as if to defy gravity. It broke the surface suddenly and was moving toward Zenger's craft.
Leslie and Thomas saw it at the same time, through the gray rain and water.
'What the…?' she began to ask. And then she knew. It was all so painfully obvious. Yet Thomas had realized it, not her.
'It's his escape' said Thomas.
'We're not going to catch him. He's made it' She slammed the loaded carbine against the cushioned seats. The sound made Thomas jump, scared the weapon would discharge.
'Full speed he said.
'Come on,' he coaxed the boat.
'Move!'
He glanced to the fuel needle. It was below E. No way they'd have the fuel to return, he realized. Only if they could overtake Zenger's boat.
He watched the black line traveling through the water, rising now, cutting a brisker wake.
'Holy Jesus he said.
'Just look at it' The black line rose and was joined by other black lines. Lines of iron and steel. They were closer and the line was readily identifiable. A periscope. And the rest of the Soviet submarine gradually became visible.
Thomas felt an incredible shudder. As Zenger's ship neared its destination, the contours of the submarine rose like a slumbering giant from the ocean. Its outline was gray and jagged, like the waves, the water, and the sky. It was far larger than he had ever imagined one would be, far larger than a small cruise ship, for example. It rose to the surface, cut its own engines, and seemed to come about, turning its side to the two small pleasure craft that approached it. They resembled minnows charging a whale.
A few yellow deck lights were visible. Thomas drew closer.
Zenger's small craft drew near the submarine and turned its side to it.
A party of sailors emerged on the deck, lowering along rope ladder down the sub's side. Zenger drew closer to the submarine.
Thomas looked up. Through the gray mist he could see the markings on the topmost point of the submarine. The red hammer and sickle of the workers paradise to the East, defiant and strong in the international waters off Massachusetts. They were on a rescue mission of sorts, picking up a spy of three decades' service. The least they could do was whisk him away in fluorescent, air-purified, underwater safety back to the Motherland.
Zenger was alongside the submarine. He abandoned his own small craft, leaving it to drift to oblivion in the north Atlantic. He was pulling himself up the ladder, aggressively and gamely, a man of fifty-odd well-conditioned years rather than a man of seventy-six or eighty-two.
Their own boat lurched and the engines spat and hesitated.
Thomas looked to the fuel needle a final time. Their supply was finished. The last drop was gone. A red light flashed on the dashboard and the needle pointed far below E. They were, at half a mile from the submarine, as far as they could*O.
The boat rocked with the waves, starting to turn sideways in the current which would carry them farther into the Atlantic.
