Blood of the Assassin - By Russell Blake Page 0,55

mounted on the stern, and a figure dressed in dark clothing sitting in the bow. His guide took the rod case and the reels from him and dropped each over the rail to the man below, who caught them and stowed them in the boat. Rauschenbach swung himself over the side, climbed down a corroding steel ladder, and was in the boat in moments, his carry-on bag jammed under the bench seat. The motor cranked to life as the man on the pier untied the line and tossed it into the bow, and within seconds they were easing into the night, a date with a fishing trawler imminent.

“How long will it take to get to the rendezvous point?” Rauschenbach asked once they were underway.

“Three, maybe four hours. The seas will get bigger once we veer away from the shore, so we’ll have to go slow once we get closer. The final ten kilometers will take the longest – it’s supposed to be ugly out there tonight. Bad luck for you. Hope you don’t get seasick easily.”

“I don’t. How rough?”

“Two-meter seas with white water, but it should die down by the time we hook up. But you never know with the ocean. Sometimes she don’t read the weather report,” the seaman cackled.

Rauschenbach turned and watched the bow as it sliced through the waves, already substantial even this close to the beach, and hunkered down for a difficult few hours, eyes squinting against the salt spray, his back already sore from the slamming of the hull against the sea’s frothy surface as they pounded their way north.

Chapter 22

Cruz studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror with a sort of numb detachment as he went about his morning ablutions, the condo silent other than the sound of water splashing in the sink and his slippers shuffling against the bathroom floor. Finished with his joyless ritual, he rinsed and dried his face with a freshly cleaned towel that reinforced his aloneness. She had done the laundry before leaving – was that cause for hope? Did it mean anything more than that she had tossed some items into the stacked washer/dryer before he’d gotten home and dropped his bombshell, and had put the laundered items back into their proper place before abandoning him? Or was it a sign – that she cared enough about him to want him to be taken care of, and that this entire episode might be about her getting her point across in an unmistakable way?

His musings wound around one another, each idea giving birth to ten more flashes of thought, the notions intertwining like a serpentine Gordion knot. He checked the time and realized that he’d spent more of his morning than usual getting ready – moving about in a haze, his mind elsewhere.

The distinctive sound of his cell phone warbled from the bedroom, and he practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach it. He held it to his ear, only to hear Briones’ voice.

“Good morning, sir. I hope I’m not calling too early?”

“No...no, of course not. What is it – is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I was just calling because I’m leaving my place, and I wanted to see if you felt like going to the site with me and showing me around? So that we’re all on the same page?” Briones suggested.

Cruz had told him that he was going to the Congress building the next day to review the layout with the assassin, and he realized that Briones probably felt excluded. He kicked himself for not including him and nodded as he spoke.

“Of course. I’m sorry. So much was going on yesterday...I’d value your input on the location.”

“If you like, I can pick you up. I can be at your place in twenty minutes or so.”

Cruz suddenly realized that he would enjoy the company. Anything to get his mind off the current situation. Briones was reaching out to him. There was zero reason not to take advantage of the offer.

“That would be great. I’ll be down on the street waiting for you,” Cruz said, then hung up.

~ ~ ~

Down the block, the disconnecting cell line flipped a green light to red on an elaborate panel in the rear of a van, and a swarthy man with a faint white scar running along his right jawline from a knife gash, a souvenir from his frivolous youth, pulled off a pair of headphones and tossed them onto the console, then fished a phone from his shirt