He had flown into Barcelona less than twenty-four hours ago and found a car left for him as expected, in section 34, row 5, of the airport parking lot.
In its trunk was a large suitcase packed with all the weapons that airport security made it impossible for him to fly in with himself. Included were a disassembled sharpshooter’s rifle with scope sights, two automatic pistols with holsters and silencers, and an ankle holster with a snub-nosed police special. Additionally, there were a few boxes of ammunition, a hunting knife in a belt sheath, and a wire gar-rote. Some of the ammunition had explosive tips.
Half-a-dozen grenades were in form-fitting holders. Three were fragmentation and three were tear gas. There also was a gas mask.
The tools of his trade.
Yesterday afternoon and evening had been spent settling in and familiarizing himself with the area and pertinent locations. He had one of the Company’s more comfortable safe apartments just off Catalonia Square. It was the nerve center from which Barcelona’s largest streets branched out, and the dividing line between the old city and the new.
Abu Homaidi and his people occupied a collection of rooms on the two top floors of a narrow, five-story building less than half a mile away. A detailed scale layout of the place had been left for Vittorio in his weapons suitcase, with Homaidi’s own room outlined in red. There too was an outline of some of the group’s living habits: the approximate times of their comings and goings, the cafes and restaurants they favored, the places where they did their marketing.
The rest would be up to him.
As Cortlandt had indicated, Homaidi was never alone. Not even in bed, where the woman he slept with doubled as a security guard. As did the other women in the group. They were all Palestinians, born into exile and the intifada. Wanton terror, the deaths of others, was their reason for living. They had made a significant discovery. What the world respected most was killing. Violent death got people’s and nations’ attention faster, and held on to it longer, than anything else known to man. All the words, reason, logic on earth were nowhere near as persuasive as a single bloody corpse.
But this was something Vittorio Battaglia, now Peter Walters, had discovered for himself a long time ago. He, too, considered himself a soldier in an unending, undeclared war. Except that he recognized certain necessary restrictions. Certainly those applying to unarmed noncombatants. Abu Homaidi and his people recognized nothing but their own purpose.
It was a cool night, but Peter was wearing the Kevlar vest under his jacket in deference to Peggy, and he was uncomfortably aware of his own body heat. I’ m wearing it for her, he thought, and this amused him. Was the chance that the armor might save his life really more important to Peggy than it was to him? Or did he just consider himself invulnerable?
Neither, he decided, and settled for the kind of long-term fatalism taken on by most of those in the dangerous professions as their personal security blankets. It’ll happen when it’ll happen.
Talk about dumb.
Peter trailed the extended group along The Ramblas in the direction of Barcelona’s port, barely keeping Homaidi in view through the teeming sidewalks.
Near the harbor itself, he saw them stop at an outdoor cafe, put together a few tables, and draw some chairs around them. A moment later he passed them by and kept walking for about another hundred yards.
Then he turned around, came back, and took a small table at an adjoining outdoor cafe where he could sit and watch them with little likelihood of being noticed.
He ordered a carafe of the local wine and paella and studied Abu Homaidi and those with him.
The bitter truth was, they might have been just another one of any number of similar groups of young people out for a Saturday night of fun. Talking and laughing, it was hard to imagine them with anything more threatening on their minds than the latest soccer scores and who would be in bed with whom later that night.
From where Peter sat, Homaidi himself seemed to appear a lot more attractive then he had earlier, with an easy laugh and manner that made him the focus of the group’s attention. The girl seated at his side couldn’t seem to keep her eyes and hands off him. Grudgingly, somewhat sadly, Vittorio thought she was lovely, a delicately put together blonde whose every move and gesture was touched with grace.
Sorry, girl. You just happened to pick the wrong guy this time.
Then he caught the flash of a plain gold band on her finger and blocked out whatever else he might have been thinking.
Peter Walters looked dimly off toward the water.
In the near distance, he could see the dramatically floodlighted masts and bows of Christopher Columbus’ SantaMaria, where the great man’s faithfully reproduced flagship was tied up as a kind of floating museum.
More than five hundred years. Imagine. That little wooden cockle shell and a crazy Italian.
Some men live and leave such marks.
And me?
I live and leave dead bodies.
Peter slowly shook his head, the motion that of an old man no longer able to comprehend the behavior of himself and the world about him.
Then two things happened at once.
Something hard was pressed against the back of his neck, and a woman’s voice whispered into his ear from over his right shoulder.
“What you feel is the muzzle of a gun,” the voice said in good but foreign-accented English. “It’s hidden in my purse and has a silencer attached. If you don’t do as I say, I’ll shoot you here and now and be gone before anyone notices you’re dead. If you want to live, you’ll put some money on the table for your bill, stand up, and walk slowly toward the harbor. I’ll be close behind you.”
She paused. “Which will it be?”
“I’ll live.”
“Then do it.”
Peter carefully put money on the table, rose, and began walking toward the harbor as instructed.
Passing Abu Homaidi’s group, he saw that no one there as much as glanced in his direction. If that meant they weren’t connected with this, there might yet be some hope. But not really expecting that, his brain sought other solutions.
“Turn into the alley on your left,” the woman’s voice said.
Peter did it and found himself in a dark, damp, cobble-stoned walk between rows of shuttered old buildings. The air stank of sewage.
“Stop here and put your hands on your head.”
He silently obeyed and felt cold metal against the back of his neck. The gun apparently was out of her purse.
Then she patted him down and felt his body armor and his hip- and shoulder-holstered handguns. She left the guns where they were.
“Who are you?” she asked and the metal was withdrawn from his neck as she took several steps backward.
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Why are you following and watching those people?”
“What people?”
“I’ll give you five seconds to answer. Otherwise, I shoot.”
He knew she meant it, and wondered how well the Kevlar would hold up at point-blank range. But of course she’d be putting it into his neck or head, not his body.
“I was hired to do a surveillance on them,” he said.
“On the whole group?”
He nodded stiffly.
“Who hired you?”
“I’m not sure. I think it’s an American company operating in Saudi Arabia. I was contacted and paid in cash by an agent. He said it was confidential and I was to make my reports only to him.”
“Name those you were hired to watch.”
Walters slowly recited six of the current aliases he had been given for Homaidi and five of his people. He was surprised he remembered them.
Then still stalling for time, he said, “I thought I was doing OK. How did you make me?”
“I was covering their backs and saw you get out of your car. You made your move a little too fast.”
“And how did you know to speak English to me back there?”
“Bec
ause that’s how you spoke to the waiter when you ordered. Though your clothes are Italian.”
“You’re good,” Peter said flatly.
“In this, if you’re not good, you’re dead.”
“You mean like me?”
She was silent and he could almost feel her beginning to work up to it now.
“I guess you didn’t believe a word I said, did you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then maybe I can do a little better for us both with the truth. If you’ll give me a few minutes.”
Again she was silent and Peter braced himself for the impact of the bullet. He knew she was that close to it.
“All right,” she finally said.
He felt his legs go weak. “Can I turn around?”
“Why?”
“It’s different when you’re looking at someone.”
“Go ahead. But slowly.”
Hands still on his head, he turned.
She looked no more than nineteen. But he guessed that was how they all looked when they were young and you were near forty. This one had dark hair and the kind of steady, deep-set eyes that seemed to live for a contest. She wore jeans and a sweater and carried an oversize shoulder bag that left both hands free for the automatic and its silencer that she kept aimed, stiff-armed straight between his eyes.
And the only thing on her mind is killing me.
“Are you Palestinian?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You speak English very well.”
“It’s important to know the language of your enemy.”
“America isn’t your enemy.”
She tossed her head impatiently. “I’m waiting for your truth. Not more lies and propaganda.”
“Sure,” he said, and saw little hope for him in her eyes, which had already bought, sold, and closed him out. “The truth is, I’m here to kill Abu Homaidi.”
In the dark translucence of the alley, her face almost gave off a light.
“For the CIA, I suppose?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course. You’re the third they’ve sent to try.”
“And I won’t be the last. They won’t stop until Homaidi’s the one who’s finally dead. And we both know that’s got to be sooner rather than later, don’t we?”
She just stared at him through the dark.
“Unless I stop it,” Vittorio said. “And right now I’m the only one alive who can do that.”
She still stared at him, eyes almost lost in their own shadows. “You?”
Translated, it meant, A dead man ?
“Yes. Me.”
“How?”
“By sending a coded message saying Homaidi’s dead in the sea with two bullets in his eyes.”
She stood unmoving and silent.
“Once he’s officially dead.” said Peter, “who’s going to be trying to kill him?”
“You’d really do that?”
Vittorio flexed his arms against the top of his head to keep them from going numb. “If it’ll keep me alive.”
“Yes, but—”
She cut herself off. The faint sound of voices and laughter drifted into the alley from The Ramblas.
“But what do I think happens to me,” he finished for her, “after I do my little act and Homaidi doesn’t need me anymore?”
She nodded.
“I’ll take my chances,” he said. “They’re a lot better than having you finish me right now. Besides, I couldn’t just tell my people Homaidi’s dead, then disappear. They’d get suspicious. So I’d have to be kept around for a while to contact them.”
“It’s too crazy.”
But she said it without conviction.
“At least take me to Homaidi and let him decide. There’s always time for the other if he doesn’t like it.”
The automatic was still steady in her hands and aimed between his eyes. Looking at the gun was like looking over the edge of a high building and feeling the fall suck at his stomach. Still, for one instant, he could sense something in her eyes waver.
That was when he went for it, hands reaching, feet leaving the ground in a flat-out dive.
He heard the soft sounds of two silenced shots and felt something burn across the top of his head.
Then he had his hands on the gun barrel as his body took her down. It was her back that hit the cobblestones. Peter was on top. He felt only the yielding of her flesh beneath him.
He had the gun.
He also seemed to have gone blind.
Trying to understand what had happened, he found blood leaking into his mouth and licked it. It poured from his scalp. It ran into the wells of his eyes, down his face, and dropped from his chin. He felt her tugging at the automatic as she tried to yank it away. Swinging blindly with an open hand, he hit only air.
He swung again, this time with his fist, and caught her.
She went loose from him and he heard her cry out. It was in Arabic, a loud, keening wail of pain.
Then everything suddenly stopped between them and he felt her break away, and he heard her feet on the cobblestone.
If she reaches Homaidi and the others, I’m dead.
He brushed an arm across his eyes and blinked through a fall of red rain. He did it once more and glimpsed her in silhouette… a poor stick figure, all moving disjointed parts, stumbling toward escape. Hers, not his.
Lying stretched out, prone position, elbows braced on the wet stones, he again blinked his eyes clear and got her lined up with the automatic. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Until he faltered and hung there, all grace deserting him.
He had never done a woman.
Good for you, asshole. Then widow your wife, orphan your son, and let Homaidi murder another three hundred.
He squeezed off a cluster of three quick shots, heard their deceptively innocent sounds, and saw the stick figure break apart and fall.
The girl was dead when he got to her.
Not looking at her face, he picked her up and carried her deeper into the alley. She weighed nothing. She was already air.
Peter Walters sat beside her. He kept his mind empty. He just watched himself sit there with the girl.
He felt his head. It burned like hell, but it was just a scalp wound and the bleeding had stopped. He was a good clotter. A doctor, patching him up for perhaps the fifth or sixth time, had once called him the best damn clotter he’d ever seen.
Battaglia the Clotter.
So you took your talent and celebrity where you found it.
He spit into a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his face as well as he could. He finger-combed his hair and cleaned off his hands. There was a bad taste in his mouth and he brought it out with some phlegm. The rest he had to take with him as it was.
Then he looked at the girl.
Her eyes were still open. They stared past him, looking all the way to Palestine, where she had never really lived because it had been Israel since long before she was born.
Peter closed her eyes.
One more for Abu Homaidi.
He pushed himself up and started back to his car.
23
IT WAS EARLY morning and three boys and two dogs were playing Indians in a patch of woods near Greenwich, Connecticut.
The boys moved stealthily through the brush, shot arrows into the air, and sent the dogs to retrieve them.
Until at one point, sniffing, scratching and digging, the dogs came upon a lot more than just arrows.
Because such things always took time to filter through properly authorized channels, it wasn’t until much later in the day that FBI Director Brian Wayne strode briskly into the attorney general’s office and made sure he closed the door behind him.
“Some kids just dug up three of my missing agents,” he told Henry Durning.
Working in rumpled shirtsleeves, the attorney general looked across his desk at Wayne’s face and didn’t especially care for what he saw there.
“Where?”
“Which agents?”
“The ones sent to question Mary Chan Yung.”
Durning put down his pen and sat there. Simply hearing her name seemed to react on him. “How were they killed?”
“Shot. All three.” Wayne shook his head. “Sonofabitch,” he said softly. “Once they’re missing, you know they have to have bought it. But it always hits harder when the damn bodies actually turn up. Then it’s for real. Now we fucking wait for the other two.”
Anger changed the director’s voice, made it shrill. His color had been near crimson since entering the office. Durning waited for him to gain control. I’m the one he’s really furious with.
“But even worse,” said Wayne, “it’s finally out. The thing’s gotten away from us. It’ll be the lead item on tonight’s news.‘Three FBI agents dug out of unmarked graves.’ And you can be sure they’ll give us the whole bit. Cameras at the open holes. Interviews with the kids who found them. Probably even close-ups of the fucking dogs who goddamn sniffed them out.”
Durning fought down an urge to smile. That would really push his friend too far. Old weights shifted inside him. They turned him properly solemn. He even managed a sigh.
“I’m sorry, Brian.”
The apology did its usual good work. It almost seemed what the FBI director had been waiting for, what he had come into the office to receive. Christ, the stroking people needed. But it did take the edge off Wayne’s anger and allow him to sit down.
“The damn locals just handled it so badly,” Wayne said. “The bodies had been stripped so they had to ID them through prints. Then the assholes turned it into a media feeding frenzy instead of letting us stonewall it.”
“The press have already been at you?”
“Like sharks. When was the last time they had three naked Fibbies with bullets in them to dance around? You can imagine the questions.‘What kind of case were they on?’‘Any others on it with them?’‘Any threats to the national security?’‘Any racist overtones?’‘Why has the Bureau been tar geted?’‘How much further is it expected to go?’ And ad infinitum.”
“How did you deal with them?”
“By the book. By saying it’s under investigation and classified.”
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