by Allan Topol
"What do you want?" he pleaded. He was still doubled up in pain, lying on his back, his arms and legs tightly bound. "I'll give you anything."
"What a gutless wonder you are," she said, disgusted. "You know what I want? Your manhood. That's what I want."
Gwen turned to Theo. "Pull down his pants. His shorts, too."
"Oh, Jesus, no," Slater cried.
"Do it, you cunt."
With trembling fingers, Theo complied. Slater's shriveled penis looked pathetic exposed in the cold air.
Gwen took a stiletto from her jacket pocket and pressed a button, springing open the blade. She handed it to Theo.
"Cut off his dick," she ordered. "Then toss it down in the bushes. After that, his balls."
Theo didn't move. Her hands were quivering.
"Do it now, cunt, if you want to stay alive. If not, I'll kill you and do it myself."
As Theo bent down, tears coursed down Slater's face. "Oh, God, please. Not that. I'll give you anything."
On the road below, the van roared to a stop. That was the signal for all of the lights to go on in and around the memorial. Traynor jumped out of the van with a bullhorn in his hand. "Jim Slater and Theo Fulton," he called. "Walk down the stairs slowly, with your hands in the air."
When nothing happened the sharpshooters scrambled out of the green booths and took up positions behind the van. Traynor and Campbell cautiously started up the steps, guns raised, weaving from side to side, with Ben and Jennifer behind.
Up in the memorial chamber, Gwen grabbed the stiletto from Theo. She aimed it for Slater's balls, but as she noticed Theo running away, her eye jumped and she missed, driving it into his abdomen instead. He screamed in agony. Gwen snapped off a shot at Theo, taking cover on the other side of the statue, and Theo went down. Gwen didn't have time to see if she'd killed her.
Gwen heard a rifle shot from one of the sharpshooters below and ducked behind a marble column at the top of the stairs. From that vantage point she saw Traynor and Campbell, with Ben and Jennifer behind. She didn't want to expose herself to the sharpshooters, so she couldn't get a clear shot on the four figures moving up the stairs.
She decided to wait until they reached the top. As Campbell and Traynor appeared, she fired out a burst, which echoed loudly in the chamber. One of her shots nailed Campbell in the leg. Another got Traynor in the shoulder. Both men went down. That left Ben and Jennifer. She waited, but they didn't appear. Where the hell were they? Gwen wheeled around, looking for them.
As Jennifer saw Gwen turn, she hurried to the back wall of the chamber before Gwen spotted her. Alerted by the gunfire, she had run across the steps to the other side. But where could she hide? There had to be a small space between the back of the statue and the wall of the chamber. Had to be. There was no other place for her to go.
There was a space. And it was narrow.
Standing upright, sandwiched in that space, Jennifer clutched her pistol tightly, her heart pounding. What am I going to do now? she thought. I'm no match for her with that machine gun of hers.
To the right, she heard Theo moaning in pain. Jennifer wanted to go help her, but she didn't dare move. She stood still and held her breath. All she had now was the element of surprise.
Suddenly she wondered: What happened to Ben? Had Gwen shot him? Was he hiding?
More shots from the sharpshooters rang out, ricocheting from the column Gwen was behind. Peeking out, Jennifer watched as Gwen reached into her jacket pocket, took out a grenade, and pulled the pin. She threw it down at the van behind which the sharpshooters were taking cover. In another moment the van exploded, sending a large ball of fire into the sky.
In horror, Jennifer watched as Gwen spotted Ben cowering in a corner of the chamber next to the door of the gift shop, breathing heavily from the climb up the stairs.
"Get over here fast," Gwen barked at him.
When Ben stood frozen to the spot, she fired a warning shot over his head. He had no choice but to obey. Slowly, he walked over to her, stalling for time.
She backhanded him hard in the face. Gliding behind him, she looped her arm around his neck. She raised the gun in her other hand until the barrel was pressed hard against his cheek. She had no intention of dying in the electric chair. Keeping Ben in front of her, she started down the stairs.
It's up to me, Jennifer realized. If I stay here, Ben will be killed.
She couldn't let that happen.
Gwen was walking slowly down the center of the first group of twenty marble stairs, making certain that any other law enforcement people on the scene saw Ben and the gun held to his face.
Jennifer moved to the top of the stairs on the tips of her toes. By the time she could look downward, Gwen had reached the first small landing. She's too far away, Jennifer worried. I'll only have one shot. If I miss, we're both dead. Despite the cold, her hand holding the gun was sweating and clammy.
Jennifer waited until Gwen was about to descend the next group of thirty steps.
She dropped to one knee, took aim, and fired. The center of Gwen's back exploded with blood. Her arms flew out to the sides. Freed from her grasp, Ben fell to the side, catching himself before he tumbled down the stairs.
Not Gwen. Still clutching the gun in her hand, she rolled down, hitting the steps one after another like a rag doll. At the bottom she summoned all of her energy to raise her gun one more time. Her face was contorted in a grimace of hatred. She had Jennifer dead in her sights when she was struck by a hail of bullets. The sharpshooters in the second van had arrived. The gun dropped from her hand and she went limp.
Jennifer ran down the stairs, Ben two steps behind her. They stood next to Gwen's body as it gave one final shudder. Even in the throes of death, her face was a mask of cunning evil.
Epilogue
Ben and Amy arrived early at Dulles Airport for their flight to Aspen. As he carried Amy, her leg in a cast knocked against his chest. In his other hand he held his guitar case.
At the gate, he looked around anxiously, but Jennifer wasn't there. It was still early, he told himself. Then he recognized what a fool he was being. Of course she wouldn't be here. Three days ago he had asked a messenger to deliver a vase with twelve red roses and a gift-wrapped box to her house. Inside had been a gorgeous white teddy from La Perla. In the tissue paper was an envelope containing a one-way airplane ticket to Aspen and a handwritten note that read, I hope you can come to Aspen with Amy and me. I lost you once. I don't want to make the same mistake again. Love, Ben.
He had received a voice confirmation from the messenger that the package had been delivered to a woman who had signed for it, Jennifer Moore, but Ben had never received an acknowledgment from her. He had called her four times in the last three days, leaving messages on her answering machine. She didn't even have the courtesy to return his calls. How could he possibly think she would be on the plane? Still, she had saved his life. He was grateful to her for that.
Reaching the front of the line, he was relieved to set Amy down on the counter. "Hey, you're getting heavy, kiddo."
The ticket agent, whose name tag said Dixie, looked at their tickets, and then said to Amy, "Wow, a vacation in Aspen. That sounds like fun."
"We're not on vacation," Amy replied. "My daddy and me are moving to Aspen."
"That's a great place," Dixie said.
"Time to start over," Ben added. "I'm getting out of this nasty town."
Dixie laughed. "All those politicians get to you?"
"Something like that."
She handed him two boarding passes. "We've got a small load today. I gave you an extra seat to stretch out her leg. If the passenger shows for that seat, I'll move her somewhere else."
In the boarding area, waiting for Dixie to call the plane, Ben suddenly saw a messenger in a gray uniform rush up with a box in his hands. "Is there an Amy Hartwell here?" the messenger called out.
"Hey, that's me," Amy shouted.
He handed her the box and quickly departed.
"Wait," Ben called to the messenger, but he was too late. The messenger was gone.
"Can I open it now, Daddy?"
"Sure. It's yours."
She eagerly tore off the wrapping. Inside there was a new Barbie doll with a whole array of clothes. Amy shrieked with joy. There was also a note. Anxiously, Ben read it to her: " 'I hope you have fun playing with your Barbie on the plane.' "
Ben was dejected as he carried Amy on board. Their seats were at the back of the plane: 25A, B, and C on the wide-body. As he got Amy settled next to the window, he tried not to think of who should be in the empty seat. At least she should have had the decency to return the ticket to him, he thought. So he could get a refund.
"I thought you said Jenny was coming, too," Amy commented.
He tried not to snap at her. It wasn't her fault. "I said she might come, honey. She must have gotten busy."
"Like you're always busy?"
"No more, Amy. I'm going to be a different kind of a lawyer now."
"What kind?"
"A real lawyer. Helping people with their problems."
He remained hopeful until the door closed. Then he gave up. Amy quickly became busy putting clothes on the new Barbie. He was glad she couldn't see the tears in his eyes. Fool, he thought, you blew it. You let her get away again.
* * *
They were the last ones to exit the plane. Ben struggled with Amy in one arm and his guitar case over the other shoulder, while his daughter held aloft her new Barbie doll. He was deep in thought, his mind fully occupied thinking about the details of starting a new life, like rental cars and temporary apartments, when Amy suddenly screamed, "Jenny... Jenny."
Stunned, Ben raised his head and saw her standing by the gate, dressed in ski clothes with sunglasses on her head. There was a gift-wrapped box on a chair next to her.
Jennifer walked over to them, took Amy out of his arms, and placed her on a chair next to the package. "That is for you."
Turning to Ben, she threw her arms around him, and kissed him passionately. "We're not going to waste any more time," she said pulling back. She gave him a wink. "Underneath, I'm wearing that gorgeous white teddy you sent me."
Ben hugged her tight.
"Listen," Jennifer said, sounding excited, "I've got a lead on a great house for us to look at."
He smiled. "Not until I see that teddy."
They both glanced at Amy, who had opened the gift. Inside was a Ken doll. Amy was pressing her two dolls together and crying, "I love you. I love you. I love you."
People passing by stopped to watch. They burst into applause.
Ben looked embarrassed. "I think it's time to get out of this airport."
The End
Excerpt from
The China Gambit
by
Allan Topol
National Bestselling Author
Copyright © 2012, Allan J. Topol
Before Craig had a chance to answer, his cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the number.
"Craig Page here."
"Mr. Page, this is James Anderson, Deputy Police Chief in Calgary Canada."
Craig's heart was pounding. Two day ago Francesca had sent him an e-mail, telling him she was in Calgary, working on a big story.
"Are you Francesca Page's father?"
"I am."
Craig held his breath.
"Unfortunately, Mr. Page, I have to inform you that your daughter died in an auto accident this evening. Her car collided with a truck on an icy road."
"No," he gave a bloodcurdling cry. "No. It can't be."
Not Francesca. I love her more than anything in the world.
"You're mistaken. It's not Francesca."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Page. She had a passport and other ID in her jacket pocket."
The fool was lying. "You're no Calgary cop."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Page. She had a Tiffany's wristwatch. Engraved on the back 'To Francesca With Love...'"
He'd given her that when she graduated from Northwestern.
"And a scar on her left ankle."
He vividly recalled the ski injury she suffered during their trip to Megeve two years ago at Christmas.
The man's accent and inflections were from Calgary. As the reality drove home like a spike through his body, in agony, a rash of grief covered his face, distorting his mouth, turning his grey eyes black. Francesca was dead.
"I'm so sorry," Giuseppe said.
But Craig barely heard his words.
"Leave me alone," Craig said, rising abruptly. "I am alone."
He left Sabbitini and wandered the streets of Trastevere. Crossing the Tiber on the Ponte Sisto, he recalled his father, four years old, so alone after the carnage on the farm, his whole family murdered.
Now, I too, am no longer connected to a single living soul.
Aimlessly, in a daze, he crossed streets, disregarding traffic signals, ignoring honking horns and the curses of motorists. He passed churches, but didn't go inside. He wouldn't find solace there.
He walked for two more hours. Then drifted into a Trattoria. He ordered a bottle of Chianti. The waitress poured a glass, but he didn't touch it. He placed his head into his hands and lowered it to the coarse wooden table. He cried, the tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping into his mouth. "Francesca," he muttered in a barely audible plaintive lament.
He had no idea how long he remained with his head on the table. He heard, "Craig." A powerful set of arms pulled his head up, then raised him to his feet. It was Giuseppe.
"C'mon Craig, we're going to the airport. I'm taking you to Washington."
Excerpt from
Spy Dance
A Novel
by
Allan Topol
National Bestselling Author
Copyright © 2001, 2011 by Allan J. Topol
Nervously he picked it up on the second ring.
"Is this Greg Nielsen?" a man's voice asked in French.
"You must have the wrong room," he replied, trying hard not to disclose the tension in his voice. He could feel perspiration beginning to form under his arms.
"I know that you're Greg Nielsen," the caller persisted.
"You're obviously mistaken. There's no one in this room by that name. I suggest you talk to the hotel operator."
"I would urge you not to play games with me, Mr. Nielsen. Be in front of the Bristol at six tomorrow morning. A black Mercedes will pick you up."
David's mind was focusing on the accent of the caller. Clearly Parisian, he decided. "What is your name, please? I'll give it to the hotel operator. Maybe she can leave a message."
"Did you understand what I said?" The caller sounded annoyed. "Tomorrow at six."
"And if I'm not there?"
"Certain people in Washington will be very interested in knowing where you are, Mr. Nielsen."
The phone clicked dead.
Allan Topol is the national bestselling author of novels of international intrigue, including Spy Dance, recently translated into Chinese. He is a graduate of Carnegie Institute of Technology, who majored in chemistry, abandoned science, and obtained a law degree from Yale University. A partner in a major Washington law firm, and an avid wine collector, he has traveled extensively, researching dramatic locations for his novels. You can visit him at http://www.AllanTopol.com Please let him know if you would like to receive his free newsletter.