“But you said before that you were just going out.”
“I am just going out,” Polletti said. “But after I’ve just gone out, I’m going to the Hunt Club.”
“Pig!” Olga shouted.
“Oink,” Polletti replied, and walked out the door.
10
“This is Mobile One to Central. Do you read me, Central, do you read me? Over.”
“I read you loud and clear,” Martin said. He was Central. Almost the first thing he had done upon his arrival in Rome was to organize a command post. That was something he had always wanted—a command post with himself in charge under the code name of Central. He had it now; and he also had about $200,000 worth of radio and television equipment in one corner of the Borgia Ballroom. He was sitting in front of his equipment with a microphone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was also wearing earphones. This pleased him very much.
“This is Mobile Two reporting. But I have nothing to report.”
“Then carry on as before,” Martin said firmly.
The Roy Bell Dancers, having finished another rehearsal, were lounging on the stage, drinking black coffee and discussing ways to keep one’s fingernails from splitting. Caroline had been reading a book on the care and raising of cocker spaniels. Now she put the book down and strolled to Martin’s command post.
“Mobile Three signing in.”
“Reporting in, you mean,” Martin corrected him.
“Sorry. Mobile Three reporting in with nothing to report in.”
“Acknowledged,” Martin said curtly, taking a drag from his cigarette, wiping his forehead and pinching his lip. The earphones hurt his ears but he wasn’t going to take them off for a small matter like that. He could endure the pain; he knew that other men had probably endured worse.
“Mobile Four reporting. Hey look, Martin, what about if—”
“Not Martin,” Martin said reprovingly. “Central is the correct nomenclature in this situation.” Martin shook his head with annoyance. That was Chet in Mobile Four. He was probably annoyed at having to work as a spotter, and as fourth spotter at that. But that was just the way it had happened to turn out, which was how things did happen to turn out sometimes. And anyhow, Chet shouldn’t presume on their 12-year friendship to the extent of using Martin’s first name— not after Martin had explained to everybody the need for radio code integrity in an operation of this sort.
“Your report, Mobile Four,” Martin barked.
“Nothing to report, Central,” Chet said. “Mobile Four requests permission to take a lunch break.”
“Negative,” Martin replied.
“Now look, Central, I didn’t have any time for breakfast—”
“But you did have time to rent the Colosseum,” Martin said.
“Now look, I explained about that. I really didn’t mean to—”
“Request denied!” Martin howled. In a calmer voice he added, “I got a feeling something’s going to pop at any moment now. Can’t spare you just now, Mobile Four; I really can’t.”
“So okay,” Mobile Four, or Chet, replied. “I shall maintain surveillance until ordered otherwise. Out and over. I mean over and out.”
Martin gripped the microphone convulsively. Lord, lord, how he hated levity, slackness, presumption, insubordination, and other things like that! He hadn’t realized how much he hated those things until today, when he was finally in charge of his own operation. He could almost feel a vestige of sympathy for Mr. Fortinbras.
“Gee, you’ve certainly got a lot of equipment there,” Caroline said, in a voice which indicated her complete lack of interest.
“We’ve got what we need,” Martin said. “You can’t run an operation like this on two tin cans and a piece of string.” He tried to draw toughly on his cigarette but found that he had crushed it earlier, while convulsively gripping the microphone. He lit another cigarette and drew on it toughly.
“What’s that little dial all the way over on the far left?” Caroline asked.
Martin hadn’t the faintest idea, but he replied promptly, “That’s the multiphase variable overload rheostat component.”
“Gee,” said Caroline. “Is it important?”
Martin smiled tightly and drew toughly on his cigarette. “Important?” This whole jury-rigged switchboard would probably blow itself to bits without the MPVORC. So I guess you could maybe call it important.”
“Why would it blow itself to bits?” Caroline asked.
“Well, it’s mainly because of the line voltage input resonance factor,” Martin told her. “It’s sort of an interesting phenomenon, actually. I could explain the whole thing to you if you’re interested.”
“Never mind,” Caroline said.
Martin nodded. Sometimes he felt he could conquer the world.
“This is Mobile One!” a voice screamed in his earphones. “The Target is just leaving his house! Repeat, the Target—”
“I got it the first time,” Martin said. “And don’t shout into that microphone, you wanna deafen me?”
“Sorry, Central. I guess I was keyed up after these hours of waiting.”
“So okay, forget it. Any other units got him?”
“Mobile Four reporting. I’ve got him.”
“Mobile Three reporting. Target not yet in line of sight.”
“Mobile Two reporting with same message.”
“Which same message?” Martin roared.
“The same message as Mobile Three. I mean, I can’t see the Target.”
“That’s okay,” Martin said. “Mobiles Two and Three, hold your positions. Mobile One, I want you to—”
“CQ, CQ, calling CQ,” a high clear voice said into Martin’s earphones. It was a voice Martin had never heard before, and he immediately suspected espionage, counterespionage, and various other things.
“Huh?” he replied, promptly but noncommittally.
“Hi there,” said the voice. “This is 32ZOZ4321, Bob’s the handle, I’m thirteen years old and I’m DX’ing out of Wellington, New Zealand, on a rebuilt Hammarlund 3BBC21 utilizing an eighty-foot power-driven dummy-load Arcana aerial with a surplus Dormeister for narrow-beam stratobounce redaction. I’m willing to talk to any of my brother hams, though I’m looking especially for ham operators in Cairo, Bokhara, and Mukden, with whom I’d like to exchange DX cards and general gossip. How do you read me? I’ve been having a little trouble with the Dormeister lately, but I think maybe it’s just sunspots. Over.”
“Get off the air!” Martin bellowed.
“I’ve got just as much right on the air as you have,” replied 32ZOZ4321 with dignity.
“You’re on a privately assigned commercial frequency!” Martin said. “You are jamming me at a crucial moment. Over.”
There was a brief silence. Then 32ZOZ4321 said, “Gosh, mister, you’re right! My 3BBC21 is a great little rig, but it does drift a little. But that’s mainly because I haven’t been able to afford the right parts so I can really lock on. I’m terribly sorry, mister, I really am. Over.”
“Forget it; I was young once myself, kid. Now will you please get off my frequency? Over.”
“I’m going right off. Gee, mister, I hope you don’t report this. I could lose my license. Over.”
“I won’t report it if you’ll get off the air right now. Over!”
“I’m going right off and thanks a lot, mister. Would you mind telling me how my signal was? Over.”
“Five by five. Over,” Martin replied.
“Thank you, sir. Over and out.”
“Over and out,” Martin repeated.
“Over and out,” Mobile One said promptly.
“No, not you!” Martin said.
“But you said—”
“Never mind what I said. What about the Target?”
“I have him in sight,” Mobile One said. “He is proceeding along the Via Cavour and has just reached the intersection of the Via dei Fori Imperiali. He has paused, and— Damn. A bus just interposed between me a
nd the Target.”
“Mobile Four reporting,” Chet said. “I’ve got him. He’s still standing on the corner. The Target’s hands are in his pockets and his shoulders are slumped. He is looking upward now, looking rather intently—”
“At what?” Martin cried.
“A cloud,” Mobile Four stated. “It’s the only thing up there.”
“Why would he be looking at a cloud?” Martin asked Caroline.
“Maybe he likes clouds,” Caroline said.
“Mobile Three reporting. I’ve got him, Central! Target is proceeding along a street with an illegible name, moving north-northwest and a point west on an intersection course with the Forum of Trajan, which was designed by Apollodorus of Damascus and is still in remarkably good shape after eighteen hundred years of various vicissitudes.”
“Just give me the relevant information, please, Mobile Three,” Martin said. “But I like your spirit.”
“Mobile Three reporting. I’ve got him! That illegible street is the Via Quattro Novembre. The Target has now come to a complete stop approximately thirty-seven yards south of Santa Maria di Loreto.”
“Acknowledged,” Martin said. Whirling around to a huge wall map of Rome and its environs, he marked Polletti’s progress on an acetate overlay. He drew a thick black line for confirmed movements and a dotted red line for probable advances.
“Mobile One reporting. I’ve got him. He’s still stopped.”
“What’s he doing?” Martin asked.
“I think he’s scratching his nose,” Mobile One said.
“You’d better be sure of that,” Martin said ominously.
“Mobile Two reporting with confirmation of Mobile One’s report. The Target, as seen through Zeiss 8 X 50 tripod-mounted binoculars, is scratching his nose. … Correction. Target has just terminated the preceding action.”
“Mobile Two reporting. Target is moving again, proceeding in a general northerly direction along the Via Pessina to the intersection of the Via Salvatore Tommasi.”
Martin turned to his map, glared, squinted, then turned back to the microphone. “I can’t find those streets, Mobile Two. Let me have them again.”
“Roger. Target is proceeding. … Sorry, Central, somebody must have given me the wrong map inset. Those last streets I gave you are in Naples. I don’t know how it could have happened—”
“Steady,” Martin said. “This is no time to panic. Has anyone got him?”
“CQ, CQ, calling CQ, this is 32ZOZ4321—”
“You’ve drifted again!” Martin screamed.
“Terribly sorry,” said 32ZOZ4321. “Over and out.”
“Mobile Four reporting. He’s turned onto the Via Babuino.”
“How’d he get there?” Martin asked after consulting his map. “Has he got wings or something?”
“Correction. I meant the Via Barberini.”
“Acknowledged. But how did he get there?”
“Mobile One reporting. Target was offered ride by small, fat, bald man driving a blue AlfaRomeo Model XXV-1 convertible with triple-chromed exhausts and a Morrison-Chalmers supercharger. Target and small, fat, bald man gave the appearance of being friends, or at least acquaintances. They proceeded by various streets to the Piazza di Spagna, where Target disembarked.”
“They move fast sometimes,” Martin muttered to himself, marking the new location on his map. He said into the microphone, “What did the small, fat, bald man do after that?”
“He drove off in the general direction of the Via Veneto.”
“And does anyone have the Target?”
“This is Mobile Two. I’ve got him. He is presently standing in front, or slightly to the left, actually, of American Express.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s looking at a poster in the window. The poster advertises a guided tour of Greece; specifically, Athens, Piraeus, Hydra, Corfu, Lesbos, and Crete.”
“Greece!” Martin groaned. “He can’t do this to me; I’m not set up for it. We’ll have to—”
“Mobile Four reporting. Target is moving again. He has walked several yards and is now sitting on the Spanish Steps.”
“You’re sure of that?” Martin snapped.
“Absolutely. He is sitting on the seventh step from the bottom and looking in an obtrusive manner at two blonde girls who are seated on the fifth and fourth steps respectively.”
“He’s trickier than he looks,” Martin said. “Nobody goes to the Spanish Steps any more. I wonder if he’s trying—”
“Mobile Three reporting! Target is on the move! He is crossing the Piazza di Spagna. … I’ve lost him. No, I’ve got him again, he’s on the Via Margutta, he’s about halfway down the block—he’s stopped and turned into a building.”
“What building?” Martin screamed.
“The Hunt Club,” said Mobile Three. “Shall I follow him in?”
Caroline had been monitoring the search on a monitor. Now she took the microphone out of Martin’s hands and said, “Stay wherever you are, all mobiles. I’ll pick him up at the Hunt Club.”
“Is that wise?” Martin asked her.
“Maybe not,” Caroline said, “but it should be interesting.”
“Look, baby,” Martin said, “the guy is armed and dangerous.”
“And attractive,” Caroline added. “I want to see for myself what Polletti is like.”
“Mr. Fortinbras wouldn’t approve,” Martin said.
“Mr. Fortinbras isn’t killing anybody,” Caroline said. “I am.”
That was unanswerable. Martin shrugged his shoulders as Caroline walked out. Then he grinned toughly and sagged back wearily in his swivel chair. Prima donnas and incompetents, that’s what he had to deal with; people who couldn’t organize their way out of a paper bag. He had to do everything. And what thanks did he get for it? None! All he got was the small satisfaction of a job well done.
“All mobile units,” Martin broadcast. “Follow Plan Easy-Baker, repeat, Plan Easy-Baker. Over and out.”
He walked away from the transmitter still grinning toughly, a dead cigarette hanging limply from one corner of his mouth.
The Roy Bell Dancers had left earlier, and the great ballroom was deserted. The transmitter hummed softly to itself, then crackled. Several seconds passed; then a voice could be heard over the receiver.
“This is 32ZOZ4321 calling CQ. Bob’s the handle. Is anyone there?”
There was silence in the great ballroom; eternally, inevitably, no one was there.
In “The Big Hunt,” the 21st Century’s substitute for war, Marcello (Marcello Mastroianni) draws “victim” role in game of death with an expert “hunter.”
Christine (Ursula Andress) will achieve ultimate accolade—fame and money as “Big Hunt” champion—if she can notch Marcello as her tenth “victim.”
At Rome horse show, Marcello completes “sophisticated” kill by eliminating his third “victim” with dynamite-spiked spurs.
In New York, Christine demonstrates “camp” kill, surprising her Oriental “hunter” with rapid-fire pistol brassiere.
Attractive, romantic—but the slowest gun in Italy—Marcello seeks expert advice from retired “Big Hunt” champion. Now a coach, “the professor” operates gymnasium (below) where “victims” like Marcello are put through training course to sharpen reflexes and practice with surprise weapons.
In Rome’s giant Coliseum (scene of ancient Roman Games) Christine rehearses TV dancers for live telecast of her match with Marcello, who is rated an easy “victim.”
Unaware of close pursuit, Marcello relaxes with members of sun-worship cult who await his signal to begin orgiastic rites at beach outside Rome.
Christine entices Marcello to secret hideaway cabin where lethal seduction begins.
Robot toy creeps across the floor.
Is this a surprise weapon?
Trapped in Coliseum, Marcello shouts “Shoot! Shoot!”
Christine holds the advantage. But “The Big Hunt” does not end
until “victim” is eliminated. Has Marcello still a move to make?
11
The Roman Hunt Club was a gracefully proportioned building of neo-barcarole construction. Polletti entered, went past the public rooms, and took the elevator to the third floor. Here he disembarked and walked to a door marked MEMBERS’ ANNEX #1 (MEN ONLY). This was one of the few places in Rome where a man could relax, smoke, talk, read newspapers, discuss hunting, and even go to sleep, without his wife’s charging in unexpectedly. Furthermore, a man could always say he had been there, no matter where he had been. There were no telephones in the room, and the members considered loyalty the greatest of virtues.
Female Hunters had complained about this masculine clannishness and exclusiveness, so the club had given them their very own room on the first floor, marked MEMBERS’ ANNEX #2 (WOMEN ONLY). It hadn’t satisfied them, really; but, as Voltaire once remarked, what did satisfy a woman, really?
Polletti dropped into an armchair and acknowledged the greetings of six or seven friends. They all wanted to know how his Hunt was proceeding, and Polletti told them quite honestly that he hadn’t the faintest idea.
“That’s bad,” said Vittorio di Lucca, a grizzled Milanese with eight kills to his credit.
“Perhaps,” Polletti said. “But I’m still alive,” he pointed out.
“So you are,” said Carlo Savizzi, a plump young man with whom Marcello had gone to school. “But you can hardly take any credit for that, can you?”
“I don’t suppose I can,” Marcello said. “But there’s really nothing much I can do.”
“There is a great deal you can do,” stated a heavyset old man with grizzled black hair and a face like badly tanned leather.
Polletti and the others waited. The old man was Giulio Pombello, the only Tens Winner that Rome could currently boast. One had to show respect to a Tens Winner even if he talked nonsense, as old Pombello usually did.
“You must organize a defense,” Pombello said, waving his right hand defensively. “There are many sound defenses, just as there are many sound Hunting tactics. Selection is of course essential; for example, a Victim must not choose a Hunting tactic, and a Hunter would be ill-advised to think in terms of defense. Do you consider this correct, or have I erred in my grasp of the situation?”
The 10th Victim Page 6