The Spy

“She needs a doctor,” said Bell.

“That’s what I’ve been saying. Mr. Plimpton, she’s got to have a doctor.”

“Shut up, Bruce,” said Plimpton. “She’ll have a doctor as soon as we get out of this mess.”

Hands in the air, boxed in by O’Shay’s gunmen, the tall detective searched her eyes, seeking some advantage, even as he braced for the bullet. He saw no mercy, no hesitation, only the deep, deep weariness of a person with a mortal wound. But she intended to kill him before she died. As she had killed Grover Lakewood and Father Jack and who knew how many others for Eyes O’Shay. How long before she passed out? Where, he wondered, was her “streak of God”?

“Did you know,” he asked, “that Father Jack prayed for you?”

“A lot of good his prayers did. It was Brian O’Shay who saved me.”

“What did Brian save you for? To hurl Grover Lakewood to his death? To shoot the priest?”

“Just like you shot me.”

“No,” said Bell. “I shot you to save the woman I love.”

“I love Brian. I will do anything for him.”

Bell recalled the words of train conductor Dilber on the 20th Century Limited. “Riker and his ward are completely on the up-and-up. Always separate staterooms.”

And O’Shay himself, speaking as Riker, had said, “The girl brings light into my life where there was darkness.”

“And what will Brian be for you?”

“He saved me.”

“Fifteen years ago. What will he do for the rest of your life, Katherine? Keep you pure?”

Her hand shook violently. “You-” Her breath came hoarsely.

“You kill to please him, and he keeps you pure? Is that how it works? Father Jack was right to pray for you.”

“Why?” she wailed.

“He knew in his heart, in his soul, that Brian O’Shay couldn’t save you.”

“And God could?”

“So the priest believed. With all his heart.”

Katherine lowered the gun. Her eyes rolled back in her head. The gun slipped from her fingers, and she folded to the deck as if she were a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Plimpton, damn you!” Bruce shouted. “She’ll die without a doctor.” He gestured emphatically with his pistol.

Like a viper striking reflexively at movement, Plimpton shot Bruce between the eyes and whirled back to the blur of motion that was Isaac Bell. The bodyguard had committed a fatal error.

Bell fired his Browning twice. Plimpton first, then the remaining gunman. As the gunman pitched forward, his shotgun went off, the report deafening in the confined space of the yacht’s cabin. A swath of pellets tore under the banquette into the legs of Lowell Falconer and his crew.

Bell was wrapping a tourniquet above Falconer’s knee when Donald Darbee stuck a cautious head in the door. “Thought you’d want to know, Mr. Bell, the Holland is passing under the Brooklyn Bridge.”

54

SURFACE!” SHOUTED DICK CONDON, THE FIRST MATE WHOM Eyes O’Shay had put in command of his Holland submarine after he murdered Captain Hatch.

“No!” O’Shay countermanded the order. “Stay down. They’ll see us.”

“The tide is killing us,” the frightened Irish rebel shouted back. “The current is ru

O’Shay gripped Condon’s shoulder. The panic in the man’s voice was scaring the men who were operating the ballasting and trimming tanks and preparing to fire the torpedo, which was precisely why he had decided to sail with the submarine. Someone had to keep a clear head. “Six? Four? Who cares? We’re two knots faster.”

“No, Mr. O’Shay. Only directly into the tide. When I turn broadside to line up a torpedo, we’ll be swept away.”

“Try it!” O’Shay demanded. “Take the chance.”

Dick Condon switched the vertical rudder to hand control from the less fine compressed-air steering and moved it cautiously. The deck tilted under their feet. Then the East River caught the hundred-foot submarine with the fury of a shark tearing into a weak swimmer. The men in the small dark space smashed into pipes, conduits, valves, and air hoses as the boat was tumbled.

“Surface!” Condon’s voice rose to a scream.

“No.”

“I must put the co

O’Shay shoved him from the periscope and looked for himself.

The river surface was wild, an ever-moving crazy quilt of tumbling waves. Spray obscured the glass. Just as it cleared, a wave curled over it, blacking it out. The boat lurched violently. Suddenly the periscope stood free of the jumbled water, and O’Shay saw that they were nearly abreast of the navy yard.

The New Hampshire was just where he wanted it. He could not have positioned the long white hull better himself. But the submarine was slipping backward even though the propeller was thrashing and the electric motor smelled like it was burning up.

“All right,” O’Shay conceded. “Attack on the surface.”

“Reduce to half speed!” Condon ordered. The motor stopped straining, and the boat stopped shaking. He watched through the periscope, controlling their drift with skillful twists of the horizontal and vertical rudders. “Prepare to surface.”

“What’s that noise?”

The Royal Navy veterans exchanged puzzled glances.

“Is something wrong with the motor?” asked O’Shay.

“No, no, no. It’s in the water.”

The crew stood still, ears cocked to a strange, high-pitched whine that grew louder and shriller by the second.

“A ship?”

Condon spun the periscope, searching the river. The engineer voiced what his shipmates were thinking.

“It doesn’t sound like any ship I ever heard.”

“Down!” Condon shouted. “Take her down.”

“WHERE DID HE GO?” Lowell Falconer gasped. To Isaac Bell’s astonishment, the bloodied Navy captain had dragged himself topside, where Bell was driving Dyname toward the Brooklyn Bridge at thirty knots.

“Dead ahead,” said Isaac Bell. He had one hand on the steam lever, the other gripped the helm. “Is that tourniquet doing its job?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the river.

“I’d be dead if it weren’t,” Falconer snapped through gritted teeth. He was white from loss of blood, and Bell doubted he would be conscious much longer. The effort to climb the few steps to the bridge must have been herculean. “Who’s in the engine room?” Falconer asked.

“Uncle Darbee claims he was coal stoker on the Staten Island Ferry, and assistant engineer when the regular fellow got drunk.”

“Dyname burns oil.”

“He figured that out when he couldn’t find a shovel. We’ve got plenty of steam.”

“I don’t see the Holland.”

“It’s gone up and down. I saw the periscope a moment ago. There!”

The stubby co

“Tide’s battering him,” muttered Falconer. “It’s ebbing under a full moon.”

“Good,” said Bell. “We need all the help we can get.”

Dyname streaked through the patch of roiled water. The submarine was nowhere to be seen. Falconer tugged at Bell’s sleeve, whispering urgently, “He’s some sort of A-Class Royal Navy Holland-triple our to