Legacies

  Kemel landed and rolled and stayed down, lying flat with his arms over his head, pressing himself into the cold hard earth.

  And then it was over.

  Kemel shook his head as he rolled over and rose to his knees. He could barely hear through the high-pitched hum that filled his head. He looked around and saw burning bits of wreckage strewn about the yard. The mercenary who had been behind the truck with him was a still dark form on the lawn. He was sure the wounded Briggs and the one called DeMartini were in a similar state on the other side of the smoking hulk.

  But someone was moving. Baker… returning from the side of the house, shaking his fists at the night. Kemel could see the rage in his face, and knew from his wide-open mouth and the bulging cords in his neck that he was screaming into the night.

  But Kemel could not hear him. And he was glad of it.

  He looked back to the road and noticed that the white car they'd followed here was gone.

  Kemel lowered his head and prayed. It was that or burst into tears.

  19

  Yoshio found himself laughing aloud as he watched from his car.

  Tonight had been a thing of beauty. When he had heard shots from within the house, he had assumed the worst: That Muhallal and his hirelings had killed the Clayton woman's ronin. But when Yoshio had seen figures hurrying from the house and taking up position behind the wrecked truck in the front yard, he had expected a firefight to follow.

  But how could there be a firefight when Alicia Clayton and the ronin were slipping into their car across the street?

  The explosion had made everything clear. A small explosion—or the impending threat of a larger one—had driven everyone from the house to the supposed safety of the outdoors. And what better place to shield one's self from flying debris than behind the oh-so-conveniently located truck rusting in the front yard?

  But the house was not rigged to explode. Why destroy a perfectly good house when you can drive out invaders with a fake bomb and induce them to cluster around the real bomb?

  And as the debris from the derelict truck was still flying though the air, the ronin's white car had begun moving, rolling down the street with its lights out. Slipping away into the night.

  Yoshio clapped his hands. So simple. So elegant. Bravo, ronin-san!

  Fortunately, Muhallal had survived. Yoshio wanted the Arab alive. He was the only one besides the Clayton brother who knew why the Clayton house was so valuable.

  He watched Baker rage at the night as the remaining man he had sent to guard the rear raced back to the front yard. Yoshio rolled down his window to hear what Baker was screaming.

  "Who is this guy? I want him! I want him! Who are you, you fucker? Show yourself! Let's do it! You and me! That's all! No tricks! Just you and me!" Baker's voice rose to a screech. "Who the fuck are you?"

  Good question, Yoshio thought. Who is this ronin!

  Obviously, he was more than mere hired muscle. He was a man who was comfortable with violence but used it judiciously, and with style. He was a man experienced in his line of work and intended to stay in it for the long run—as witness this skillfully booby-trapped house. The house told Yoshio that the ronin planned far ahead and might well be prepared for almost any eventuality.

  Which meant Yoshio would have to be especially cautious in his next move.

  For Yoshio was determined to meet the ronin before Muhallal and Baker, by some blind luck, blundered into him and killed him. Yoshio was sure the ronin knew something, had learned something in that house.

  He resisted the urge to gun his engine and follow him. He calculated the risks and decided it unwise to drive past the house right now. Baker or one of his thugs might empty a clip or two from their assault pistols at him. He had little faith in their accuracy, but a lucky slug might pierce his gas tank or—worse yet—pierce him.

  No, he would catch up to them back in Manhattan.

  Then he would learn what those two had discovered in the Clayton house.

  20

  "Really, Jack," Alicia said. "I want to go home."

  Or at least get out of the car. She felt queasy.

  Instead of heading back to the city, Jack had continued east, racing toward the tip of Long Island. He'd taken them into the Hamptons, and then turned north until they'd come to the quaint houses and deserted marinas of Sag Harbor. Now they were pulling into the parking lot of something called the Surfside Inn. Alicia knew there was no surf in Sag Harbor; in fact, this crummy-looking motel wasn't even near the water.

  "We can't risk heading back to the city," Jack said. "They're hurting, but I don't know what kind of reserves that Arab's got. He could have spotters waiting out on the highways, looking to follow us back home. So I say, let's take the long way home."

  "All right, let's." She just wanted tonight to be over. "So why are we stopping here?"

  "To spend the night." He held up his hand before she could speak. "Trust me. We head back in the morning, no one will find us. We try it tonight, there could be more rough stuff."

  Damn him, she thought. He knows exactly what to say. The last thing she wanted was more violence.

  "All right," she said, surrendering. "But can't we find a better place than this?"

  "We're not exactly in season," Jack said. "This place is open, it's got its 'Vacancy' sign lit, and we'll only be here half a dozen hours or so. And best of all, its parking lot isn't visible from the road. Wait here."

  Before she could object, he was out of the car and heading toward the office.

  Alicia closed her eyes, trying to blank her mind. This was all a nightmare. None of this had happened. Soon she'd wake up and find it all had been an ugly dream.

  She jumped at the sound of a tap on the window: Jack—holding up a key and motioning her toward a row of doors to the left of the car. With a groan, she got out and followed him. Her limbs dragged… her marrow had turned to lead.

  Jack opened a door marked "17" and held it open for her. As she stepped inside, he followed and closed the door behind him.

  Slightly better decorated than Jack's "country place," but just as mildewy. Flowered drapes matched the spreads on the two double beds, but not the rug.

  "Which do you want?" Jack said.

  "Which what?"

  "Which bed."

  "You've got to be kidding," she said. "We're sharing a room? Look, things maybe be tight, but I can spring for—"

  "Money's got nothing to do with it. It's the safest way." He pointed to the beds again. "So, which one?"

  Alicia pointed to the one nearer the bathroom. God, she wanted a shower—she craved a shower—but she had no clean clothes to change into, so what was the use?

  "That one."

  "All right," he said, sitting and bouncing on the other. "Then this one's mine." He lowered his voice to a Charlton Heston baritone. "But let's get something straight, young lady: I know you're mad crazy about me, but I don't want you getting any ideas."

  He's trying to reassure me, she thought, and had to smile. "Somehow I'll manage to restrain myself."

  "Good," he said. "Because I'm taken."

  Alicia sensed he wasn't kidding about that last part. She watched Jack a moment, trying to sort out her feelings for this man. So much about him terrified her… he was a deadly, murderous creature—how many men had he killed tonight? Yet here she was sharing a motel room with him and not only believing him when he said he was taken, but almost envying the woman who had won his heart.

  I can't deal with this right now, she thought as she headed for her bed. I need sleep, a break, time out.

  Too much had happened tonight. Returning to that house, seeing her old room, that man's room, then the murders in the backyard… that had been more than enough. But then that small army chasing them, the shots, the screams, that truck exploding, lighting up the night…

  Alicia felt as if she were enveloped in a gelatinous fog, moving in slow motion toward that bed, that glorious bed.

  Too much… too much …
circuit overload… need downtime…

  Finally she reached the bed. She pulled back the spread and crawled between the sheets.

  "Good night," she said, and pulled the covers over her head.

  Silence… and darkness… blessed darkness…

  21

  "Good night," Jack said, watching Alicia curl into a lump under the covers.

  A weird one, all right. But then, everything named Clayton seemed to be weird in some way.

  Now what? he wondered. He should take a cue from Alicia and sack out, but he was too wired to sleep. The key… where did it fit? And that damn little Land Rover… something about its persistence in trying to get to the front yard of the Clayton house nagged at him.

  Jack got up and headed for the door. He unlocked the Chevy, plucked the little truck from the backseat, and carried it to the middle of the parking lot.

  "All right, Mr. Rover," he said, pushing the on switch, "let's see where you want to go now."

  He placed it on the pavement, facing in the direction he assumed to be east, and let her go. The little truck raced away and almost immediately veered to the left. Jack expected it to wheel into a U-turn and head back toward him, but it came only three quarters of the way around, then angled away across the lot.

  Jack raced after it and grabbed it before it ran under a parked Accord.

  The truck should have headed due west, back toward the Clayton house—or rather, toward its front yard. Did he have his directions screwed up?

  He scanned the stars. Good thing it was a cold, clear winter night. He traced the Big Dipper, ran a line up from the leading edge of its cup, and found Polaris. Okay. That was north.

  He backed up to his original spot, pointed the truck east… and damn if it didn't make a beeline for that same Accord.

  He found Polaris again. Back in Murray Hill, the truck had insisted on heading uptown—due north… toward the front yard, he'd assumed. But now it wanted to travel northwest… away from the front yard.

  What had changed?

  The Rover's position, for one.

  Or had someone adjusted its controller, wherever that was?

  This was going to take more investigation, and under better conditions than these.

  Tomorrow… he'd spend all tomorrow figuring this out. And looking for the box that belonged to that key.

  Jack returned to the room, taking the truck with him. He didn't want to leave it in the car overnight. Who knew?

  Someone wandering through the lot might spot it and rip it off.

  He slipped back into the room as quietly as he could. He could make out Alicia's form under the covers, curled into the fetal position.

  What are you hiding from? he wondered.

  He felt a mixture of admiration and pity for her—and he knew she'd resent the pity like all hell, but still, that was what he felt. Somewhere, somehow, she'd been terribly damaged, and he pitied anyone who'd been scarred so deeply. But she'd waged—was still waging, apparently—a valiant battle against the effects of whatever had been done to her.

  Maybe tonight had been too much for her. Maybe he shouldn't have insisted she come along.

  But what other options had he had? She'd lived in that house, and he'd needed her help.

  Still, he got a cold knot in his stomach when he looked at that fetal lump, curled and cocooned so defensively against the world.

  How would she be when she awoke tomorrow morning?

  Jack flopped back on the other bed and stared at the stained ceiling, wondering about that until sleep claimed him.

  22

  Kemel Muhallal sat with shaking hands and trembling insides. He felt as if he were on a jet racing through an endless storm.

  He slumped on the couch in his apartment, too disheartened for prayer, too exhausted to drag himself to the bedroom.

  For the first time since his arrival in this thrice-cursed land, he harbored doubts about the outcome of his mission. He had expected some difficulty, certainly, in securing the Clayton technology, but never this much. The Clayton woman had enlisted the devil himself as her ally.

  When he had noticed her car gone, he had wanted to use the tracer to chase after her, but could not. The bodies… all the bodies had to be removed before the police arrived. He, Baker, and the two surviving members of Baker's team had had to carry them to the van. Then they had had to flee, running like jackals in the night.

  A harrowing, humiliating experience.

  But it all would have been worth it had he learned if Alicia Clayton and her devil had discovered anything in the house.

  And what of the sale of that house? Haffner had sent word to her attorney that her price would be met. No response yet. Would she respond at all after tonight?

  If not, the whole process would be set back weeks. And what would that mean for Ghali? Kemel had to get home to help his son.

  Kemel tugged at his beard. He was being pulled in so many directions. What was he to do!

  Should he fail to secure the Clayton technology, he then must make sure no one else got it.

  Be calm, he told himself for the ten thousandth time since he had stepped through the door.

  But how could he be calm when tomorrow morning he might pick up a newspaper and see a headline announcing the Clayton technology to the world?

  He shuddered at the repercussions to his homeland, at the thought of the entire Middle East returning to the Saudi Arabia of his father, who had made his own shoes and lived with his fellow bedouin in goat-hair tents or in mud huts clustered around oases, with no electricity, no medication, no medical care. That was Arab life before the 1960s. That was what his own life—and his sons'—would be if he failed in his quest.

  He wished he could pass this burden to someone more used to dealing with these matters, but secrecy was so tantamount to success—they could lose everything if even a whisper of the nature of the technology leaked out—that the leaders of Iswid Nahr had forbidden anyone else, even another member of Iswid Nahr, from being told.

  Kemel Muhallal had been present when Thomas Clayton brought Iswid Nahr proof of his father's technology. Why had he felt blessed by Allah that day? It had been a curse. Because he was among the very few who knew the secret, the burden of resolving the matter had fallen upon his shoulders.

  Kemel squared those shoulders. He must not despair. He was not yet defeated. He must trust in Allah and believe that Alicia Clayton and her devil had learned nothing.

  And on the subject of devils, what was he going to do with his own devil… Baker? Kemel had lost all faith in the man, but the day might be approaching when he would have to make use of his brute nature and crude tactics.

  For Kemel knew that if he and Iswid Nahr could not secure the Clayton technology, then he must destroy that technology, and eliminate everyone who knew about it.

  WEDNESDAY

  1

  "No," Alicia said. "Out of the question. I've got to go to the hospital."

  Are all women so headstrong? Jack wondered as he watched the ferry dock recede through the condensation-fogged glass. Or just all the ones I happen to know?

  He and Alicia sat with their coffees in the passenger area of the first morning ferry out of Orient Point. The Chevy rested with the other cars below.

  "Alicia—"

  "Look, I've got patients and—oh, hell."

  She yanked open her shoulder bag and fished inside until she came up with a cell phone.

  "What's wrong?" Jack said.

  "I want to call in."

  He looked out the window as she dialed. The sky was a crisp blue and winter clear, but the Long Island Sound lay gray and choppy around them. He turned back to her when she mentioned "Hector," and watched her expression grow grim. She ended the call and squeezed her eyes shut.

  "Bad news?" he said.

  She kept her eyes closed. "Hector got shocky last night, then he crashed again. We're losing him."

  "Aw, jeez." His chest tightened as he remembered that big smile, and so p
roud of his "buth cut." So full of life, and now…

  "I should have been there."

  "I can appreciate how you feel," he said.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him, saying nothing.

  He said, "All right. Maybe not completely. But no matter what, at this point I don't think those places are safe for you. I mean, if I were you and these people knew where I lived and worked, I wouldn't be going back there right now."

  "I'll have to risk it. I've got to be there this morning, Jack. I've got to. And let's face it, you didn't leave many of them standing."

  Jack didn't like it, but he could see he wasn't going to change her mind. And even if Baker and whoever he had left were planning a move, he doubted they'd pull it in front of the staff at the Center. But as soon as she stepped outside alone…

  "All right," he said. "Go to the hospital, then have a guard walk you to the Center. Then stay there. Have lunch sent in. Do not set foot outside that building until I pick you up and take you to your hotel."

  "Hotel?"

  "Yes, hotel. You don't think you can stay at your apartment, do you? That's where they'll be waiting for you."

  "Who's 'they'?" she said. "After you got through with them last night, I don't think there's any 'they' left."

  Jack shook his head. He'd seen Kemel and his boss mercenary get away. How many more did the Arab have in reserve? And even if the answer was none, he could always hire more.

  "The one who shoved you into the van is still up and about," Jack said.

  That seemed to have the desired effect: Alicia stiffened and looked away.

  "Okay, okay," she said. "Which hotel?"

  "Haven't decided yet. But I'll pick you up at five and we'll use the rush-hour mob to our advantage."

  "Fine," she said sullenly, and wrapped her coat more tightly around her.

  "Do I have your promise?"

  "Yes." Now she looked at him. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

  The question startled Jack. "What do you mean?"