internationally understandable cease-fire signal to them.
The sailors stood on the deck, working nervously for a few seconds, hoisting the fallen, semi beheaded body by its red shoulders.
They dragged it below.
Minutes later the submarine began to move. Thomas and Leslie wondered if it would ram them or sink them; it easily could have.
But, as if in reciprocation for the voluntary cease-fire and the surrender of the spy's body, the submarine turned east in the ocean. It began moving on the gray surface, pointing away from them, until it was lower on the horizon.
Then only the periscope was visible, breaking through the waves.
Then nothing. The ocean was vacant, except for two small pleasure craft, both adrift and powerless. For a moment it was as if the underwater goliath had never been there. Then they felt its wake, rippling from a mile away.
Leslie sat on a cushioned seat within the cabin, her dark hair soaked and matted, an expression of exhaustion across her face. For her, the long intrigue with her father was over.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then,
'Lucky shot' she offered.
He looked at her, understanding.
'No, it wasn't.'
There was a pause and he continued.
'No one makes a shot like that on luck. No one guesses how to fire a rifle with accuracy like that' She nodded and a slight, unwilling smile crossed her face.
'How long have you known?' she asked.
'Known?'he answered.
'For about two minutes. Suspected? For a long time. Ever since I learned you had gulled your own foster father, George McAdam, into thinking you were dead. Where'd you learn it all? From him?'
She nodded.
'Learn from the best' she said.
'George McAdam was one of the best British agents of is day.- 'And now I'll bet you're one of the best. But not British. American.'
She shrugged.
'I try,' she answered.
'It's really the only thing I'm trained to do. Not much money in painting, you know.'
'Would you honor me with an honest answer or two?'
'Of course.'
'Why me?' he asked.
She almost laughed.
'It's not obvious?'
'Oh, I understand that part' he said.
'My father was a double agent, recruiting for the Americans while all the time he was working for the Russians. And he headed a postwar network-' '-financed by counterfeit English and American banknotes she continued.
'A,network which grew old but continued to compromise British and American Intelligence. When William Ward Daniels died, he was just about to be uncovered. He was lucky he died when he did ' 'But then why'd you come to me?'he insisted.
'Because the network was still working very well after his death' she explained.
'From our perspective it was clear. He'd passed the leadership on to someone else. You.'
Thomas Daniels was without words. The final piece fit neatly into place. He knew the reason he'd been sucked into this treacherous vortex of events: He'd been under observation the entire time, by the American government and by the British government. He was a suspected spy, suspected of inheriting the position from his father. just as William Ward Daniels had probably intended.
'Of course,' she said cheerfully, 'we soon saw that we'd been wrong.
You knew nothing. The ranking spy was someone else. We were totally baffled, but you solved it for us. You led us to Zenger.'
He considered it. The drizzle persisted.
'What about the money?' he asked.
'The Sandler estate?'
'It's yours, isn't it?'
She shrugged.
'A fortune built on treason and counterfeiting? I can hardly ask my employer for that now, can I?'
'No' he mumbled.
'Of course not' Thoughtfully, he added,
'So there's really just one final question.'
She knew what it was.
'Montreal' she said.
'That part's all true.
I teach. I'm an artist. It's a fine cover. From time to time I disappear on an assignment, none ever as special as this, though.'
'And there's a man, isn't there?'
She thought for a moment.
'I'm sorry,' she said.
'I live with him.
I love him' He would have said more, though he didn't know exactly what.
But then suddenly she was looking past him, over his shoulder. She bolted upright and suddenly screamed,
'Thomas! Jesus!.
She pointed, her soft fatigued expression exploding into a look of wide-eyed terror.
He whirled. He saw it, the submarine, rising near them no less than a hundred yards across the water, streaking straight toward them. His mouth flew open, and like most instants of stark, heart stopping fear, the moment seemed frozen in unreality.
The submarine was going to demolish them. Unmistakably.
They would have jumped, but there was nowhere to jump to.
They would have swum, but swimming was suicidal. The water was too cold, the current brutal, the waves enormous.
The sub steamed in at them. Fifty yards. Thirty.
Then it bore sharply left ward kicking up a gargantuan wake.
Thomas realized, thinking, So that's it! Brilliant to the end! They won't smash us, theyt capsize us instead!
No direct hit on an American ship, merely a deluge of water.
The submarine, slashing through the surface of the ocean, passed within twenty-five yards and then began diving. A massive wave, followed by another and another, burst forth from the sub's wake and-rising thirty feet in the water-rolled violently toward the small Chris-craft.
The first wave battered the small boat, the second threw it lopsided up upon its crest. The third wave hit it head-on, propelling it sideways through the water.
Thomas and Leslie clung to the boat with all the strength they had. He remembered yelling 'Hang on! Hang on!' and they did.
But their boat was on its side now, and the frigid water was still rolling over it, rising steadily.
Beneath the waves, Thomas thought. Zenger's words raced back.
