In the flickering flashes of lightning, he and the radio operator saw a man staring through the rain-specked window. He entered the radio shack.

"You gave us a start there, sir," the guard said. "Looked like a ghost starin' through the window."

The man who was calling himself Allenbee smiled.

"I am a ghost," he said, and they all laughed.

"Expecting a message?" the radioman asked without looking up. "I'll tell you, sir, the reception is mighty poor and . . ."

Twenty-seven leaned over the radio operator from behind, placed the palm of one hand under his chin, the other hand on the top of his head and snapped his neck. The guard, completely taken by surprise, stared open-mouthed at Allenbee as he let the radio operator's head fall on the desk. Allenbee's arm made a short upward stroke as he thrust his dagger up under the guard's rib cage, slicing deep into his chest.

The guard's head fell forward onto Allenbee's shoulder and the Nazi agent shoved him away. He fell dead at Allenbee's feet.

Allenbee dismantled the radio, then rushed across the compound to the telephone room. It was empty, the phones having been out for hours. He cut all the phone lines just to make sure, then stepped inside the small room, checked the clips in his machine pistol and his .38. He looked at his watch.

It was seven-twenty. Perfect timing. He rushed back to the clubhouse, looked in the window just as the kitchen and maid staffs were herded into the room. Lady Penelope entered with a birthday cake ablaze with candles. She walked to the front of the room. Allenbee walked around to the front of the dining room and entered through one of the French doors that lined one side of the room.

The guests looked at him with surprise. He was wet to the skin, his hair streaked down over his forehead. He looked like a wraith.

"Good grief, what happened to you?" Peabody asked.

Allenbee drew the machine pistol and fired a burst into the ceiling. A stream of plaster splashed on the floor at his feet. There was a chorus of screams. The men looked at Allenbee in shock.

"Everybody shut up!" Allenbee ordered but there was chaos in the room. He aimed the gun at the main chandelier and fired a burst into it. Crystal exploded. The bullets tore through the bracket anchoring the enormous light and it fell straight from the ceiling, crashing into a table.

"I said shut up!" Allenbee ordered.

The room got quiet.

"See here! What in hell do you think you're doing?" Peabody demanded.

Allenbee glared at him and pointed the machine pistol straight at his chest.

"Sit down, Peabody, or I'll kill you where you stand," Allenbee said in a voice that meant business.

Captain Leiger held the sub at ten meters, its conning tower just below the surface, and watched the St. Simons light spin slowly around, casting its long finger of light across the dark, rain-swept channel. He inched the sub around the northeast tip of Jekyll Island and entered the deep channel.

He swung the periscope around, fixed it on the dark, brooding shoreline of the island, marking the distance. He would hold his course due west, five hundred meters off the shoreline until he reached the northwestern tip of the island, then surface and swing into the inlet. The yacht dock was a few hundred meters south of the point.

Because he had to maintain his distance from the island, Leiger could not check the bay and the sound. If he had, he would have seen Tully Moyes's forty-foot shrimp boat, the Dolly D, chugging through the choppy waters, heading for the same destination.

Aboard the Dolly D, Keegan shoved shells into Moyes's automatic shotgun, then checked his .45. He had two extra clips which he put in his jacket pocket.

"You mean to kill this man, Frank?" Moyes asked.

"I don't think he'll have it any other way. He's not the surrendering kind."

"You got a plan?"

"Nope. I'm going to get on that island and hope to hell I can get the drop on him."

As they passed the northwestern tip of the island a blazing streak of lightning lit up the entire cove. In its garish white-hot light, Moyes saw a streak on the surface of the water fifty yards off the port side. Ripples running against the wind-borne waves. He peered through the darkness. Another crack of lightning and then another rent the sky. In the flashing lights of the storm, the ripples turned to waves, then suddenly the conning tower of the U-17 broke the surface of the water.

"Christ a-mighty!" Moyes yelled, "A damn sub, fifty yards off our port."

Keegan scanned the turbulent waters. As the sky continued to blaze with lightning, he saw the gray tower rising out of the water and slicing through the small breakers. Beyond it was Jekyll Island and the yacht pier.

"He hasn't seen us yet!" Keegan yelled.

Moyes yelled back, "He's heading for the Jekyll Island dock."

The sub's nose burst through the surface. The long eellike monster bounded atop the inlet, heading straight for the dock. The Dolly D headed straight for her.

There was no turning back. If they tried to run, the U-boat would shoot them to bits. But, thought Moyes, if the U-boat's rear ballast tanks were still full, he could ram her. A lucky strike on the conning tower could tip her over. If the hatches were still open, the sub would flood and sink. The dock approach was forty feet deep and the heavy shrimp boat would run right over the bastard.

Moyes's decision was instantaneous. He slammed the throttles full forward.

"I'm gonna ram the son of a bitch!" Moyes yelled to Keegan above the howling wind. "Brace yourself."

Moyes snapped on his floodlight as the hatch swung open and two German crewmen clambered on deck. Startled, they turned to see the bright single eye of light bearing down on them, closing fast. The first man ran toward the machine gun in front of the conning tower. Keegan focused the binoculars on the gray shadow, saw a face appear in the tower. The man was wearing a white, billed cap and he turned immediately toward Moyes's boat, his eyes wide with surprise. He appeared to be shouting orders to the gun crew. Keegan swung the glasses down to the deck as the two gunners pulled a tarp off the heavy deck gun and loaded it. Keegan ran out on the slippery deck, steadied the automatic shotgun against the rail and fired two bursts. The first ripped into the deck a foot or so behind the German sailor. But as he grabbed the butt of the heavy gun, the second blast caught him in the chest. His arms flew over his head and he fell backward, sliding over the side. The sailor's companion grabbed the heavy weapon, swung it around and fired a continuous burst into the cabin.

The windows exploded. Glass and bits of framing showered around Moyes. He wrapped his arms through the ship's wheel to keep her steady but a moment later another burst tore through the small cabin, ripping into his shoulder. He screamed but it was an angry scream, a scream of challenge not pain.

Leiger saw only the ghostly light roaring down on him through the driving rain. Lightning split the sky again, the jagged streaks ripping into trees along the shore. In the glow, he saw the outline of the heavy shrimper as it chopped through the waves ten yards away. They were almost to the dock but the captain realized he would never make it.

Before he could duck back inside the tower, the Dolly D struck. The submarine lurched as the heavy wooden boat ripped into the conning tower. Leiger grabbed for the hatch cover but couldn't reach it. He was thrown head-first down the narrow shaft. He plunged into the control room below as the shrimper's heavy wooden bow ground up over the spire. The steel hull sliced through the wooden hull of the shrimper and tore it open. But the U-boat was already mortally stricken. The collision had ripped a jagged crack down the length of the tower; the sub was on its side and still twirling. The captain landed flat on his back on the floor of the sub as it tilted crazily over on its side. The crash horn was shrieking. Men were screaming. The sea poured into the stricken boat through two open hatches and the tear in its con. The one remaining gunner on the deck of the sub was thrown end over end into the inlet.

Debris flew through the air like shrapnel. Rivets popped. Maps, flashlights and anything not tied down was thrown into the narrow shaft. Lights flickered. As they did, the stunned captain felt the burst of cold water as it poured through the open hatchway. The sub kept rolling. Sparks showered out of shattered lamps. The fuses blew. The sub was plunged into darkness-a tomb filled with the screams of the men and the sound of water roaring into it from two open hatches.

The shrimp boat groaned as it rode up the side of the tower, slashing it down sideways into the inlet waters and slamming it into the Jekyll dock. Timbers cracked and snapped as the two boats crashed into it. Keegan was thrown against the bulkhead. Lines snapped and twanged past his ear. The shrimp boat rose high out of the water, riding up over the sub then slamming down on the shattered pier. Its weight and the water rushing into the sub slammed the mortally wounded steel fish down to the bottom, into mud and silt.

Inside the submarine there was chaos. The crew floundered in darkness and panic, disoriented as the big fish rolled over and its tower ripped into the muddy bottom. Throughout the slender boat, men tried in vain to find and close watertight doors but they foundered in the dark or were washed away by the torrents of water gushing the length of the U-boat. In the command center, the captain thrashed frantically, hanging on to a table leg. But as the underwater vessel rolled, he lost his grip and he too was washed like a leaf down through the bowels of the sub, bouncing off metal objects, carrying other crew members with him as he was washed toward the stern of the doomed vessel. The cries of the crew were drowned out one after another until there was only the groan of the sea monster as it settled into the muck thirty feet below the surface.

Keegan staggered to his feet and stumbled back to the main cabin of the shrimp boat. Tully Moyes was draped over the wheel, his arms still wrapped in the wheel, his feet turned on their ankles. He groaned and fell backward on the deck of the shattered cabin.

Keegan rushed to him, saw the bullet hole in Moyes's shoulder and a gash over his eye but the shrimper waved him off.

"Go do your business, Keegan," he said. "I ain't dead yet."

He took the Webley from Moyes's belt and stuck it in his own. Carrying shotgun and .45, he ran to the front of the shrimp boat and jumped down onto the wet wreckage of the dock. He scrambled across the battered pier to the muddy ground. He saw movement to his left, fell against a tree, strained his eyes, then the sky lit up and he saw the gunnery mate scrambling ashore through the marsh grass.

The full fury of the storm was upon them. The German crawled onto hard earth and started running.

"Hold it," Keegan screamed but his warning was lost in the wind. He started running parallel to the German, dodging trees. Both were running toward the tall clubhouse spire.

Inside the dining room there was chaos. Willoughby, his eyes bulging with fear and panic, stared through the windows of the dining room. In the gaudy flashes of lightning, he first saw the sub, then the glaring white spotlight, then heard the wrenching collision.

"My God," he cried. "The sub's been rammed!"

"Shut up!" 27 ordered as the dining room guests started to surge forward. He turned on them, leveled the gun at Grant Peabody and snarled, "Everyone stand where you are or I'll kill Peabody. Now."

The surge stopped for an instant, then Peabody yelled, "You can't kill us all."

Allenbee leveled the machine pistol at Peabody.

"No, but if anyone else moves an inch, you'll be the first to die."

He backed to the window and looked outside. Through the storm he saw someone running toward the dining room. Behind him was the prow of the shrimp boat, tilted crazily against the dock. No sign of the sub.

Keegan chased the German sailor through the storm but the gunner got to the clubhouse first, scrambling onto the porch and rushing through one of the French doors. Keegan was twenty feet behind him as the sailor burst into the dining room.

Twenty-seven whirled as the sailor staggered through the door and shot him twice in the chest. It was only after the body jackknifed to the floor that the one-time actor realized what he'd done. The room erupted with screams of alarm. Twenty-seven twisted and looked through the open door. For a second, in an explosion of lightning, he saw Keegan huddled in the rain, saw him raise his arm, heard the pistol shot. It skimmed 27's cheek, took off his earlobe and as he spun out of the doorway he fired several shots at the sodden figure. But Keegan had already vanished in the darkness.

Willoughby, totally confused, stared down at the dead U-boat crew man.

"My God! You killed one of our own."

"You damn fool, the sub's finished."

"No," the Englishman cried out. "No, it can't be." He started toward the door which was still open and banging in the wind. With an animal growl, Allenbee fired a burst into Willoughby. The bullets ripped into the older man's chest and knocked him backward across a table in a shower of dishes, glasses and food. He sprawled there, arms outstretched, his legs dangling off the floor.

The dining room went crazy. Screaming guests suddenly panicked and rushed toward the rear doors. Twenty-seven realized he had lost control of the situation. His nemesis was out there somewhere and he was a perfect target in the brightly lit room. He grabbed a chair, threw it through a window and leaped out behind it.

A moment later a sodden Keegan rushed into the dining room. The chaotic mob turned instantly toward him.

He held up a hand. "My name's Keegan, I'm with the U.S. Intelligence Service. Please . . . everybody stay in this room. If you go outside you'll confuse things even more. If he comes back instead of me, kill the son of a bitch. There's a wounded man in the shrimp boat down at the pier. He needs help."

He stared down at Lady Penelope Traynor. "And keep your eye on her highness there."

He jumped through the shattered window after 27.

The machine pistol chattered and a string of bullets ripped the mud behind Keegan as he landed and rolled behind a tree. Another burst tore into the tree. Keegan rolled over on the ground, fired several shots into the rainy darkness, then jumped to his feet, ran back to the side of the clubhouse and crouched in the darkness, listening. He heard only the rumble of thunder, the splatter of rain. He worked his way to the corner of the building and waited for lightning to brighten the compound.

Twenty-seven moved backward through the trees like a cornered fox. He too waited for nature to illuminate their battleground.

A jagged streak in the sky. A dark form dodging from one tree to another. He fired another burst of the pistol, was met immediately by several shots in return. He backed into the wall of a building. Startled, he whirled with a cry. Another shot smacked the wall an inch from his head. He crouched and ran along the side of the building, realized it was the indoor tennis court, found the door. It was locked. He smashed the window with his elbow, reached in, unlocked the door and jumped inside.

Fifty feet away, Keegan heard the window break and hurried toward the sound. He saw the door, its window shattered, in the long, low building and raced up to it, flattening himself against the wall. Inching his way to the opening and facing the wall, he stretched his arm around the jamb and fired two shots blindly into the building. They were answered instantly with a burst from 27's machine pistol. Bullets chewed up the doorjamb. He was obviously across the indoor court somewhere. Keegan ducked low and dashed into the darkened court. Another burst of gunfire followed him. He felt the hot searing pain as a bullet ripped through his shoulder. But he scampered across the floor and lurked in the darkness next to a scorekeeper's table, listening. He touched his shoulder and flinched. The bullet had pierced the fleshy part just under the shoulder blade and exited.

He squinted in the darkness. The big room looked ominous, with its tennis net stretched from one side to the other and dark corners offering refuge to his enemy.

Where was he? Keegan wondered.

In an opposite corner, 27 lurked and waited in darkness, just as determined to get rid of Keegan. He had to quell his anger to keep it from clouding his judgment. He had come too far, waited too many years, to fail completely. His mind formulated a new plan. The operation was not a total loss. First he had to kill the intruder. Ja, he would eliminate his nemesis and then return to the clubhouse. There he would kill Yankee millionaires until his ammunition was gone, then swim across to the marsh and make it to the mainland. He still had funds in New York. With luck, he could make it back to Germany.

But first things first. Where was the American?

A hundred feet away, Keegan checked his resources. Too much rain and thunder to hear his enemy breathing.

Keegan slowly reached down to the bucket, took a tennis ball, threw it across the room into a dark corner. Twenty-seven spun immediately and fired in its direction. Bullets ripped into the wall. Then suddenly, the gun stopped firing. There was the unmistakable sound of metal on metal as the firing pin snapped on the empty chamber. Enraged, 27 threw the empty pistol across the room and as he did, Keegan grabbed the bucket of tennis balls and threw them at the Nazi. They bounced around him, bounded underfoot, bounced off the walls and disoriented the German agent. Twenty-seven saw Keegan rise from behind the table and lurched toward him but he stepped on a tennis ball and then another. His legs pedaled frantically under him as he fought to keep from falling. Keegan leaped from the darkness, buried a shoulder into 27's stomach and they vaulted through the window, tumbled in a shower of glass and wood into the mud outside.

Rage replaced common sense, for 27 was insane with frustration and anger. Mein Gott! he thought. Is all our planning going to end on this ridiculous spit of land?

Never!

If nothing else he would kill this Yankee bastard.

Twenty-seven grabbed at his calf, pulled the SS dagger from its sheath. He struggled to his knees and as Keegan jumped toward him, 27 slashed out with the knife. Its blade buried in Keegan's cheek and sliced upward through his eye socket, biting into his skull. Pain exploded in Keegan's face and he almost blacked out. But he was too close, he'd come too far. He wouldn't, couldn't fail. The pain was nothing compared to Jenny's pain, to the pain of all of 27's victims. Keegan grabbed 27's wrist, twisted it up and away from him, heard the bone snap and saw the dagger flip away. Still hanging on, he smashed 27 in the face with his fist, then hit him again and again, knocking the German backward until 27 pulled free. The Nazi staggered out of his reach. In the flashing lightning, he saw Keegan glaring at him with his good eye, his face twisted in hatred and rage.

Twenty-seven darted sideways and slashed his foot out, burying it in Keegan's stomach. Keegan's breath burst from his lips and he was slammed back against the wall of the tennis court. He fell to his knees as 27 closed in on him. Bleary-eyed, he saw the gleaming blade of the Nazi dagger lying in the mud, its handle an inch from his hand. He snatched it up and as 27 grabbed Keegan's shoulder, the American swung his arm blindly. The blade glittered in a flash of lightning. Keegan felt it strike, rip through flesh as he completed the swing and fell back to his knees.

Siebenundzwanzig shrieked in pain. He swayed backward, clutching his throat, hit a tree and collapsed at its base. Keegan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it against his throbbing eye. He struggled to his feet and looked down at Siebenundzwanzig.

Pain racked 27's body; hot fire coursing down from his throat, down to his fingers and toes. Everything was going numb. In the jagged bursts of light, he saw his enemy face-to-face for the first time. He tried to cry out but his vocal cords were ruined. He couldn't breathe. The salt of his blood filled his mouth. He was numb all over.

His mouth bobbed silently as he made one last attempt to verbalize his rage and hate. Nothing.

The Nazi arched his back against the tree, gasping for breath, his anguished wheeze suffocated by his own blood. His windpipe and jugular had been severed by the slashing dagger. His feet thrashed in the mud and then began to shake uncontrollably as he literally choked to death. He stiffened and cried out, a stifled, pitiful animal whimper. Then he fell sideways in the mud.

Keegan stared down at his dead enemy. Twenty-seven's mouth gaped open. Rain spattered on his glazed eyes. Blood seeped into the murky puddles around his face. Keegan staggered to his feet, leaned against the wall of the tennis court. For the first time in too many years, he was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

He made his way back toward the clubhouse, walked unsteadily into the dining room, a blood-soaked handkerchief pressed against his eye, his shoulder a soggy mess, the dagger still clenched in his hand.

"Get the doctor," someone said.

Keegan did not slow down. He brushed through the confused crowd in the dining room and walked to Lady Penelope Traynor's table. She stared at him with fear. He raised the hand with the dagger and slashed it down. The dagger's point bit into the table and it stuck there. A hint of blood glistened on its wet blade. Lady Traynor stared bleakly at the weapon, at the swastika and the SS runes on the handle, the symbols of her vanished power.

"Sorry, Lady Penelope," Keegan rasped, "the wedding's off."

EPILOGUE.

Austria: May 7, 1945 The American jeep drove rapidly up the dirt road toward the burned-out ruin of a castle, spewing dust out behind it. An American wearing a worn leather jacket with the gold leaves of a major pinned to the shoulders and an army officer's hat cocked on the back of his head sat beside the driver. He wore no other uniform. His pants were brown corduroy and his shirt was dark blue wool. A black patch covered his right eye and a thin scar etched from under it down across his cheek.

In the backseat, a dark-haired, bearded man leaned back with his arms stretched out on the rear of the seat. He was wearing dark work pants, a black turtleneck sweater and a tweed cap. His rifle lay casually across his knees.

Beside the road were forlorn remnants of the Third Reich. Burned-out German tanks, staff cars, a motorcycle or two lay abandoned in ditches along the narrow roadway. Weary but smiling GI's, sitting along the shoulders, tossed half-hearted salutes at the major with the patch over his eye as the jeep passed.

The radio was tuned to Armed Forces Radio. A GI disk jockey was babbling with excitement and had been for an hour. His voice was beginning to crack from the strain.

"That's right, all you GI Joes out there, it's all over! The war in Europe is over. At two-forty-one A.M., Germany unconditionally surrendered. Remember this day, guys, it's Liberation Day! May seventh, 1945, the day we won the war . . ."

The major leaned forward and snapped off the radio.