"And the American? What was his name?"
"Belasko. I have nothing to connect him with the government, except for his association with the youth."
"A possible coincidence?"
"Perhaps."
"What was his offer to Makarios?"
"They were supposed to work the details out tonight. I understand that over two years' time he planned on spending thirty million."
"Dollars?"
"So he told Makarios."
It was approximately twice the figure quoted to Silvestri in New York. Moheden felt his pulse accelerate, swiftly reminding himself that the man was a probable Judas.
"Opinions?"
"None." He could feel Sarkis scowling down the long-distance line. "I haven't spoken with the man. Makarios smells money and believes that he may be sincere. As for the young man…"
"Ah, yes."
"If I could only get the truth from him…"
"You have an hour. Will he crack?"
"It's possible. Who knows?"
"Be ready. If you break him and he gives up the American, they must be made to disappear. If you convince yourself of this Belasko's bona fides, Spyros may proceed… but cautiously."
"There is another matter," Sarkis said.
"Indeed?"
"Belasko says his syndicate — whoever they may be — demand an interview with the suppliers prior to closing any deal."
"Demand?"
"It stands as a condition of the deal."
Moheden hesitated briefly, then made up his mind with customary swiftness. "Satisfy yourself that this Belasko's business is legitimate," he ordered. "If the man is still alive tomorrow, call me back. Call back, in any case, and let me know what happened. Not tonight. I need to think this through and make some calls myself."
"And if he lives tomorrow?" Sarkis pressed.
"A meeting may be possible. The sum of thirty million dollars is deserving of some minimal respect."
"The youth?"
"Find out what else he knows, if anything. When you are finished with him, make him disappear."
"It shall be done."
"Rashid?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful."
"Yes."
Moheden set the cordless phone on the flagstones beside his lounge chair. In his mind he pictured the interrogation room where Sarkis would be questioning the young man. It was unfortunate, but such techniques were sometimes necessary. Fortunately Sarkis had a background in the work, and he would learn the captive's secrets one way or another, if the youth survived that long. Exuberance occasionally ruined an interrogation, ending with the subject dead or comatose before the crucial answers were elicited. Moheden thought that Sarkis could be trusted with the job, as long as he kept track of factors such as shock and loss of blood.
The Lebanese concentrated on the problem of Belasko and his thirty million dollars. Did the cash exist? Was his involvement with the young man a careless error in selection of a guide, or could there be a more sinister interpretation?
For the moment he'd leave the problem to his representative in Nicosia. Thus, whatever happened could be blamed on Sarkis, or — if things went well — Moheden could preempt the credit for himself. He instantly dismissed the thought of warning Bakhtiar, and saw no need of troubling Ahmad Halaby with the sketchy news.
This time tomorrow they would all be safe from harm, or on their way to being thirty-million-dollars richer. Either way, Bashir Moheden stood to be the hero of the hour, praised for his decisive and insightful handling of a touchy situation.
Smiling in the sunset, he decided there was no way he could lose.
* * *
Spyros Makarios couldn't stand still. He'd been pacing rings around his office, snapping at employees for the past two hours, and his mood grew worse each time he checked his wristwatch. Forty minutes left until his scheduled meeting with Belasko, and he had no final word from Sarkis yet, no way of knowing if he was supposed to greet the tall American with smiles or kill him in his tracks.
The way Makarios felt now, one option seemed no better than the other.
He'd been encouraged by their luncheon meeting, though a lifetime of suspicion had prevailed. A call to Sarkis had initiated certain inquiries, but dredging information from the vastness of America took time, and they might not retrieve the details of Belasko's background for a period of days, if ever. Spyros was prepared to move ahead with caution, lured by the prospect of his own commission on a thirty-million-dollar sale, but that had been before his second call from Sarkis.
Who was this Nikos Kiprianou, that he tried to play with men who had devoted lifetimes to their craft? Did he suspect his clumsy questions would elude them? Did he take Makarios and Sarkis for a pair of fools?
It was insulting, but Makarios wasn't concerned about his pride just now. An insult called for punishment in kind, depending on its circumstances and severity. A roughing-up, perhaps — or worse, if honor was at stake. If only insults were involved, they could have settled it like men.
Nikos, however, had been guilty of a greater indiscretion. Spyros shuddered at the thought of Pappas sitting at the bar with Nikos Kiprianou, smiling, sipping ouzo as they talked. How long had they been friendly? What had Constantine let slip, in this or that unguarded moment? How much of their small talk had been sold to the Americans in hopes of building up a case for trial?
The youth was an informant, that much was apparent, and as such his fate was sealed. The problem of Belasko lingered unresolved, and soon — in less than half an hour now — Makarios would have to sit across a table from the tall American, all smiles, as if his stomach wasn't twisted into knots. Belasko would expect an answer, and Makarios wasn't convinced that he could speak, much less talk business in his normal, measured tones.
He had suggested a postponement, but Sarkis flatly rejected the notion. Delays would only put Belasko off — alerting him if he was guilty, sparking anger and suspicion otherwise — and they couldn't afford the risk in either case. The meeting must proceed on schedule, Spyros buying time while Sarkis plumbed for answers in the ruin of Nikos Kiprianou.
So little time! Makarios stopped pacing long enough to pour himself a glass of ouzo, draining it in one long swallow. In the past he had occasionally turned to liquor as a sedative, but this time Spyros thought that he could drain the bottle where he stood and still find no relief. He tried deep-breathing exercises, thrust his hands inside his pockets to control their trembling. Nothing seemed to work.
At last, in desperation, he sat down behind his desk and forced himself to focus on the wall directly opposite. The paneling was cedar, and it gave a fresh outdoors aroma to the office. He concentrated on the smell, eyes closing, picturing himself in the woods outside Kirinia when he was just a child, before the British soldiers threw his father into jail and later shot him as a rebel.
They had been simple days, before responsibility and hunger taught him that the world wasn't so simple after all. The intervening years had taught him to survive in any circumstances, cope with any danger that arose. It was ridiculous for him to pace the floor and tremble at the thought of meeting with a strange American. He owned the restaurant where they would meet, and paid the salary of every person whom Belasko would encounter after passing through the doors. A signal from Makarios would summon up a dozen men to deal with the American.
His eyes snapped open as the telephone began to ring. He snared the receiver and was gratified to find his hand rock-steady, firm.
"Hello?"
He recognized the voice without an introduction, nodding to himself as he received his orders, halting the reflexive motion when he realized the caller couldn't see him.
"Yes," he said at length. "I understand."
And so the choice was made. Makarios was pleased that it hadn't been his decision. All he had to do was carry out his orders, letting Sarkis take the heat for any errors of judgment. Life and death were truly simple matters, once the problem of decision making was
resolved.
He checked his watch again. Ten minutes. Spyros rose and crossed the room to pour himself another brimming glass of ouzo, drank it down and felt the liquid fire begin to spread. It wouldn't hurt if he was slightly drunk this evening. It might even help him see his duty through.
He wondered if Belasko would be drinking.
Anything at all to blunt the pain.
Chapter Ten
The concierge at Bolan's hotel arranged for the rental car, and a dark blue compact was waiting outside when the warrior emerged from the lobby at seven o'clock. He wore a lightweight suit, the jacket a concession to his side arm, and a smallish airline flight bag swung from one of Bolan's hands. Inside, the silencer, spare magazines, and other backup gear were wrapped inside the jet-black nightsuit, just in case.
He slid behind the steering wheel and stowed the flight bag underneath the driver's seat, where it would be invisible to passersby while he was parked. The Executioner had made a point of memorizing landmarks on their trip to meet Makarios that afternoon, but he was having dinner with the dealer at a different restaurant, and so had bought a street map from the gift shop in the hotel's lobby. Bolan found the small red X that signified his lodgings, then spent five more minutes tracking down the street his host had named. The map was short on detail, and discovery of alternate escape routes would be best accomplished at the scene.
Bolan had allowed himself an hour, and he wasted half of that in midtown traffic, nearly being sideswiped twice by drivers who appeared to be auditioning for demolition derbies. Watching out for further hazards, the warrior noted that the lion's share of vehicles around him had been marked by dents and scrapes, the wounds deliberately untended, like a haughty swordsman's duelling scar. He wished the rental luck and forged ahead, arriving at his destination twenty minutes early.
He used the extra time to scout the neighborhood, alert for telltale signs of ambush, charting alternate approaches and retreats. The options were distinctly limited, but he felt better after driving twice around the block, examining a narrow alley set behind the nightclub. Bolan followed local custom, parking on the street with two wheels on the skimpy sidewalk, making sure to lock the vehicle. The strains of sultry Eastern rhythms ventured out to greet him as he drifted toward the entrance of the club.
Keeping faith with the establishment's motif, the hulking doorman had been dressed in imitation of a harem guard, complete with turban and an open satin vest, exposing well-developed muscles. Bolan wondered if the ornate dagger tucked inside his sash was merely there for show.
He was expected, and the doorman shook his head when Bolan palmed a roll of bills and tried to pay the cover charge. Inside, he spent a moment waiting for his pupils to accommodate the dark and smoky atmosphere. The music, louder now, accompanied a pair of dancers who were stripping down to bare essentials on a long, low stage. Though both, presumably, were going through the same routine, one shed her veils and filmy harem garments with a certain style, the other grinding through her act mechanically, disinterested in her surroundings. From the rapt attention of the all-male audience, it didn't seem to matter either way.
He scanned the room and saw Makarios approaching through the haze, all smiles. They shook hands like a pair of long-lost friends, and Bolan trailed his host in the direction of an elevated booth to one side of the stage. A sultry waitress took their order — wine for Bolan, ouzo for Makarios — and Bolan watched her hips as she retreated toward the bar.
"You like?"
"What's not to like?"
"Perhaps, if we do business, I'll give her to you."
Bolan smiled. "I don't believe she'd fit inside my luggage."
When the drinks arrived, Makarios threw back a brimming glass of ouzo, quickly filling it again. He leaned in closer, to be heard above the music.
"How you like my club?"
"It's different."
"For the Turks," Makarios explained. "They like to feel at home, as if they all had harems back in Ankara, instead of ugly wives and ten or fifteen children. See, they like the blondes and redheads best. Where did they ever see a blonde at home? Such children."
Bolan watched his host put down another shot of liquor, wondering if Spyros always drank that way at night, or if he had a special need for artificial courage. Either way he knew enough to keep his guard up, using the distraction on the stage as an excuse to scan the room for lurking enemies.
A signal from Makarios had brought the waitress back with menus.
"First we eat, then talk some business. Yes?"
He slipped the single button on his jacket open, granting quicker access to the gun beneath his arm.
"That's why I'm here."
* * *
Constantine Pappas released the safety on his Turkish Kirikkale pistol and returned the automatic to its pancake holster. Extra magazines weighed heavy in the pockets of his suit coat, and a second gun — an ancient.38 revolver with the finish worn away — was tucked inside his belt, against his spine.
The other members of the firing squad were also armed with pistols, and a small Beretta submachine gun had been hidden behind the bar in case their hasty plan fell through. Pappas wasn't impressed with the American, for all his size and fierce demeanor, but Makarios insisted on a backup plan. Insurance, he had called it.
Death insurance.
Constantine hadn't been briefed about the stranger's crimes, and he wasn't concerned with motivation. An employer judged his workmen on the basis of results. This seemed an easy job, and yet…
The tall American was armed — Pappas knew that much — and Makarios had vetoed a suggestion that their target should be forced to check his weapon at the door. It would have been "unfriendly," Spyros said, arousing dark suspicions, possibly initiating violence if the man refused. The plan required their target, this Belasko, to be seated in the special booth when Spyros left the table to relieve his bladder. Constantine and others would approach the table then and open fire, before Belasko recognized his peril.
Spyros was convinced that it would work. He had derived the notion from a gangster movie filmed in the United States and dubbed in Greek. The movie followed Lucky Luciano's Prohibition-era war against a rival mafioso known as Joe the Boss, resolved when they sat down for dinner in a stylish restaurant and Luciano went to use the toilet. It was foolproof on the screen. Pappas saw no reason why it should not work tonight.
Despite his nervousness, Makarios had thought of everything. The booth's location would prevent stray rounds from wounding any of their customers, providing Constantine and his associates were swift and sure enough with their initial shots. Police wouldn't arrive in time to halt removal of the corpse, assuming they were called at all, and drunken Turks made most reluctant witnesses.
In three years' time, Pappas had killed five men on orders from Makarios; the tall American would be his sixth. His normal duties ran toward supervising shipments of narcotics and collecting debts from wayward gamblers. On occasion he discouraged competition with a beating or a well-placed firebomb, leaning on the independents who were rash enough to trespass on the territory ruled by Spyros and his partners.
When he killed, Pappas had always favored privacy — a darkened alley or an empty parking lot, perhaps the target's home — and this would be his first attempt at murder with a paying audience. The shooters would wear stocking masks, erasing any threat from witnesses, but it was still a change of pace. Pappas had swallowed several pills to help himself unwind, and he could feel them kicking in as he stood waiting in an alcove set behind the stage.
From where he stood, the other gunners were visible. Two waited in the kitchen, peering through a porthole in the door, and one was loitering outside the men's room. When Makarios was clear they would converge, with masks in place and weapons drawn, and do their job before Belasko — or the other customers — had time to realize that anything was happening. A well-aimed round of shots and they would haul Belasko's body out the back to where a stolen car stood waitin
g in the alley. They would strip his corpse and dump it on the highway south of town for the police to puzzle over at their leisure.
It was simple.
Just like in the movies.
* * *
"The sum you mentioned, I believe, was thirty million dollars?"
"Over two years' time," the Executioner replied. "If that works out, there might be larger orders down the road."
Makarios had cleaned his plate, and he was looking somewhat groggy, the result of too much food and ouzo. Still, there was a glint in his eyes. Raw greed, perhaps… or was it something else?
"Your sponsors must be wealthy men," he said, speech slurring just a fraction from the drink.
"They plan to make a profit on the deal."
"Of course. We aren't Communists." He chuckled more than necessary at his own small joke, the laughter interrupted as a strained expression surfaced on his face. "I drink too fast," he said. "My bladder tells me so. You will excuse me for a moment?"
"Sure."
He watched the dealer waddle off in the direction of the rest room, turning his attention to the girls onstage. An Arab and another blonde, but Bolan couldn't peg her nationality. Perhaps Italian, from the north, where blondes weren't uncommon. The drunken audience showed no interest in her ethnic background, concentrating on the flesh she was revealing to their gaze, a little at a time.
He checked his wristwatch, squinting in the gloom. It was already half-past nine, and so far they had only talked around the deal, Makarios avoiding any mention of his earlier request to meet the men behind the traffic. Balkan temperament was part of it, a need to take things slowly that was rivaled only in the Latin nations, but he wondered if the dealer might be stalling with a more deliberate goal in mind.
Perhaps…
A lanky gunman was attempting to adjust his stocking mask as he emerged from hiding near the stage. He held the automatic pistol low against his leg, to screen it from the dancers and the audience as long as possible. On Bolan's left, another figure drifted into view from the direction of the rest room, where Makarios had disappeared. Two more were just emerging from the kitchen, jostling a waiter in their eagerness to get it done.
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