Pop Goes the Weasel

positioned to watch the narrow, shaded road that led to the hotel. We were on a lush hillside between the hotel and the sparkling blue Caribbean sea. Andrew Jones and another agent were in a second car hidden near the hotel’s rear entrance. Six of Jones’s agents were posing as porters and maintenance workers at the hotel. The Jamaican detectives were also posted on the grounds.
    We’d had no news about Shafer. He had finally lost us. But we believed he would join the others. Jones complained that there weren’t enough of us to stop Shafer if he was coming after the others. I agreed; if Shafer was playing kamikaze, there would be no adequate defense.
    So we waited and waited. Continual updates came in over the car’s short-wave radio. The messages didn’t stop all afternoon. They were a kind of electronic heartbeat for our surveillance detail.
    “Oliver Highsmith is still in his room. Doesn’t want to be disturbed, apparently. …”
    “Bayer is in his room as well. Subject was spotted on the terrace about ten minutes ago, checking out the beach with binoculars. …”
    “Bayer has left his room. He’s taking a dip in the deep blue sea. Subject is in a red-striped swimming costume. Difficult to miss. Makes the job easier. Not on the eyes, though. …”
    “Black Mercedes arriving at the front gate. Driver’s tall and blond. Could be Geoffrey Shafer. You see him, Alex?”
    I reported immediately, “The blond man isn’t Shafer. Repeat, it isn’t Shafer. Too young, probably American. Young wife and two children tagging along. False alarm. It isn’t Shafer.”
    The radio reports continued.
    “Highsmith has just ordered up from room service. Two English breakfasts in the middle of the day. One of our people will take it up to him. …”
    “Bayer is back from his swim. He’s well tanned. Little guy, but muscular. Tried to hit on some ladies. Struck out.”
    Finally, at around six o’clock, I made another report. “James Whitehead just drove up in a green Range Rover! He’s coming inside the hotel. War is here.”
    Only one more game player to go.
    We waited. Death had yet to arrive.

Chapter 111
    SHAFER WAS IN NO PARTICULAR HURRY to flash the checkered flag. He took his sweet time thinking through each possible scenario. He had spotted the coast of Jamaica on the horizon several hours before. He had originally flown to Puerto Rico, then sailed from there in a chartered boat. He wanted to be able to leave either by air or by sea.
    Now he calmly waited for nightfall, drifting in his boat with the cooling trade winds. It was the famous “blue hour” on the sea, just past sunset, extraordinarily serene and beautiful. Also magical and slightly unreal. He had finished five hundred more push-ups on the deck of the boat, and he wasn’t even winded. He could see half a dozen large cruise ships anchored near Ocho Rios. All around him were scores of smaller boats like his own.
    He remembered reading somewhere that the island of Jamaica had once been the personal property of Christopher Columbus. It pleased him to think there had been a time when a man could take whatever he wanted, and often did. His body was tight and hard, and he was bronze from the three days of sun during his trip. His hair was bleached even blonder than usual. He’d had the drugs under control for almost a week now. It had been an act of will, and he’d risen to the challenge. He wanted to win.
    Shafer felt like a god. No, he was a god. He controlled every move in his own life and in the lives of several others. There were surprises left, he thought as he slowly sprayed his body with cooling streams of water. There were surprises for everybody who still chose to be in the game.
    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