Heirs of Cain (32 page)

Lifting him.

Over the railing, out into space, above the water.

Releasing him.

Hank hit the water butt first, went under, staying submerged long enough that Cain and Dunlap both thought he’d died in the fall. “Damn, I hope the bastard survived the plunge,” Dunlap said, adding, “Samson and Hercules prefer live prey.”

Samson, tail thrashing wildly, shot past Hercules, hitting the water before Hank did. Hercules quickly followed his partner, submerging completely within seconds, disappearing beneath the water like a nightmarish submarine. Moments later, Samson went under, and for an instant, the pond was serene, undisturbed, a postcard picture of bright sun reflecting on still, peaceful waters.

Hank was the first to disturb the calm, coming up, shooting half a body length out of the water, gulping for air, looking around, trying to get his bearings. Once he did, and once he refilled his lungs with oxygen, he began swimming frantically toward the bank opposite where the gators had been lounging.

He made it less than five feet before being pulled under, disappearing in the water like a rock dropped from the bridge. In a split second the pond became a whirlpool, water churning, whipped into a violent frenzy as the two gators bit into Hank’s body, then began turning and turning in the classic gator death roll, ripping off huge chunks of flesh, swallowing, going back for more. The water quickly turned dark, bloody red, and small pieces of human tissue and bone soon began to appear on the surface.

“Bastard never screamed once,” Dunlap said, admiringly. “Gotta give him credit for that. He handled it just the way John Wayne would have.”

The two men watched as a denim-covered arm floated to the top, only to be swallowed whole by Samson. Seconds later, a cowboy boot with Hank’s foot still inside, was gulped down by Hercules.

“Damn, I sure wish I’d taken that Colt .45 before we sent him over,” Dunlap said, shaking his head. “That was a genuine classic, a collector’s item.”

“If you want it that bad, jump down there and get it,” Cain said.

“I’m crazy but not insane.”

Cain laughed. “You know, you just might make general yet.”

“Well, my boy, fill me in on the details,” Lucas said between sips of Chivas Regal. “Was it as deliciously gory as I imagine it?”

“Not really.”

“What was your impression of Samson and Hercules? How did they behave?”

“They were efficient,” Cain answered.

“I’m sure they were. And Hank. What did you think of him?”

“I killed him, Lucas. I didn’t think about him.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Not particularly. Feeding someone to alligators isn’t my style. If he needed to be eliminated, I would have preferred to do it my way.”

“My boy, sometimes one jungle predator must give way to another jungle predator. It was my intention for Hank to suffer greatly and to experience extreme fear prior to his final breath. That would not have happened had I left his termination to you.”

“Why Hank? Why take him out? He’s not a player in this war.”

“There are many wars, my boy.”

“What are you into, Lucas?”

Lucas paused for a long time, then said, “Shadows that even you, the great Cain, can never penetrate.”

Seneca found the package addressed to him when he arrived at Dr. Nastasia Ivanovna’s West 54
^th
Street apartment, along with a note from her saying she was having lunch with a friend from the Russian Embassy and wouldn’t be back until after two.

He checked the clock in the study: 12:10. Perfect. Two uninterrupted hours to digest the contents of the package. More than enough time to memorize the details.

Seneca ripped it open and dumped the contents onto the kitchen table. Inside were photographs of five men and a note attached to a much thicker piece of quarter-folded paper. He removed the photos and shuffled through them.

Four of the faces were instantly recognizable; the fifth man was unknown to him. He put the four familiar faces on the table, keeping only the stranger’s photo in his hands. He flipped it over. Written on the back was the man’s name: Daniel Abraham Cohen. Seneca stared at the face, studied it hard, committed it to memory. Never would he forget what Daniel Cohen looked like. Never. Not even after he killed him.

But Daniel Cohen was only a fringe player in the drama about to be played out. The real stars were the four men he recognized, the men he had been contracted to eliminate. Four foolish men chasing the dream of peace and coexistence in a part of the world that had known only blood and hate for centuries. Men doomed to failure, doomed to learn that no amount of arrogance or perceived power can truly change the tide of history.

Doomed to die.

Seneca smiled, his heart pounding like a drum. When this business was finished, he would stand alone as the world’s greatest assassin. There would be no room left for arguments or debate. All others, regardless of past accomplishments, would forever remain in his shadow.

Even the great Cain.

He replaced the photographs, picked up the typewritten note, and quickly read its message:

Seneca:

Enclosed are photos of your targets, along with an architect’s blueprint of the Cohen estate and two aerial photos of the grounds. Security will be tight but small in number … no more than 25 personnel. Speed is essential. The meeting is set to begin at 10 a.m., Thursday. I’ve marked the site on the blueprint.

Good luck.

Karl

Seneca wadded the paper into a ball and angrily tossed it onto the tabletop. How dare Karl use the word
luck
. The misguided fool. Luck would play no part in this. Luck is fickle, like most of the women he’d known in his life. Luck cuts both ways, good and bad. Talent, however, is true, like the laws of physics. Talent isn’t subject to the winds of caprice.

He smiled. No, Karl. Talent, not luck, is what guarantees success.

And he would be successful. No one could stop him.

No one.

Not God, not Cain.

Cain had just finished speaking with Andy Waltz when the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Good morning, my boy. It’s good to hear your voice again.”

“Lucas.”

“Considering how long it’s been since we last spoke, I’m surprised you remember my name.”

“It hasn’t been that long, Lucas. What … three, four days?”

“Given the grave importance of this mission, three or four days is an eternity. It’s not like you to keep me in the dark during a crisis. Is there a reason why I’ve been kept incommunicado?”

“I haven’t exactly been sitting on my ass, Lucas. When you get my expense report, you’ll see I’ve been on the move.”

Lucas snickered. “My boy, I’m all too familiar with your expense reports. I can hardly wait. So, tell me, what have you learned from your travels?”

“Not much. I’m afraid I’ve yet to earn my paycheck.”

“Don’t explode when I ask this. Have you thought of going outside? Maybe use the CIA, FBI, or Homeland Security?”

“Houdini is scrounging for me.”

“Ah, yes, Houdini. I should have guessed. A smart move, my boy. He’s resourceful and he’s accurate.”

“He’d better be fast, because my gut tells me the hourglass is about to run out of sand.”

“Perhaps I can brighten your day a little,” Lucas said. “Rumor has it that our mutual friend is in cahoots with a Russian lady. A rather notorious Russian lady, I might add.”

“Dr. Nastasia Ivanovna.”

“Well, well, as usual you have downplayed your accomplishments. Please put modesty aside and dazzle me with what you’ve learned.”

“Not much, really. She lives on West 54
^th
Street in Manhattan, and she teaches at Columbia University.”

“What led you to her?”

“Simon Buckman made several phone calls to her number. Since Simon didn’t impress me as the scholarly type, I could only assume he was calling Seneca.”

“Your assumption is correct. Seneca has been staying with her for the better part of two months.”

“Tell me about Ivanovna.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Is she former KGB?”

“Highest level.”

“I’ll pay her a visit, see what information I can get out of her.”

“Do not underestimate her, my boy. She’s a dangerous, deadly lady.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Of that I am sure.”

“The grapevine says the president is meeting with Israeli, Palestinian, and Hamas leaders this Saturday,” Cain said. “You heard anything about it?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Not really. I just thought you might.”

“Come, come, my boy. You are withholding something from me. Give.”

“I heard that rumor, and I was wondering if you knew anything about it. That’s all.”

“My boy, I have been around you too long to believe that story. However, out of my respect for you, I will pursue it no further. I can only assume that in due time you will share the truth with me. The whole truth.”

“The truth is simple, Lucas. If the grapevine is accurate and if we don’t find Seneca, we’re fucked.”

“Crassly stated, but completely accurate, I’m afraid.”

“Lucas.”

“Yes, my boy.”

“It might be wise for you to check the president’s itinerary for Saturday. Get it altered, if you can.”

“My ability to work miracles does have its limits.”

“Make the effort.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Seneca folded the architect’s blueprint, lit the bottom corner with a cigarette lighter, then dropped it into the kitchen sink. He stood silently, watching the thick paper turn black as the blue-orange flames engulfed it. After two minutes, nothing remained but ashes. He turned on the faucet and washed the charred remains away.

The contents of the package were now stored in his memory bank. Faces, names, the Cohen estate layout—everything. Nothing had been overlooked. He memorized the dimensions of every room, including the guest house and the beach house. Lawn shapes and sizes were memorized, along with data relating to plumbing, underground gas and water lines, electrical wiring, and the height of the wall surrounding the estate.

A simple rule: it’s better to know too much rather than too little.