The man on the other side of the wall moved.
“Oh, old fellow,” Qazi said thickly. “Didn’t see you there. Can you tell me, does Colonel Arbuthnot live here?”
The man took three steps up to the chest-high wall. “Non comprendo, sig—” The words ceased abruptly as Qazi shot him. The silenced pistol made a little pop. Qazi stepped over to the wall and looked down. The guard lay with his legs buckled under him, his eyes open, a hole in his forehead.
“Quickly, let’s get him into the car.” The two men vaulted the wall, wrestled the body over, then dragged it to the car and placed it on the floor behind the front seats. As they did this, Qazi said, “Take the car back where it was and park it. Then come back and get the other guard. Wear this one’s cap. You know what to do. Then wait here by the gate. Don’t let anyone leave alive.”
Qazi vaulted the wall again and walked quickly up the driveway, alert for dogs. He heard nothing except the sounds of night insects and, very faintly, the engine of Sakol’s car as it proceeded along the street. And he could hear the background murmur of traffic from the boulevard a kilometer or so away.
As Qazi approached the house he scanned the windows. The porch light was out, but several windows on the left corner of the house had indirect lighting coming through the drapes. The rest of the first-floor windows were dark. Any of them would do.
He paused by the front door and gingerly tried the knob. It turned! But what did Pagliacci have to fear? The most powerful mafioso in southern Italy, he was perhaps the man who slept the soundest. Qazi turned the knob to its limit and pushed gently on the door, a massive wooden slab eight feet high. It gave and he slipped through.
He stood in the darkness listening. Nothing. The house was as quiet as a tomb. He flashed the pencil beam about. A large foyer. Furniture centuries old. With the light beam pointed at his feet, he moved lightly across the Persian rug to the hallway and turned left.
There were voices on the other side of the door. He strained to hear the words. Just murmurs. Qazi put the flashlight in his pocket, the pistol in his right hand, and pushed the door open.
Their heads jerked around. General Simonov’s shaved head reflected the light, and he glared. Pagliacci looked startled. They were seated in easy chairs, wine on the small table between them.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Sorry to burst in—”
“Who are you?” Pagliacci interrupted, his voice rising.
“It’s Qazi, fool,” Simonov growled.
“General, you must forgive our Italian friend. He knows me as an old man, quite infirm.” Qazi sat down across from them and leveled the pistol at Simonov.
“Now, gentlemen, we have much to discuss and not much time, so let’s get right to it. Which of you wants to be first?”
Simonov merely stared. Qazi watched the general’s hands, resting on the arms of the chair. As they tensed and his feet began to move back under him Qazi shot him in the left knee. Simonov’s motion was arrested almost before it began.
“Why are you here tonight, General?”
The Russian wrapped his hands around the damaged knee. His eyes remained on Qazi, expressionless. Blood oozed from between his fingers and began dripping on the carpet.
Qazi shot him again, in the right biceps. Simonov leaned back in the chair.
“You won’t succeed,” the Russian said at last. “El Hakim is mad. Surely you know that?”
Qazi nodded, his head moving an eighth of an inch. Blood was flowing freely from Simonov’s arm wound.
“The Israelis, the Americans, the British. They’ll launch preemptive nuclear strikes.”
“Only if they think they can succeed, General. Only then. They are careful men.”
“You cannot control—” And Simonov was hurling across the ten feet of space between them, driving on both legs in spite of the knee wound, his arms gathered. Qazi’s bullet hit him in the neck, and the general collapsed at his feet. Blood pumped onto the carpet. Apparently the bullet had damaged the spinal column, for the Russian did not move again.
Qazi swung the muzzle of the gun to Pagliacci. “Talk or die.”
The old man was trembling. Sweat glistened on his face and dripped from his veined nose. “Mother of God, holy mother …”
Qazi stood and walked toward the Italian.
“The Russian wanted to know about the helicopters. When and where. Don’t hurt me! I’m an old man. For the love of God.”
“And you told him.”
“Of course. He pays me much money every month. He has things he wishes to know about the Americans and we tell him. When ships come and go, what weapons are aboard, documents he wants, documents …” He was babbling.
“When did you tell him about the helicopters?”
“You will kill me anyway. I will tell …”
Qazi placed the muzzle of the pistol against the man’s forehead. “When did you tell him about the helicopters?”
“Tonight. Just tonight.”
“And the delivery at Palermo? Did you tell him about that?”
“Not yet. We hadn’t time to cover everything.”
“If you are lying, I will come back and kill you.”
“I’m telling the truth, on the blood of Christ. On my mother’s grave I swear it. I swear it on my wife’s grave….” His words became incoherent.
“And the villa? When did you tell him about the villa?”
“He did not know about that. I was going to get him to pay me more before I told him.” He was sobbing.
“Stand up.”
“Oh pleeease, you promised!”
Qazi pocketed the pistol and hoisted the old man to his feet. He spun him around and broke his neck with one hard wrench on his jaw.
Qazi grunted as his arms absorbed the now-dead weight. He dragged the don over to the general, taking care to avoid stepping in the bloodstains. He rolled the general over, then pulled Pagliacci across the wet blood smears. He rolled Pagliacci’s body over. Good, the blood was still wet. Now he placed the general’s corpse facedown, partially on Pagliacci, and gently squeezed the Russian’s neck. More blood oozed from the hole in the throat, directly onto Pagliacci’s shirt.
The pistol he wiped with his shirttail, then he pressed the Russian’s fingers against the gun, then Pagliacci’s. The nails of the Italian’s fat fingers still had dirt from the garden under them. He let the pistol fall beside the two bodies and kicked the spent shell casings to random positions around the room. How Pagliacci had gotten the gun from the general was, of course, the weak link, but that was unavoidable. Finally Qazi placed the general’s right hand behind the don’s neck.
He paused and scanned the scene. It would hold up to scrutiny by amateurs for at least twenty-four hours. The police would never see this room. Twenty-four hours would be sufficient.
He wiped the doorknobs on his way out, and remembered to retrieve the climbing rope from the foyer, where he had left it upon entering.
Sakol was standing in the deep shadows as Qazi walked down the driveway blotting his forehead with his sleeve. “Where’s the other guard?”
“In the car with the first one.”
“Let’s go.” After they were across the wall, Qazi said, “You dispose of the guards so that their bodies are not found for at least twenty-four hours.”
“No problem. You killed the Russian?”
“I hope I die as well when my time comes.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes after Qazi and Sakol had driven away, a figure emerged from the darkness of the park. Under one arm he carried a medium-sized camera bag. The man crossed the street and climbed carefully over the wall. In ten minutes he was back. He crossed the street again and disappeared into the park.
* * *
Toad Tarkington awoke at four A.M. with a raging headache. The pain throbbed above his eyeballs with every beat of his heart. Then he became aware of a weight on his chest and legs.
Judith was sound asleep, her arm across his chest, her right leg across his. He
inched up in the bed, trying not to disturb her. The bedspread and blanket were on the floor. Clothes were scattered where they had fallen or been tossed.
He closed his eyes and let the headache throb as he listened to her breathing. Finally he opened his eyes again. She was still there, warm and naked and sound asleep.
Why did you drink so much, fool?
He eased himself away from her and went to the bathroom. Her purse was on the vanity and he rooted in it. She had a tin of aspirin. He took three and washed them down with water from the tap.
He sat in the little chair by the writing table and watched her. She was so lovely.
He retrieved her dress from the floor and draped it carefully across the back of the chair. What would it be like to come home every evening to this woman, he asked himself. This intelligent, fiery, beautiful woman? It would never be dull. Never boring.
Whoa, Toad. You’ve never thought like that about a woman before. And this is just a one-night stand. One hell of a one-night stand, but that’s all it is. She’s a lonely woman in a strange city and you just happened to get the nod for stud service. She probably still thinks you’re a jerk. She’ll walk away in the morning without looking back.
He was holding the drapes apart and looking out the window when he heard her stir.
“What time is it?”
“About four-thirty.”
“Come back to bed, lover. There’s still some night left.”
She captured him in her arms. She smelled of pungent woman and sleep. Her skin was soft, yielding over hard muscle, warm and sleek. She drew him in as if she had waited for years for his tension and power and desire, as if she had searched and hungered all her life just for him.
When he next awoke the sunlight was leaking through the drapes. He sat up in bed and looked around. Judith was gone.
She had gathered her clothes and tiptoed out while he slept. Oh, he had done that very thing himself — how many times? He had slept in their beds and escaped just as the sun rose. He had fled from the soft, scented sheets and the photos on the dresser and the frilly curtains on the windows. He had stepped over the panties and bra lying on the floor and never glanced back.
He could see himself in the mirror over the dresser. He needed a shave. The bed still smelled of her. The room was as empty as his life.
17
Qazi was seated on the terrace of the villa drinking orange juice when Yasim joined him and placed several envelopes of black-and-white photographs on the table. Qazi examined them in the morning sunlight. He had had four hours sleep and felt sluggish. This close to an operation, it was difficult to get to sleep, so he had taken a pill, the effects of which had not yet worn off.
The photographs were of people near the helicopters. Qazi sorted them into piles: the shots of each person were stacked separately. When he finished he had nine stacks. “Nine people yesterday, eh, Yasim?”
“Yes, Colonel. And one helicopter flew for two and a half hours. Here are the photographs of the pilots and their passengers.” Yasim laid another group of pictures on the glass table.
Qazi carefully examined each picture. Yasim refilled his glass with orange juice. “There is a storm coming, Colonel.”
“When?” Qazi did not look up from the photos.
“Rising seas and winds this evening. Frontal passage at four A.M. local tomorrow.”
“Terrific. And Ali thinks nothing can go wrong.”
“Do we postpone?”
“We can’t. Not after last night.” He continued to study the pictures. “The same people who have been there for two weeks, on and off,” he said at last.
“No known agents,” Yasim agreed. “The pictures from the backup site will be ready in an hour.”
“And no one has been followed to or from the helicopters?”
“No one.”
“No tails that you have seen?”
“That is correct.” Yasim frowned. He knew as well as Qazi did how difficult it would be to detect a major tailing operation. “We have taken every precaution.”
“Ummm. When does the crate go aboard the ship?”
“The supply barge is tied alongside already. It should be aboard any time.”
“No problems at the quay this morning?”
“They took the crate just as we had arranged.”
Qazi had a difficult decision to make, one he had purposefully been avoiding. He had hoped these photos would help him make it. The primary helicopters had been identified by Pagliacci, who had arranged for the bribery of the watchman and the transport-company manager. And Pagliacci, Qazi was forced to assume, had told the GRU all about it. Yet no Soviet agents had been seen to visit the site in two weeks, or so it appeared. And Pagliacci had said he had just told Simonov last night. If the GRU intended to thwart Ali’s departure tonight, they were being extremely circumspect.
On the other hand, Qazi had kept Pagliacci in the dark about dates. The vans were hired for another two weeks. The villa had been rented for three months. The ship-painting contractor thought his scow was going to be used tomorrow and the day after. And the airport surveillance project was moving along nicely, with lots of Pagliacci’s Mafia soldiers involved, costing lots of El Hakim’s money and cocaine. Of course, Simonov would have suspected the airport project was a red herring, but only if he were told everything Pagliacci knew. And Pagliacci had dribbled the information out, squeezing rubles out of the Russian for every crumb.
So it was probable — no, certain — that Simonov did not have the big picture when he died last night. But had he already made preparations to act on the information he did have? Certainly the GRU should be checking the helicopters and hangar area if the Soviets intended to act.
Finally, there were the backup helicopters, about which Pagliacci had known nothing because he had not been told and because no Italian or NATO soldier had been bribed or pumped for information. These machines were parked on the concrete mat at Armed Forces South, the NATO base. Ali would literally have to hijack the machines, which might or might not be fueled, which might or might not be airworthy. These machines were guarded. So there would be shooting, and higher authority would be immediately alerted. The success of Qazi’s scheme depended upon keeping the American admirals and generals in the dark until he had the weapons removed from the United States. He wanted them to see a fait accompli, not an operation in progress. Yet if the Soviets appear tonight at the primary helicopter site, that would be checkmate.
Qazi thought the problem through yet another time as Yasim replaced the photos in their envelopes. Unless something else came up, he decided, he would still go with the primary helicopters.
“Go back to the hotel and monitor the wiretaps carefully this afternoon. If the Americans are warned, they will try to get their men aboard the ship and get underway. I’ll be in to see you this evening. We’ll sanitize the suite then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Assume you are being followed.”
Yasim picked up all the photos and went into the house, a large two-story with almost twenty rooms.
There were no certainties in this business, Qazi reminded himself. You felt your way blindly, aware that nothing was ever as it appeared, aware that every action was fraught with hazard, both real and imaginary. And the longer you played the game, the more real the imaginary dangers became. The irony was that you never knew whether or not you had already made the hard, inescapable, fatal mistake.
“Good morning, Colonel.” Noora sank into a chair beside him. She was wearing slacks and high heels, and had her hair pinned in a bun on the back of her head.
“Is Jarvis sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“What did he eat when he arrived last night?” The two of them had arrived in Rome yesterday evening on a commercial flight. A heavily sedated Jarvis in a wheelchair and Noora in attendance wearing a nurse’s uniform had passed through customs and left the airport in an ambulance, which had driven them for five hours to the villa.
“He has not yet eaten. I gave him a shot to counteract the sedative three hours ago. He should be waking soon. I will see that he eats.”
“After he has eaten, have him unpack the trigger and inspect it. It’s still in the crate in the garage. You and Ali should supervise him. We will repack the trigger tonight.”
Noora nodded.
“Has he been cooperative?”
“Yes.”
“What is his attitude toward you?”
“He has begun to accord me the respect he gives his wife.”
Qazi examined her eyes. “Very good. How did you work that miracle?”
She shrugged. “He wants to be dominated. He needs it.” Her eyes stayed on Qazi.
“I want him at peak efficiency in twelve hours.”
“He will be.”
* * *
Noora said only one word to Jarvis as she set the tray in front of him. “Eat.” Then she went into the bathroom and locked the door.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror and languidly brushed out her dark hair. She enjoyed the sensual feel of the brush tugging gently at her scalp. She undid the ankle straps of her spike pumps, stepped from them, then slowly eased out of her slacks. She shrugged off her blouse, conscious of every move, watching herself in the mirror.
She was clad only in a thong teddy. She turned and examined her reflection over her shoulder. Yes, the thong strap was completely hidden in the crevice of her buttocks. And her legs, so smooth and sculpted, so perfect!
She effortlessly lifted a foot to the top of the vanity and replaced the shoe, glancing at her reflection as she fastened the strap. The image from the mirror behind her reflected in the glass above the vanity. She put on the other shoe, then stood and examined the way the high heels thickened her calves and raised the curve of her buttocks.
Jarvis appreciated her. How he loved to lick her legs, his tongue caressing and stroking her.
She permitted him to use only his tongue and lips. Already she could feel her nipples harden and the wetness begin in her vagina. She ran her fingertips slowly up her legs and over her hips, then slipped a finger under the teddy, into the wetness. The sensation made her weak.
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