Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

Chapter 109

“WE’VE STILL GOT HIM?” I asked Jones, nervously looking around at the half-dozen agents working in the crisis room inside the British Embassy. The room was filled with state-of-the-art electrical equipment, including half a dozen video monitors.

“Still got him. He won’t get away that easily, Alex. Besides, we think we know where he and the others are going now.”

We had a tiny, sophisticated homing device on the Jaguar, but there was a reasonable chance that Shafer would discover it. So far, he hadn’t. And now he was running in the Jag, running with the bait—at least that was what we thought was happening.

The Horsemen were all on the move. Oliver Highsmith had been followed from his home in Surrey to Gatwick Airport, outside London. Agents at the airport made sure that Conqueror got on the British Air flight to New York, then called Washington to report he was en route.

A couple of hours later, an agent phoned from the Philippines. George Bayer was at Ninoy Aquino Airport in Manila. Famine had purchased a ticket to Jamaica, with a stopover in New York.

We already knew that James Whitehead had retired to Jamaica, and that he was on the island now. War was waiting for the others to arrive.

“I’m trying to get a fixed pattern for the Four Horsemen game, but there are several points of view at work. That’s what they like about the game, what makes it so addictive,” I said to Jones as we waited for more information to come in.

“We know that at least three of them have been playing the game since they were stationed in Thailand, in ’ninety-one. Around that time, bar girls and prostitutes began to disappear in Bangkok. The local police didn’t spend much time on the investigations. Girls in Pat Pong had disappeared before. The police have somewhat the same attitude here in Washington with respect to the Jane Doe killings. These girls didn’t mean much. They were written off. Murders and disappearances in Southeast certainly aren’t investigated like ones in Georgetown or on Capitol Hill. It’s one of Washington’s dirty little secrets.”

Jones lit a new cigarette off the butt of his last one. He puffed, then said, “It might be just Shafer who’s involved in the actual murders, Alex. Either that or the others are much more careful than he is.”

I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t think so, but I didn’t have enough concrete evidence to argue my case effectively with Jones, who was himself no slouch as a detective.

“The end of the Four Horsemen is coming, right? Can they really end their little fantasy game?” Sampson asked.

“It sure looks like they’re getting together,” I said. “Four former British agents, four grown men who love to play diabolical games. In my opinion, four murderers.”

“Possibly.” Andrew Jones finally admitted that the unthinkable could be true: “Alex, I’m afraid you could be right.”

Chapter 110

JAMAICA MUST HAVE BEEN CHOSEN because it was relatively private, and because James Whitehead owned a large beach house there. But perhaps there were other angles attached to the game of the Four Horsemen. I hoped that we would know soon enough.

Oliver Highsmith and George Bayer arrived on the island within minutes of each other. They met at the baggage claim inside Donald Sangster Airport, then drove for about an hour to the posh Jamaica Inn in Ocho Rios.

We were on the move, too. Sampson and I had gotten there on an early-morning flight from D.C. The weather was glorious. Blue skies, warm breezes. We heard strains of English and Jamaican Creole at the airport, reggae and ska. The rustle of the banana trees as the sea breeze rushed through them was like a soft chorus.

The hotel in Ocho Rios was very private and old-fashioned, just forty-five rooms overlooking the sea. We arrived there simultaneously with four English teams. There were also two teams of detectives from Kingston.

The English High Commission office in Kingston had been alerted about our presence and our purpose here. Full cooperation had been promised. Everyone was committed to bringing down all four game players, whatever the consequences, and I was very impressed with the English group, and also with the local detectives.

We waited for Geoffrey Shafer. Sampson and I were strategically positioned to watch the narrow, shaded road that led to the hotel. We were on a lush hillside between the hotel and the sparkling blue Caribbean sea. Andrew Jones and another agent were in a second car hidden near the hotel’s rear entrance. Six of Jones’s agents were posing as porters and maintenance workers at the hotel. The Jamaican detectives were also posted on the grounds.

We’d had no news about Shafer. He had finally lost us. But we believed he would join the others. Jones complained that there weren’t enough of us to stop Shafer if he was coming after the others. I agreed; if Shafer was playing kamikaze, there would be no adequate defense.

So we waited and waited. Continual updates came in over the car’s short-wave radio. The messages didn’t stop all afternoon. They were a kind of electronic heartbeat for our surveillance detail.

“Oliver Highsmith is still in his room. Doesn’t want to be disturbed, apparently.…”

“Bayer is in his room as well. Subject was spotted on the terrace about ten minutes ago, checking out the beach with binoculars.…”

“Bayer has left his room. He’s taking a dip in the deep blue sea. Subject is in a red-striped swimming costume. Difficult to miss. Makes the job easier. Not on the eyes, though.…”

“Black Mercedes arriving at the front gate. Driver’s tall and blond. Could be Geoffrey Shafer. You see him, Alex?”

I reported immediately, “The blond man isn’t Shafer. Repeat, it isn’t Shafer. Too young, probably American. Young wife and two children tagging along. False alarm. It isn’t Shafer.”

The radio reports continued.

“Highsmith has just ordered up from room service. Two English breakfasts in the middle of the day. One of our people will take it up to him.…”