She checked her reflection again in the mirror and moistened her lips with her finger. Then she unlocked the door and opened it.
* * *
On the sixth floor of a downtown building two blocks from the Vittorio Emanuele Hotel — behind a door marked in English and Italian, “Middle East Imports-Exports, Ltd”—another set of photographs was being examined. These photos were black-and-white, but they had been shot on fast infrared film and were grainy.
Judith Farrell selected one of the blowups and taped it on a wall. She stepped back. The photo was of two men standing near a car with a black latticework in the background. There was a heat source above them, to their left, on a pole. It reflected on the faces, changing them somewhat. With infrared film, each face and figure generated its own light, since it generated its own heat.
“It’s him,” she finally said. “It’s Qazi.”
“He certainly did a number on Simonov and Pagliacci. Lots of blood.” The speaker was a man of about thirty years, tall and pale with stringy blond hair that hung over his ears. He selected a conventional photo of the bodies of Pagliacci and Simonov and taped it to the wall beside the infrared one. He had turned the general’s head to try to get some of the face in the picture. Even so, the tanned head and bristle hair were unmistakable.
“Qazi did everyone a service killing Pagliacci. He’s been assisting the Soviets too long.”
“His successor will pick up where he left off. The Russians have the money and the Mafia has the organization. It’s a marriage made in Communist heaven.”
Judith sorted through the infrared photos until she found one that showed a three-quarters view of the second man by the car. She held it at arm’s length and squinted at it. Too bad it was so grainy.
“Who’s he?” the man asked.
“I don’t know,” Judith said at last and put the print back on the table.
“Should we let the CIA know?”
“I suppose so,” Judith murmured. She tossed her head to get her hair back from her eyes and looked again at the prints taped to the wall.
“Why not send copies of these to the Soviet embassy? Maybe the GRU would like to know who rubbed out one of their generals.”
“We’d have to get permission to do that. It’s an idea. But I think not. Moscow won’t be pleased about Simonov’s death — or his disappearance — and they’ll suspect the Mafia. Qazi set it up rather well. He’s very good at that.”
“So why is Qazi in Naples?”
“It wasn’t to kill these two. He took many chances going in there alone, with only one backup waiting on the street. Too spur-of-the-moment.”
“A hijacking? A bombing? Some American sailors have not returned to the carrier. Perhaps he is behind that,” the man suggested. “But should we move before we know?”
“We can’t let him slip through our fingers again. He won’t go back to Pagliacci’s. That was just one of the possible places he might turn up. If only we had been ready!” She took a last look at the pictures and turned away. “He’s been to the Vittorio every night for three nights. It’s going to have to be there.”
The blond man shook his head. “Uh-uh. Too many people, too many exits — our team is too small for a place that big. Too many risks.”
“Have the team ready. We’re very, very close. I can feel it.”
“Not the Vittorio.”
“Yes. There. Tonight if possible. This may be our only chance.”
“Listen, this man is dangerous. He spotted David in Rome. And killed him. We need a better setup, a sidewalk cafe setup. We’ve got to be able to get in cleanly and quickly, make the hit, and escape.”
“David chased Qazi,” Judith shouted. “He knew better. He had been told a dozen times.” She glared at Joel. “But if I had been David, I would have tried to take him then and there too. David’s mistake was that he stood and watched, trying to decide, until it was too late.”
They stared at each other, thinking of David and the year the team had spent tracking leads and sifting information, chasing a will-o’-the-wisp. “We will never,” Judith said, “ever find Colonel Qazi sitting quietly in a public place two days in a row, just waiting for us to walk up and assassinate him by the numbers — one, two, three, bang bang bang — not if we hunt him for a thousand years. He’s too clever. And you know as well as I do, we don’t have enough people to tail him effectively. It would take a dozen to do the job properly. We’re lucky if we know where he is three hours a day, give or take five kilometers.”
“If the Italians catch us …” The blond man gestured upward. “You know that! God in heaven … a hotel! Full of people! Taxis with radios parked in front. Police everywhere.” He fell to his knees and stretched out his arms to her. “Qazi’s here in Naples with his own team. If we’re patient, we might get them all.”
“No.” She shook her head. “He’s too clever. And too dangerous. At the first hint that we are closing in — the slightest hint that he’s being followed or observed or his movements noted — he’ll slip through our fingers … again. We’ll come away empty if we don’t grab the chance when we get it.”
“Call Tel Aviv. Clear this with the Old Man.” As badly as the Old Man wanted Qazi, surely he would not approve such a risky operation.
“I already have.” Joel slumped. “Get up off your knees,” Judith said. “The position doesn’t become you.” She turned to the window and looked across the rooftops at the Vittorio. “We were so close in Tangiers. He was aboard that ship.”
Beyond the hotel, several miles out on the sea, the long low silhouette of the United States was a darker blue against the hazy vagueness of the sea and sky. On the horizon beyond, slate gray clouds were just visible. “He’s interested in the carrier.” She balled her fist and tapped gently on the window frame. “We’re so damned close. We’ve never been this close.”
“What about this American naval officer? Tarkington? What does he want? Where does he fit in?”
“He just wants my body.”
“Oh.”
She whirled. “Watch your tone of voice, faggot,” she snarled. “Some men do like women’s bodies. That’s why you arrived in this world.”
The blond man threw up his hands. “Hey, I just asked. If you want him, that’s fine with me. I won’t lose any sleep. Just as long as the mission isn’t compromised.”
Judith waved her hand angrily, dismissing the subject.
He approached her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry for you that I am the way I am.”
“Oh, Joel.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Be sorry for us.” She pressed her face against his shoulder.
* * *
“What would you like to do today?” Jake Grafton asked his wife.
“You’re not going to the ship?” Shock. Amazement.
“I’m going to stay right here with you this livelong day. I may not even get out of bed.” He tossed the sheets away and examined her nude body critically.
“It’s already ten o’clock, lover. Do you think we could still get breakfast from room service?”
“You’re a remarkably well preserved specimen of womankind. Care to share any of your love secrets with an admirer?”
Callie pushed him onto his back and sat astride his midriff. The face on the pillow looking up at her wore a boyish grin. She bent down and began to nibble on his neck.
He picked up the telephone. “Room service, please…. Send up two large orders of ham and eggs. Extra toast and a pot of coffee.” He gave them the room number and cradled the phone. “They say they’ll bring it up in about twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes,” she whispered into his ear. “That’s barely enough time to cover today’s love secret, Jacob Grafton. But I’ll try.”
It was noon before they were out on the street, casually dressed and strolling hand in hand. “Let’s go catch the ferry to Capri.”
“Again? Judith and I went over there yesterday.”
“Why not? You’ll hav
e more fun with me along.”
“Ha! Don’t be so egotistical.” They turned the corner and began walking toward the ferry terminal.
“What did you and Judith talk about all morning?”
“Well, we discussed young American naval officers and their distressing attitude toward women. And how they must be handled so delicately to avoid bruising their fragile egos. And we discussed our education and careers, and I told her about meeting you in Hong Kong seventeen years ago, and …”
When she stopped speaking Jake glanced at her. She was chewing her lower lip.
“And what?”
“There was something troubling about the whole conversation.”
Callie slipped her hand from his and hugged herself as she thought aloud. “She’s the perfect American career girl, living a fantasy life in Paris. She doesn’t let it go to her head, isn’t celebrity-conscious, spends her money wisely, never drops names.”
“Where is she from anyway?”
Callie stopped dead and turned to face him. “That’s it! She’s a nonnative speaker! She says she’s from New England and has a slight accent to prove it. But she isn’t.”
“Does that mean English is not her first language?”
“Precisely. She acquired English as a youngster, but there are still subtle traces of her first language — the way she articulates certain syllables, for instance — that she hasn’t eradicated, I could hear them but it didn’t register.” She gestured impatiently. “I accepted her as an American, so I didn’t listen.”
“What was her first language?”
Callie the linguist walked along deep in thought. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said at last.
“Perhaps her parents were immigrants who didn’t speak English.”
“That’s rare these days, unless you’re Chicano. But no, she didn’t learn English at age six when she started school. I think she started later, as a teenager perhaps. The later in life you acquire a language, the more difficult the old patterns of articulation are to change. Many people can never rid themselves of an accent.”
They queued for ferry tickets, then stood in the holding area and watched the ferry glide in past the quay where passenger liners and launches for the United States docked. The pilot brought his vessel into her slip with just the right amount of closure. The lines and gangplank went over and the passengers from the island disembarked, then the crowd on the wharf streamed aboard.
The ferry was halfway to Capri, and Jake and Callie were standing on the bow with the wind in their faces when she said, “It’s a Semitic language, I think. Arabic or Hebrew.”
* * *
It was noon when Ali came to the terrace where Qazi was sitting. He had been watching the squirrels on the lawn.
“Jarvis says the trigger is ready.”
“Take him back to his room and lock him in. Keep someone in front of his door.”
“Of course.”
“Are Youssef and his men resting quietly?” They had been at the villa for three days now, and Qazi insisted they remain awake all night and sleep during the day. The first day, they had slept little. Yesterday they had slept better.
“They appear to be asleep. I think the lack of sleep finally caught up with them.”
“Then they will be rested for tonight. And the pilots?”
“Resting.”
“Very well. Check the guards on the perimeter. They must report any — and I mean any—vehicles whose drivers do anything but drive straight past. The assault will be hard and fast with no warning, if it comes. And the guards will be the first to die.”
When Ali was out of sight, Colonel Qazi walked the hundred paces to the villa’s garage. The man lounging in front of the door nodded to him as he went in. Qazi closed the door behind him and shot the bolt.
He walked slowly around the interior of the building, checking the windows to see that they were properly curtained, ensuring the other door was locked and the loft apartment was empty. Three vans sat in the garage bay.
Qazi extracted a small tool pouch from his pocket and opened it on the workbench. The trigger device was housed in an oblong gray box that sat on the floor by the bench. He quickly unscrewed the four screws on the face of the timer, which was a remnant of a modern electric clock, complete with liquid-crystal display. The faceplate came off easily, exposing a circuit board and an amazing amount of small wires.
Three small screws held the circuit board, and when they were removed, the board slid partially out of the timer to the limit of the attached wires. He stared at it a moment, then took a piece of paper from his wallet and consulted it Using a small pair of wire cutters, he snipped two wires and a diode from the circuit board. Two months ago he had destroyed eight clocks trying to identify this diode. Not trusting his memory, he had sketched a diagram. He had already performed this little operation upon the other six triggers, which were still in North Africa.
He carefully returned the board to its position inside the timer and inserted the three little screws. In less than a minute he had the faceplate back on.
He stood on the workbench and felt along the top of the interior wall, where the plasterboard ended and the rafters sat on top of the studs. Yes, the drywall extended a few inches above the stud. He placed the tool kit there and climbed down, then used a handy automobile polishing rag to obliterate the faint heel mark on the workbench.
He climbed the stairs to the loft apartment. The scrap of paper from his wallet, the diode, and the bits of wire went into the toilet. As the water closet was refilling he heard noises in the garage. Someone was downstairs.
“Colonel.” It was Ali.
The diode was still in the bottom of the toilet bowl. “I’m up here.” Qazi reached into the water and retrieved it. No towels! Ali was running up the stairs. Qazi wiped his hand on the back of his trousers, dropped them, and sat down on the toilet seat.
“In here.”
Ali’s head popped through the door. “A car has driven slowly by the access road twice. Four men. They were looking.”
“Put four men on the rooftops, out of sight.”
Ali disappeared back down the steps. Qazi wrapped the diode in toilet paper and dropped it in the water. It swirled away as the toilet gurgled.
Ali was pointing out the rooftop positions to four men armed with assault rifles as Qazi approached the terrace. “No shooting until you see their weapons,” he told them. One man climbed a tree to get on top of the parking garage. Two more went through the villa to the attic exit to the roof. The fourth used a ladder to reach the top of the guesthouse directly across from the villa, then Ali took the ladder away.
Colonel Qazi sat on the terrace and Noora brought him a pistol, a silencer, and a glass of iced tea, then went back inside. Her station was with Jarvis. The rest of the men were still sleeping with their weapons beside them.
Qazi pushed the button and the magazine slipped from the grip of the Browning Hi-Power. It was full. He screwed the silencer to the barrel and replaced the magazine, then chambered a round. After lowering the hammer, he tucked the weapon into his belt behind him. Then he adjusted the volume on his two-way radio and laid it on the table. The guards and Ali also had radios and would use them in an emergency.
It is pleasant here in the dappled shade of the giant trees, Qazi reflected, with the short lawn grass stirring ever so gently to the breeze. The air smelled of flowers, which were still blooming in the beds around the house and walks. He filled his lungs and exhaled slowly. Very pleasant.
Even the pervasive traffic sounds were absent in this pastoral setting. All he could hear were leaves rustling under the wind’s caress.
A large yellow-and-black butterfly settled on the toe of his shoe and gently stirred its wings. A shaft of sunlight fell upon the shoe, making the insect’s wings appear luminous, almost transparent.
Such a place the Prophet must have envisioned when he described paradise—“a garden beneath which a river flows.” And his listeners i
n their tents under the merciless sun, amid the sand and rock, had known the truth of his message. Yes, paradise will be green and flowering, with pools of clear water and abundant grass and majestic trees that reach deep into the earth and drink of Allah’s bounty. And the believers shall spread their rugs on the grass in the shade of the trees and make their prayers to Allah, the all-merciful, all-compassionate. Truly, man loves best what he has not.
* * *
The stars had begun to fade one by one. Time dragged on slowly. Then he realized he could distinguish the outline of the top of the escarpment from the lighter black of the sky. Even as he watched, the relief became bolder and the sky beyond began to gray.
He left the camel and crawled toward the edge. The wadi below was still enshrouded in darkness. Behind him he heard the camel rise, then urinate, groaning against the rag around its muzzle.
He stared expectantly into the wadi, trying to distinguish features as the eastern sky changed from gray to a pale, thin blue. He listened intently, trying to hear something, anything, but all he could hear was the pounding of his heart. Finally the top of the sun flamed the stones around him. The wadi was still impenetrably dark.
He saw the flash in the wadi and heard the bullet slap the stone near him at precisely the same instant. Then he heard the shot, a flat crack that boomed off the rock and died, leaving a deeper silence. He couldn’t fire back because he might hit the camels. He backed away from the edge and felt his stinging cheek. A piece of stone or shard of lead had caused it to bleed. So this is how it feels!
He changed positions, surprised at how alive and vigorous he felt. He would not die. Even if he did, he was vibrantly alive now, aware of everything, a part of the universe.
When he looked again over the lip of the rock, he could see the hobbled camel in the sandy bed of the wadi, which was lined with boulders larger than a tent. There were four camels. He gently eased the rifle forward and thumbed off the safety.
He saw a head, searching again for him. He lined up the Enfield and tried to quell his rapid breathing. The rifle fired before he was ready.
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