No, thought Amal Hamsho. He would not interrupt the Englishman. Not for this. He would keep silent. He would wait. He would take his share of Grassi's money and then, he had decided, he would take the Englishman's share as well. And Erna's, which the Englishman kept in any case. He would cut both their throats. He would buy drugs. In Barcelona. But this time he would sell them. He would—
The Algerian turned at the sound behind him, his hand on the Uzi slung under his arm.
One of the Americans, one of the lesbians, had entered the room. Her shirt was gone. She wore nothing at all. The tape on her wrists still in place. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Behind her, the door to Erna's room. The American, too frightened to speak, pointed to the table on which the contents of her knapsack had been strewn. Amal watched, saying nothing.
“She—she sent me,” the woman stammered. ”f—for these.”
Hamsho saw where she pointed. Two plastic devices. Powered by batteries. One very thin, the other very fat. These things disgusted him. Erna disgusted him. As did this woman.
He crossed to the open door. He saw Erna there. On her bed, face down, also naked. Legs spread wide. The right one was quivering, as if in anticipation of the things the American would be made to do to her. Hamsho spat, although inwardly.
Strange about that leg, he thought. He had watched men die, and women, and their legs trembled in that way as the life went out of them. Sex and death. The beginning of life and the end of it. Are they so alike?
He sensed a presence at his shoulder. He glanced. The American, her toys held against her breasts, stood close to him, waiting for him to let her pass. He hesitated. Something about her. Her expression. There was a new light in her eyes. The fear seemed gone. What had replaced it? Was it lust? Why no more fear? Was it possible that she had come to believe that she had found a friend in Erna Dietz? A protector?
Foolish woman. She would soon learn how much—
Erna.
She was making sounds. Bubbling sounds. And the leg now more than trembled. It was in spasm. This was not passion. This was—
He felt a tickle at his ear. And the colors of the room exploded. He heard a screech. High and shrill. It seemed to come from within his brain and push out against his eyes. The room tilted crazily. His arms, before him, flapped like wings. He wanted to bring them to his head, to the pain, but they would not obey. Now his whole body floated. The naked woman with him. Her breath on his face. He felt her hand against his ear. There was something there. It was hurting him. She pulled at it. Another screech. A popping sound. Now she was showing it to him. Something long and thin. He tried to focus. He could see only that she was moving it, down past his face, under his chin. He felt it there. Hurting him again. Stinging his tongue. The roof of his mouth. His nose. They all screamed. More lights, red lights, as it pierced his brain. Then his eyes rolled back and there was blackness.
In that first minute, before the shots were fired, Billy thought he was dead.
He had rounded a curve in the path leading to the courtyard, his way hidden from view by the thick tropical gardens. And there was Tucker, crouched low behind a shrub, holding a machine pistol aimed squarely at his heart.
Tucker, he realized, had heard his footsteps. Had been waiting for him. And yet he seemed stunned. Billy saw the tables up ahead. Lesko there, facing in their direction but his attention on the woman seated to his left. Billy understood. From this distance Lesko could have been himself.
Billy watched his eyes, waiting for the confusion to pass and for a decision to be made. He braced himself. His one chance—leap sideways into the thickest foliage and roll. He would surely take a hit, maybe several. But if he could free his own weapon, get off one shot, just one, that was all he would ask.
Tucker's eyes were wild. He saw fear in them, then hatred, and then a glee that bordered on hysteria. They were moist, blinking rapidly, as if bothered by the light. Now they changed again. A certain drunken slyness appeared. Tucker was on something. Speed, thought Billy.
“Go on, shit face,” Tucker rasped. “Make a move/’
What's this? Billy wondered. You go to shoot, you shoot
“Go on,” Tucker snarled. “Go for it.”
Billy understood. The voice was low. Close to a whisper. He did not want to be heard. Nor did he want to shoot. Not yet. Not now. He had something else in mind. Slowly, Billy raised his hands.
Tucker seized a branch for balance. The touch shocked his ruined thumb. He stood, nearly erect, holding it out for Billy to see. His mouth twisted into a terrible smile.
“Ohhhh—yeah,” was all he said. He raised the thumb toward the sturnp of his ear, turning his head as if to remind Billy of what he had done. The smile remained. It was making a promise. But still, not quite yet.
He waved Billy forward, using the machine pistol. An amateur, thought Billy. You don't wave guns. Billy took a step. Tucker waved again, indicating a point just beyond him on the path.
Good.
Billy saw it now.
Tucker wanted him. But he wanted Grassi more. Tucker would use him to get close to the table. He would be Tucker's shield.
Billy offered a silent hope. Let Tucker be so dumb, or so wired, that he sticks that gun in his back. Billy would take it from him before Tucker could blink, breaking a few more of his fingers, then hammer his teeth out with the butt.
Tucker was that wired. He was not that dumb.
He reached with his left hand, letting Billy see it, holding his weapon well back with the other. He patted Billy's waist, under his shirt, front and back. He found Billy's automatic. He took it, jamming it into his belt.
“Now,” he said, jabbing at the seat of Billy's pants, “stick your arms down there. Under your belt, all the way, palms against your ass.”
Billy obeyed.
He sighed inwardly.
Tucker had about a minute to live. Two at most.
The problem was, so did he.
The woman sat, not moving, listening.
Her elbows rested on the Algerian's chest. Her hands, still bound, gripped the butt of his Uzi but she did not take it from its sling.
She heard no sounds of alarm. Only the bubbling of the Jacuzzi behind the door of the master bedroom suite. A man's voice, barely heard. A woman now, whimpering. Softly pleading. She wet her lips, satisfied.
She reached for a thin cotton cord that hung between her legs. She pulled at it, steadily. Something white and heavy fell into her hands. She stripped away a covering of cloth. A switchblade knife. She opened it and worked its edge under the tape at her wrists.
She rose slowly to her feet, first gathering the vibrators that had fallen to the floor. These in hand, she stepped through into the room where Erna Dietz lay still. One knee on the bed, she reached to feel the pulse at the German's throat. There was a beat. Very faint. She counted three full seconds before she felt another. She moved the tips of her fingers farther down. They found the place where the windpipe had been crushed. She felt the damage, assessing it. Again, she wet her lips. Soon the pulse would stop. She put the knife aside.
She turned the German's head, parted her teeth, and forced both vibrators between them. She stood again and stepped into Erna Dietz's bathroom where she found three large towels. These in hand, she left the room, stepping over the Algerian.
At the table, she picked clean undergarments from the pile and put them on. Next came her jeans and her jewelry. She had chosen a blouse but she found a stain on it. Her eye fell on another in the pile belonging to her companion. She hesitated, her eyes rising to the door of the master suite. She shrugged. Her friend would not mind. She slipped it on, then took a brush and began teasing her damp and curly hair into a fullness that approached its normal state.
That done, she returned to the body of Amal Hamsho. Bending over, she retrieved the thin metal rod that had pierced his brain. His flesh cleaned it as it withdrew. This she wiped against his shirt.
She returned to the table, found its mate plus a skein of
white yarn, gathered the three towels and stepped out onto the terrace. She shook out two of the towels and hung them over the railing. The third, for the time being, she left folded.
She settled into a deck chair, wondering briefly whether she should first put lotion on her arms and face. The sun was high, strong for February. But no, she decided. She would not be there long enough to burn.
Unless Carla took her time.
She glanced at the unused towel.
Then Janet Herzog began to knit.
“Lesko?”
He heard Katz's voice. In his head. He cursed, silently.
Katz was all he needed now.
He was having enough trouble trying to make conversation and listen at the same time.
Elena on his left, telling him about Spain, all the places she wanted to show him. Urs Ðrugg on his right, huddled with the little KGB guy. They kept saying his name, and Bannerman's, connecting the two, asking Grassi a question now and then but not including him otherwise. He could not get the sense of what they were saying, although he was damned well going to ask if Elena ever gave him the chance. He was almost getting the feeling that she was deliberately keeping him from hearing.
“Lesko!!”
Katz's voice. Lesko groaned. He shut him out.
And if Elena wasn't distraction enough, here comes Billy McHugh, up from where Susan had gone. On top of McHugh, he did not need Katz.
“Lesko! Wake up, already.”
“Hey. Do you mind?”
Lesko blinked him away. But now he felt a chill. It was climbing the back of his neck.
Something was wrong. He knew that. And it was not, goddamn it, from Katz. His instincts had picked up on something, was all. But what?
He picked up a napkin, touched it to his mouth. He looked around.
The guards, all of Grassi's shooters, Bannerman's pals, showed no sign of alarm. But they weren't looking toward McHugh. They were—
Wait.
One of them just whistled. Softly. Tilting his head toward Billy who was—walking—hands behind him—like he was cuffed—big guy, bald head, with him—big guy looks a little whacked.
Lesko's fingers moved to his belt. They closed over the butt of the German automatic he'd extorted from Urs Brugg. He released the safety.
“Lesko?”
Elena this time. In a whisper. The fingers of her crossed arm tugging at his sleeve. She had seen it too. Two men— she wouldn't have known Billy—walking stiffly—not naturally. Off to the left, two of the guards, folding their arms, their hands finding weapons as well.
”I know,” he said softly. “Drop your napkin. Bend low to pick it up. Stay there.
“Uncle Urs,” she said, into Lesko's ear.
”I got him. Just do it.”
She did as he asked.
Carla Benedict was weeping softly. Twice she had squealed in pain. The squeals were genuine.
He had done her chest first. He had used a scrub brush and a scouring cleanser that smelled of ammonia. It would make her skin smoother, purer, he told her, than it had ever been. His breath was coming fast.
She had tried to squirm away, fend him off with her bound hands, but he had slapped her face, and he had choked her, pushing her under the water and holding her there until the last of her air bubbled to the surface. She very nearly had to end it then.
Time.
Janet would need twenty minutes at least. For the German to become absorbed by her. To taste her. More time would be better. Carla would stand this as long as she could.
He was doing her back and shoulders now. He had draped her over one end of the jetted tub. He knelt behind her, fully nude. She could feel his penis nestled between her buttocks but he made no attempt to enter her. She was, she knew, not yet clean enough. She tried, through her pain, to listen for sounds from outside the room. She could hear nothing. The rush of the swirling water was too loud and too close.
But now, a sound. A clatter. Something, it sounded like plastic, had been dropped. Not much longer, she thought. She closed her eyes and wondered about her skin. It would be a while, she was afraid, before it could stand the sun again. She wondered what she could wear. Soft cottons. None of her winter things. No silks.
The scrubbing stopped.
She felt the Englishman's fingers in her hair. Picking at it. His tongue clucking in disgust. The fingers appeared before her face. Bits of pool algae on them. “How could you stand to touch each other?” he spat.
“Please—” she swallowed a sob.
“You should thank me for this,” he said, still probing. “Your friend should as well.”
“Are you—will you let us go?”
“We'll see.” He found the stem of a leaf. He tore it loose. “We'll have to see how you clean up first, won't we.” He seized the hair in his fist. “Come on, now. Up you get. On your knees, facing me.”
She pivoted, slipping. He held her up, painfully, until she was kneeling erect, her face at the level of his groin, inches away from his hardness. “What are you going to—”
He released her, then reached for bottle of shampoo. I’m going to wash your hair now,” he said. “You'll like this much better.”
She waited, her hands low in front of her. She kept them there.
“You'll like it so much,” he said, his breath coming in gasps, “that while I’m doing this for you, you'll want to do something nice for me.”
He saw her stiffen. She dropped her head, turned it from him. He slapped her sharply. “You do want to be nice to me,” he hissed. “Don't you?” He slapped her again.
A choking squeal. A rapid nod. She kept her face averted but her shoulders sagged. She had surrendered to him. Head bowed. He could not see the tiny smile. Or that her eyes were shining.
Martin Selly poured the shampoo. Using both his hands, he worked it into a lather. He took his time. Now he raised her head, tilting it backward, his hands at her temples. He guided it closer. She resisted, not much.
“Have you done this before?” he asked. “For a man, that is.”
She hesitated. Then shook her head.
“It is done very gently. Much as with a woman. Use the lips and the tongue. Drink deep. I must never feel your teeth.”
Her lips quivered. But she parted them.
“Who knows?” he purred, taking himself in one hand, guiding it toward her lips. “We may open whole new vistas for you today. Gently now.”
He saw her own hands rising up from the water, covered with suds, twisting at their wrists so that one of them could be used freely. The other stayed below. She was taking him. Willingly.
He frowned, more than annoyed. He had not asked for her participation. It trivialized the event. This was hardly a romantic encounter. It was an act of corrective therapy.
“What are you doing?” He rapped her skull sharply with his knuckles.
She looked up at him. This time he saw the smile.
“I'm about to cut your pee-pee off,” she said.
And she did.
A high-pitched shriek startled Janet Herzog.
She heard the splash of water, waves of it, more screams, and a series of dull thumps as if someone were bouncing off the walls and floors.
The screams, though shrill, were those of a man. But the person being bounced, might it be Carla?
Janet was afraid of this. So was Paul. That she would play with him first. Let him know why he was dying. But not before she crippled him. What if she hadn't? What if she played too long?
She eyed the third towel, wishing she could hang it. Better go check first. She set down her knitting, except for one needle, and stepped through the screen door of the terrace.
Tucker saw the guards.
They were pretending, some of them, not to see him. But he'd heard the low whistle. And he saw where their hands had gone.
“Uh-huh. Okay.” He smiled. It was more of a twitch.
I'm stupid, right? I’ blind, too. You want to play? We'll play.
He ra
ised the machine pistol. He waggled it, letting them see that it was now aimed at the back of Billy McHugh's head. His left hand, with the broken thumb, had made a fist over Billy's belt.
The guards froze.
Thirty yards to the table. This was beautiful, he thought. No one there had even looked up.
“You see that, shit face?” He leaned toward Billy's ear. The one he would soon blow off. And then the arm. Off at the shoulder. If he had time, he'd make him eat it. “They're not going to shoot. You know why? You're their fucking hero, aren't you. They don't want to hit their king shit hero.”
Billy said nothing. Tucker shoved him forward.
He could not look at the table. Had to watch the guards. One was Kurt Weiss. Little prick. Last night he just stood there. Enjoying himself. And the one near him, the Jew girl who cleaned up the blood. Probably the one who threw the towel at him.
The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Page 33