His
game.
His
plan.
His
ending.
Because this wasn’t just a game; it never had been. The other players had to know that by now. They understood what they had
done, and why there had to be payback. It was what the Four Horsemen had been all about from the beginning:
Endgame is payback, and payback is mine… or theirs? Who knows for sure?
His father had taught him and his brothers to sail, probably the only useful thing he’d ever done for Shafer. He actually
could find peace on the sea. It was the real reason he’d come to Jamaica by boat.
At eight o’clock he swam to shore, passing several of the smaller sailboats and a few motorboats. He found the physical exertion
a neat antidote to his anxiety and nerves. He was a strong swimmer and diver, and good at most other sports as well.
The night air was peaceful and calm and fragrant. The sea was flat. Not a ripple disturbed the surface. Well, there would
be plenty of ripples soon.
A car was waiting for him just off the coast road, a black Ford Mustang, glossy and shiny in the moonlight.
He smiled when he saw it. The game was progressing beautifully.
Famine was there to meet him.
No, Famine was there for another reason, wasn’t he?
George Bayer was waiting on shore to kill him.
“GEORGE BAYER isn’t in his room. He’s not with Oliver Highsmith or James Whitehead, either. Damn it to hell! He’s loose.”
The alarming message went out over the two-way radio. Sampson and I had been watching the south side of the hotel for close
to eight hours, and we were sure George Bayer hadn’t come our way.
We heard Andrew Jones’s concerned voice on the radio. “Remember that all of the Four Horsemen are agents, like ourselves.
They’re capable and deadly. Let’s find Bayer right away, and be extra alert for Geoffrey Shafer. Shafer is the most dangerous
player—at least we
think
he is.”
Sampson and I hurried out of our rented sedan. We had our guns out, but they seemed inappropriate at the beautiful and serene
resort. I remembered feeling the same way nearly a year before, in Bermuda.
“Bayer didn’t come this way,” Sampson said. I knew he was concerned that Jones’s people had lost Famine.
We
wouldn’t have made that mistake, but we were seen as backup, not the primary team.
The two of us quickly walked up a nearby hill that gave us a perspective on the manicured lawns rolling down toward the hotel’s
private beach. It was getting dark, but the grounds near the hotel were relatively well lit. A couple in bathing suits and
robes slowly walked toward us. They were holding hands, oblivious to the danger. No George Bayer, though. And no Shafer.
“How do they end this thing?” Sampson asked. “How do you think the game ends?”
“I don’t think any of them knows for sure. They probably have game plans, but anything can happen now. It all depends on Shafer,
if he follows the rules. I think he’s beyond that, and the other players know it.”
We hurried along, running close to the hotel buildings. We were getting nervous and concerned looks from the hotel guests
we passed on the narrow, winding sidewalk.
“They’re all killers. Even Jones finally admits that. They killed as agents, and then they didn’t want to stop. They liked
it. Now maybe they plan to kill one another. Winner takes all.”
“And Geoffrey Shafer hates to lose,” said Sampson.
“Shafer doesn’t ever lose. We’ve seen that already.
That’s
his pattern, John. It’s what we missed from the start.”
“He doesn’t get away this time, sugar. No matter what, Shafer doesn’t walk.”
I didn’t answer Sampson.
SHAFER WASN’T EVEN BREATHING HARD as he made it to the white-sand shoreline. George Bayer stepped out of the black Ford Mustang,
and Shafer watched for a weapon to appear. He continued to walk forward, playing the game of games for the highest stakes
of all: his life.
“You bloody
swam?
” Bayer asked, his voice jovial yet taunting.
“Well, actually, it’s a fantastic night for it,” Shafer said, and casually shook water off his body. He waited for Bayer to
move on him. He observed the way he tensed and untensed his right hand. Watched the slight forward slant of his shoulders.
Shafer took off a waterproof backpack and pulled out fresh, dry clothes and shoes. Now he had access to his weapons. “Let
me guess. Oliver suggested that you all gang up on me,” he said. “Three against one.”
Bayer smiled slyly. “Of course. That had to be considered as an option. But we rejected it because it wasn’t consistent with
our characters in the game.”
Shafer shook his hair, let the water drip off. As he dressed, he turned halfway away from Bayer. He smiled to himself. God,
he loved this—the game of life and death against another Horseman, a master player. He admired Bayer’s calmness and his
ability to be so smooth.
“His playing is so bloody predictable. He was the same way as an agent and analyst. George, they sent you because they thought
I’d never suspect you’d try to take me out by yourself. You’re the first play It’s so obvious, though. A terrible waste of
a player.”
Bayer frowned slightly but still didn’t lose his cool, didn’t let on what he felt. He thought that was the safest attitude,
but it told Shafer his suspicion was true: Famine was here to kill him. He was sure of it. George Bayer’s cool demeanor had
given him away.
“No, nothing like that,” Bayer said. “We’re going to play according to the rules tonight. The rules are important to us. It’s
to be a board game, a contest of strategy and wits. I’m just here to pick you up, according to plan. We’ll meet face to face
at the hotel.”
“And we’ll abide by the throw of the dice?” Shafer asked.
“Yes, of course, Geoff.” Bayer held out his hand and showed him three twenty-sided dice.
Shafer couldn’t hold back a sharp laugh. This was so good, so rich. “So what did the dice say, George? How do I lose? How
do I die? A knife? A pistol? A drug overdose makes a great deal of sense to me.”
Bayer couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Shafer was such a cocky bastard, such a good killer, a wonderful psychopathic personality.
“Well, yes, it might have occurred to us, but we played it completely straight. As I said, they’re waiting at the hotel for
us. Let’s go.”
Shafer turned his back to Bayer for an instant. Then he pushed hard off his right foot. He sprang at Bayer.
But Bayer was more than ready for him. He threw a short, hard punch that struck Shafer’s cheek, rattled and maybe even loosened
a few teeth. The right side of Shafer’s head went completely numb.
“Good one, George. Good stuff!”
Then Shafer head-butted Bayer with all of his strength. He heard the crunch of bone against bone, saw an explosion of dizzying
white before his eyes. That got his adrenaline flowing.
The dice went flying from Bayer’s hand as he reached for a gun, or some other weapon. It was tucked in the back of his waistband.
Shafer clutched Bayer’s right arm, twisted with all of his strength, and broke it at the elbow. Bayer shrieked in pain.
“You can’t beat me! Nobody has, nobody can!” Shafer screamed at the top of his voice.
He grabbed George Bayer’s throat and squeezed with super-human strength. Bayer gagged and turned the brightest red, as if
all the blood in his body had rushed to his head. George was stronger than he appeared, but Shafer was speeding on adrenaline
and years of pure hatred. He outweighed Bayer by twenty pounds, all of it muscle.
“Noooo
. Listen to me.” George Bayer wheezed and gasped. “Not like this. Not here.”
“Yes
, George.
Yes, yes
. The game is on. The game that you bastards started. Tally-ho, old chap.
You
did this to me. You made me what I am: Death.”
He heard a loud, crisp snap, and George Bayer went limp against him. He let his body fall to the sand.
“One down,” said Shafer, and finally allowed himself a deep, satisfying breath. He snatched up the fallen dice, shook them
once, then hurled them into the sea. “I don’t use the dice anymore,” he said.
HE FELT SO DAMN GOOD. So fine. God, how he had missed this! The mainline of adrenaline, the incomparable thrill. He knew it
was likely that the Jamaica Inn was being watched by the police, so he parked the Mustang at the nearby Plantation Inn.
He walked at a quickening pace through the crowded Bougainvillea Terrace. Drinks were being served while the wretched song
“Yellowbird” played loudly. He had a nasty fantasy about shooting up the terrace, killing several dickhead tourists, so he
got away from the crowded area immediately for everybody’s sake—but mostly for his own.
He strolled the beach, and it calmed him. It was quiet, restful, the strains of calypso music gently weaving through the night
air. The stretch between the two hotels was eye-catching, with plenty of spotlights, sand the color of champagne, thatched
umbrellas placed at even intervals. A very nice playing field.
He knew where Oliver Highsmith was staying: in the famous White Suite, where Winston Churchill and David Niven and Ian Fleming
had slept once upon a time. Highsmith loved his creature comforts almost as much as he loved the game.
Shafer despised the other Horsemen, in part because he wasn’t of their snobbish social class. Lucy’s father had gotten him
into MI6; the other players had gone to the right universities. But there was another, more powerful reason for his hatred:
they had dared to use him, to feel superior and throw it in his face.
He entered through a white picket-fence gate at the property line of the Jamaica Inn. He broke into a soft jog. He wanted
to run, to sweat. He was feeling manic again. Playing the game had made him too excited.
Shafer held his head for a moment. He wanted to laugh and scream at the top of his lungs. He leaned against a wooden post
on the path leading up from the beach, and tried to catch his breath. He knew he was crashing, and it couldn’t have happened
at a worse time.
“Everything all right, sir?” a hotel waiter stopped to ask him.
“Oh, couldn’t be better,” Shafer said, waving the man away. “I’m in heaven, can’t you tell?”
He started walking toward the White Suite again. He realized that he was feeling the same way he had that morning last year
when he nearly crashed his car in Washington. He was in serious trouble again. He could lose the game right now, lose everything.
That required a change of strategy, didn’t it? He had to be more daring, even more aggressive. He had to act, not think too
much. The odds against him were still two to one.
At the far end of the courtyard, he spotted a man and a woman in evening clothes. They were loitering near a white stucco
portico strewn with flowers. He decided they were Jones’s people. They had staked out the hotel, after all. They were here
for him, and he was honored.
The man glanced his way, and Shafer abruptly lowered his head. There was nothing they could do to stop or detain him. He’d
committed no crime they could prove. He wasn’t wanted by the police. No, he was a free man.
So Shafer walked toward them at a leisurely pace, as if he hadn’t seen them. He whistled “Yellowbird.”
He looked up when he was a few yards away from the pair. “I’m the one you’re waiting for. I’m Geoffrey Shafer. Welcome to
the game.”
He pulled out his Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter semi-automatic and fired twice.
The woman cried out and grabbed the left side of her chest. Bright-red blood was already staining her sea-green dress. Her
eyes showed confusion and shock before rolling back into her forehead.
The male agent had a dark hole where his left eye had been. Shafer knew the man was dead even before his head struck the courtyard
floor with a loud, satisfying smack.
He hadn’t lost anything over the years. Shafer hurried toward the White Suite and Conqueror.
The gunshots certainly would have been heard. They wouldn’t expect him to run straight into the trap they’d set. But here
he was.
Two maids were pushing a squeaking cleanup cart out of the White Suite. Had they just turned down Conqueror’s bed? Left the
fat man a box of chocolate mints to nibble?
“Get the hell out of here!” he yelled, and raised his gun. “Go on, now! Run for your lives!” The Jamaican maids took off as
if they had just seen the devil himself, and later they would tell their children they had.
Shafer burst in the front door of the suite, and there was Oliver Highsmith freewheeling his chair across the freshly scrubbed
floor.
“Oliver, it’s you,” Shafer said. “I do believe I’ve caught the dreaded Covent Garden killer. You did those killings, didn’t
you? Fancy that. Game’s over, Oliver.”
At the same time, Shafer thought,
Watch him closely. Be careful with Conqueror
.
Oliver Highsmith stopped moving, then slowly but rather nimbly turned his wheelchair to face Shafer. A face-to-face meeting.
This was good. The best. Highsmith had controlled Bayer and Whitehead from London when they were all agents. The original
game, the Four Horsemen, had been his idea, a diversion as he eased into retirement. “Our silly little fantasy game,” he always
called it.
He studied Shafer, cold-eyed and measuring. He was bright—an egghead, but a genius, or so Bayer and Whitehead claimed.
“My dear fellow, we’re your friends. The only ones you have now. We understand your problem. Let’s talk things through, Geoffrey.”
Shafer laughed at the fat man’s pathetic lies, his superior and condescending attitude, his nerve. “That’s not what Georgie
Bayer told me. Why, he said you were going to murder me! Hell of a way to treat a friend.”
Highsmith didn’t blink, didn’t falter. “We’re not alone here, Geoff. They’re at the hotel. The Security Service team is on
the grounds. They must have followed you.”