The Tombs

Poliakoff stiff-armed Bako, who stopped and bent over, trying to recover from the hand that had compressed his chest and deprived him of breath. “I’m just checking with my headman to account for all the delay. This should have taken five minutes.”

A staticky voice blurted something on the other end. And Poliakoff said in Russian, “Kotzov! What’s causing the delay?”

The voice said, “They’re on the fourth floor, but it’s been a gun battle for every inch. We’ve got dead men here and quite a few hurt.”

“Give me your best advice.”

“I’d rather not do that, sir.”

“That tells me what I need to know. Collect the dead and wounded. Leave no one behind. We’ll take everyone on the boats. Get them to the beach now. We’re headed in to anchor.”

Poliakoff switched channels. “Stop the fireworks. Cut the raft loose and head for shore. We’re picking up our men off the beach with the launches. Leave now.”

He shouted up the steps to the man at the helm. “Weigh anchor and head for the beach. We’ll be taking all the men with us to Mexico.”

“No!” shouted Bako. “Don’t do this. Don’t be a coward.”

Poliakoff turned to face Bako and stood very close to him. His eyes seemed to glint in the flickering light from shore.

Bako looked away, threw his cigar in the water, and sat down on the end of his chair. He held his head in his hands. The anchor chain came up, and they all felt the vibration as the motor yacht’s oversize engines moved it forward, slowly at first, and then gaining speed as it headed in toward shore.

*  *  *

THE SILENCE in the house was almost as shocking as the noise had been. Sam and Remi moved to the edge of the roof and looked down at their lawn. Men in black clothes hurried off into the night, carrying casualties on makeshift stretchers consisting of blankets wrapped around the sections of extension ladders or lifting them in over-the-shoulder fireman’s carries. The truck that had supported the cherry picker lay on its side, charred and smoking.

“They seem to be leaving,” said Remi.

“It looks that way,” Sam said. “But we’ll see.”

She looked at him. “You’re so cautious.”

He shrugged and put his arm around her. “Perhaps you’ve heard of a famous siege. When the attackers got really tired of their failure to breach the walls, one really smart one said, ‘Why don’t we pretend we’re going back to our ships? We’ll leave a—’”

“Big wooden horse full of soldiers. Are you saying this is the Trojan War? Aren’t we taking ourselves a little seriously?”

“I’m just saying I’m not going down there until I can see at least five police cars. Make that twenty.”

She looked toward the hotels and the major commercial streets to the south and then pulled his arm to turn him in that direction. She pointed. There was a long line of police cars streaming up La Jolla Boulevard toward Prospect Street with blue, red, and white lights flashing. In a moment, the distant whoop of the sirens reached the rooftop.

They stepped to the ocean side of the house. Out in the bay, they could see the two motor yachts had come in much closer to the shore. They were holding a position just beyond the outer breaks of surf, launching smaller boats to land on the beach.

From the north, beyond La Jolla Cove, came three police boats, scanning the water with the beams of spotlights and then letting them settle on the two yachts. From the south, the direction of San Diego Harbor, came two Coast Guard vessels, each about a hundred fifty feet long, with crew members scrambling to man the deck guns. The Coast Guard vessels moved into position about six hundred feet offshore and remained there in what amounted to a blockade.

“They’re not running,” Remi said.

“No,” said Sam. “They’d be foolish to try that.”

“They could easily outrun the police boats. The Coast Guard too.”

“They can’t outrun the deck guns.”

“So it looks as though we may find out which of our European competitors is a sore loser,” said Remi.

“Sore or not, just so long as they’re losers,” Sam said.

*  *  *

THE TWO COAST GUARD cutters held their places just outside the surf line where the yachts had anchored. Now the yachts’ launches were returning against the surf loaded with the men of the assault force who had attacked the Fargos’ house. As they returned, the first of the able-bodied men climbed the ladders on the sides of the yachts. Others in the lifeboats had been injured by falls, burns, or gunshots and were in no condition to climb, so some of the yachts’ crewmen helped to lift them to the deck. The yachts raised their anchors but kept their bows seaward and held their places by steering into the swells.

The police boats approached on the seaward sides of the yachts, and boarding parties of the San Diego Harbor Police prepared themselves to come aboard.

On the deck of the Ibiza, Arpad Bako looked at the police boats, then down at the men struggling to climb aboard the yacht. “Leave the stragglers,” he shouted. “There’s no time.”

Poliakoff turned to Bako. “First you want to stay and then you want to abandon our men? Who’s the coward now?”

Bako pulled a pistol from inside his coat and fired.

Poliakoff’s face seemed astonished. He looked down at the front of his white shirt, where a red bloodstain was blossoming quickly. His eyes acquired a faraway look, and the next swell arrived to rock the yacht and toppled him onto the deck.

Bako snatched Poliakoff’s radio from the deck, pressed the talk button, and shouted, “Take evasive action. Get this boat out to sea now.”

“Sir?” said the captain. “Mr. Poliakoff said—”

“Poliakoff’s dead. He’s been hit. Get going!” As Bako turned, he seemed to notice Etienne Le Clerc again. Le Clerc saw his expression and tried to run for the bridge, but Bako fired three more times, and Le Clerc lay dead. At least there would be no witness.

From the bridge the captain could see that most of the able-bodied men were aboard now, and he knew the others would only be extra trouble. He could also see that if he was going to make a run for it, he’d have to do it before the first police boat brought a boarding party. He shifted to forward and pushed the throttle. The big engines roared into life and the yacht surged forward, leaving a gurgling wash behind it, the twin propellers projecting water into the void behind the stern. As the stern swung about, he heard shouts from men either shaken from the sides of the yacht or chopped by the propellers, but he couldn’t help that now. The yacht gained speed, leaving one lifeboat swamped and the other drifting sideways into the surf.

When the Ibiza began to move, the captain of the Mazatlan saw it and had a small vision of the near future. If the Coast Guard and police had been fooled long enough to let the Ibiza pass them to open ocean, they would not ignore the Mazatlan. They would have twice the ships and men to devote to preventing the Mazatlan and every man aboard from escaping. And then they would blame every crime committed by anyone on the highest-ranking man they had caught, the captain. He shifted his engines into forward gear and hit the throttle. The Mazatlan surged forward, just as the Ibiza had.

There was a loud amplified voice coming from one of the Coast Guard vessels. He knew it was a warning of the “Stop or we’ll shoot” variety and he welcomed it. The more time they wasted shouting into microphones, the less time they’d have for taking action. He pushed the throttle all the way forward, picking up more speed each second. Those Coast Guard cutters probably had a top speed of twenty-five knots. The Mazatlan could do sixty. He yelled to his helmsman, “Cut all lights!”