to be detached from the missile in order to be sold, and that promised to be a hazardous operation-at least, at first.
Just the radio—
59
activity alone was enough to kill someone not handling the device correctly, and Rook had nothing in the way of protective clothing or instruments.
So, with typical deviousness, he solved the problem at the expense of others.
Hiring three men in a bar in Portsmouth, he offered them a small fortune to remove the warhead from the launcher. They foolishly agreed after he assured them that there was no danger present. Carting them to the island, he directed them from afar via walkie-talkie as they gingerly unscrewed the nosecone from the battered, rusting Soviet ICBM and retrieved the nuclear device.
The entire operation had taken more than twelve hours. Then, once the trio had placed the warhead into a heavily leaded canister, they walked back to Rook's cabin to demand payment. Keeping them at a distance, Rook explained to them with a cold rationality that he had lied to them and that they had been irreversibly irradiated.
Then he simply shot all three of them to death.
All this had happened a week before.
Now, on this morning, with his glass of whiskey swilling in his belly, he began to steel himself for the next crucial part in his plan; hauling the heavy lead-lined canister onto a raft he'd made and eventually sailing it back to Portsmouth.
Rook took another swig of the bad whiskey and, thus bolstered, pulled on his trousers and boots and walked out of the cabin, whistling as he turned toward the beach.
He never saw the axe, nor the man wielding it. All he felt was a cold yet sharp sensation on the back of his neck, which was replaced almost immediately by a gush of sticky warmth. He was dead an instant later, his collarbone, shoulder blade, and upper cervical vertebrae all neatly severed by one well-placed blow.
60
Chapter Eleven
Cape Cod
The morning dawned bright and sunny over Nauset Heights.
Hunter was awakened by the first rays of the morning as they streamed into the farmhouse's bedroom. Instantly the warm light pried his eyelids open, reminding him of the big day that lay ahead. Moving with characteristic agility, he gingerly disentangled himself from the beautiful, naked form of Dominique and quietly slipped out of the large brass bed.
Silently moving down the creaky stairs, he reached the kitchen just as the automatic coffee maker was clicking on. A bowl of oat bran disappeared quickly enough, as did two cups of coffee. A trip to the head included a long, hot shower and a shave and, finally, he was ready to face the day.
Walking out to his fields, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so enthusiastic. Today he would cut his hay crop, and all the indicators were looking good for the operation. The sky was clear, no rain was in the forecast, and the wind was at a minimum.
But still, he needed to conduct one last test. Pulling up a single strand of grass, he tasted it and found it was sweeter than ever.
That was all he needed.
He ran back to the house and made a quick radio call to a phone located in the firehouse of the small seaport
61
village of Nauset, just a mile away. Several days before, three of the local militiamen stationed there had offered to help Hunter pull in the harvest, and now he was taking them up on their neighborly offer. Once his help was on the way, he started up his tractor, got the cutter working, and headed out to the east high field.
Minutes later he was happily cutting his first acre of pasture.
The noise of the tractor had awakened Dominique.
Now, through sleepy eyes and a cup of coffee, she watched from the side porch as Hunter steered the clanking beast through the field, slicing down swaths of hay in his wake.
She had never seen him so happy-so vibrant in the little things of life. He was dwelling in the inconsequentials, reveling in the little pleasures. She knew that producing the hay crop had nothing to do with money
Just the radio—
59
activity alone was enough to kill someone not handling the device correctly, and Rook had nothing in the way of protective clothing or instruments.
So, with typical deviousness, he solved the problem at the expense of others.
Hiring three men in a bar in Portsmouth, he offered them a small fortune to remove the warhead from the launcher. They foolishly agreed after he assured them that there was no danger present. Carting them to the island, he directed them from afar via walkie-talkie as they gingerly unscrewed the nosecone from the battered, rusting Soviet ICBM and retrieved the nuclear device.
The entire operation had taken more than twelve hours. Then, once the trio had placed the warhead into a heavily leaded canister, they walked back to Rook's cabin to demand payment. Keeping them at a distance, Rook explained to them with a cold rationality that he had lied to them and that they had been irreversibly irradiated.
Then he simply shot all three of them to death.
All this had happened a week before.
Now, on this morning, with his glass of whiskey swilling in his belly, he began to steel himself for the next crucial part in his plan; hauling the heavy lead-lined canister onto a raft he'd made and eventually sailing it back to Portsmouth.
Rook took another swig of the bad whiskey and, thus bolstered, pulled on his trousers and boots and walked out of the cabin, whistling as he turned toward the beach.
He never saw the axe, nor the man wielding it. All he felt was a cold yet sharp sensation on the back of his neck, which was replaced almost immediately by a gush of sticky warmth. He was dead an instant later, his collarbone, shoulder blade, and upper cervical vertebrae all neatly severed by one well-placed blow.
60
Chapter Eleven
Cape Cod
The morning dawned bright and sunny over Nauset Heights.
Hunter was awakened by the first rays of the morning as they streamed into the farmhouse's bedroom. Instantly the warm light pried his eyelids open, reminding him of the big day that lay ahead. Moving with characteristic agility, he gingerly disentangled himself from the beautiful, naked form of Dominique and quietly slipped out of the large brass bed.
Silently moving down the creaky stairs, he reached the kitchen just as the automatic coffee maker was clicking on. A bowl of oat bran disappeared quickly enough, as did two cups of coffee. A trip to the head included a long, hot shower and a shave and, finally, he was ready to face the day.
Walking out to his fields, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so enthusiastic. Today he would cut his hay crop, and all the indicators were looking good for the operation. The sky was clear, no rain was in the forecast, and the wind was at a minimum.
But still, he needed to conduct one last test. Pulling up a single strand of grass, he tasted it and found it was sweeter than ever.
That was all he needed.
He ran back to the house and made a quick radio call to a phone located in the firehouse of the small seaport
61
village of Nauset, just a mile away. Several days before, three of the local militiamen stationed there had offered to help Hunter pull in the harvest, and now he was taking them up on their neighborly offer. Once his help was on the way, he started up his tractor, got the cutter working, and headed out to the east high field.
Minutes later he was happily cutting his first acre of pasture.
The noise of the tractor had awakened Dominique.
Now, through sleepy eyes and a cup of coffee, she watched from the side porch as Hunter steered the clanking beast through the field, slicing down swaths of hay in his wake.
She had never seen him so happy-so vibrant in the little things of life. He was dwelling in the inconsequentials, reveling in the little pleasures. She knew that producing the hay crop had nothing to do with money
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