“And you didn’t advise Ludwig I was here? He called me that same day, Sergei.”
“Never,” Bugayev said. “If I had, I would not have told you now that we had spotted you.”
“And why would you offer your help? He was yours. Still is, for all I know.”
“He is not ours, Alex. Not for more than a year, as I said. He is a pig, doing a pig’s work now. I assume you know what that is. And that you’re here to protect the CIA’s assets, which he now threatens.”
Alex bristled inwardly at the suggestion of doing the work of his CIA masters, but he knew it was true. “I’m here to kill him. Whatever other good or bad it accomplishes doesn’t concern me.”
Bugayev nodded at the suspected lie. He believed Alex would do all he could to protect the Pisanis, his “uncles.” He certainly owed them a personal debt.
“And why would you or the KGB want to help me?” Alex asked.
“Glasnost is real, my friend,” Bugayev said. “The South Americans will only destabilize the French economy. And that no longer holds any interest for us. We want the French economy strong. Both to hopefully lend us money and to buy our goods someday. We want to be part of this united Europe. We are all budding capitalists now.” Bugayev’s sudden smile faded. “And it is a matter of personal honor for me,” he said. “Even though we had no part in his actions ten years ago, we created the monster.” He looked down at the table, then back at Alex. “And I protected him, rescued him from you and the Pisanis.”
Alex stared at him, hating him at that moment. “Then help me now,” he said. “Tell me where the sonofabitch is and how I can reach him.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Bugayev said. He leaned forward, holding Alex’s gaze. “But we know one of Montoya’s men purchased an airline ticket in Bogotá a few days ago. And we also know a limousine has been rented in that man’s name in Marseilles the day he is due to arrive. We suspect it is Montoya who is coming, using his lieutenant’s name.” He smiled at the foolishness of the man. “The limousine is a white Mercedes, one of the ridiculously long ones favored by your movie stars and rock musicians. The idiot might as well be leaving a trail of bread crumbs.” His eyes hardened. “Find him and follow him, and I expect Ludwig won’t be far behind.”
“When is the plane due to arrive?” Alex asked.
“In four days,” Bugayev said. Then he gave him the name of the airline and the flight number.
Michelle was waiting in the car when Alex came out of the restaurant. A second car, holding the Pisani men, was parked behind her, and the two men who had been stationed at the front of the restaurant now climbed into the rear of Alex’s car.
“The man at the window? That was the Russian you told me about?” Michelle asked.
“That was him.”
“I am disappointed,” she said. “He didn’t look nearly as dangerous as I expected.”
“That’s why he’s dangerous,” Alex said.
Michelle thought about that and nodded. “Did you learn what you hoped?” she asked.
“Some of it.”
“And what do we do now?”
“We go to see Meme and Antoine, and tell them what we’ve learned.”
“Will you tell your people as well?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You do not trust them, do you?”
“Not for a minute,” Alex said.
“If it is a limousine, then he is going out of the city,” Meme said, when Alex had told him what he had learned. “The man could not be fool enough to call attention to himself that way if he was staying in Marseilles. Right in our own nest. And if he goes to Aix, then we know it is Francisci who is helping him, and we will hit him with everything we have.”
“As long as we hit Ludwig as well,” Alex said.
“If it is Francisci and we cut off his head, then we cut off Ludwig’s protection. After that he will not be hard to find,” Meme said.
“We will not disappoint you, Alex.” It was Antoine, and his eyes glittered with anger. “We have not forgotten the Street of Pistols, and the infamy we found there ten years ago.”
“I know you haven’t, Uncle. I just don’t want him to have a chance to run again.”
“He will not run,” Meme said. “He will die here in France. He has spilled too much of our blood here.” He looked at Michelle, nodded to her. “I promise you both this. No matter what it costs me.”
“Just leave Ludwig for me,” Alex said.
“Only if I don’t reach him first,” Michelle said.
Alex looked at her, then nodded himself. He intended to see that did not happen. But he could not argue with the woman’s intent.
They were in the Pisani study, and the tension in the room seemed palpable, almost like another person seated among them.
“I will go to the club and prepare things,” Antoine said. “I want men at the airport and all along the roads to Aix. We will take no chances with this.”
Antoine walked to his desk and pressed a buzzer. The door to the study opened almost immediately, and Jo-Jo Valeria stepped inside.
“Yes, Padrone,” he said.
“Get a car ready for me,” Antoine snapped. “I want to go to Club Paradise. Call ahead and tell the men I am coming, and that I have work for them. I want three men with me now. We have weapons to bring the others, and I want all of you with me to be well armed,” he added.
“I will go with you myself, Padrone,” Jo-Jo said. He seemed excited by the prospect.
Meme stared at his brother. “Be careful,” he said. “Take the bullet-proof car.”
Antoine grunted.
When they returned to the apartment in the Opera district, Michelle could still feel the tension that had permeated their meeting with the brothers. It had confused her then, but she thought she understood it now. It was the cold, merciless planning that went into death delivered on a large scale. They wouldn’t just be killing the man who had murdered her husband and child. They would be killing everyone who was with him, anyone who had or would try to help him. And no one who got in the way would be left untouched. And the people who would do most of the killing—the Pisani men—wouldn’t even have a reason, other than it was expected of them. She felt a shiver go through her. When they left, Antoine had been headed into the basement, where she knew a hidden room held an arsenal of weapons. To bring them to his men, she told herself. To get them ready for all the killing.
They were going to war, and it was something she had never experienced before. It frightened and repulsed her. And still, she wanted it. And perhaps that frightened her most of all.
She went to the window and stared down into the street. The Opera district, a place visitors to Marseilles found so curious and titillating. A place filled with whores and thieves and people who would cut your throat if told to do so. And now they were out there—many of them—watching so she and Alex could do their killing, and so that no one could get to them before they did. She watched a young woman swaying her hips as she walked along the street, trying to attract attention, because that was how she earned her living. How she was allowed to do it, told to.
And how different are you? she wondered. And is this the final memory you’re to have of your beautiful child?
“Are you all right?” Alex asked. He had taken off his suit coat, thrown it on a chair, and begun mixing them both a drink.
She turned to face him “Yes, I’m fine,” she said. Then she looked at him and smiled. “No, I’m not fine. But I will be.” It’s too late, she told herself. Much too late to go back.
“It takes time,” he said. “To get used to it, I mean.”
“You mean to get ready to kill someone?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “I’m ready to kill him. I’ve been ready for it for almost a year. I’m just not ready for all the other killing it seems it will involve. I hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“No one ever does,” Alex sai
d. He stared at her, wanting to make his words gentle. “Do you remember what you told me in Cervione? How the vengeance always seemed to get out of hand? Kept on, even though people didn’t really want it to?” He watched her nod her head. “It’s like that now, Michelle. And you can’t change it. Just remember, the others all played a part in what Ludwig did. And they did it because they wanted to, because it was in their interests to do it. Try to think of it that way.”
“And will it be that way for us?” she asked. A hint of fear had returned to her eyes. “When we kill him, will there be a price for us to pay? Will it go on and on for us too?”
“It could,” he said. “It could turn out like that for us too. We’ll have to deal with that when it happens. If it happens.” He stared at her, then started forward, their drinks in his hands. “You can leave it, you know. Let me do it for you.”
She shook her head. “No, I can’t,” she said. “The hatred’s too much a part of me. I’ve made it that way.” She took the drink he handed her, her fingers trembling as they touched the cold glass. The drink slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.
“Oh, God,” she said.
Alex put his own drink on the table and reached out and drew her to him. She felt soft and warm, and she rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He slipped his arms around her and ran his hands gently along her back.
“It will be all right,” he said. “We’ll survive it, and then we’ll walk away from it.”
“I want that, Alex,” she said. “I want it to be over. I want to leave it and never have to go back to it.”
He stepped back and took her face between his hands. “It’s what I want too,” he said. “If I could leave it now, I would. I just can’t.”
She nodded, her face moving against his hands.
He smiled at her, then leaned forward and kissed away a tear that was moving along her cheek. She was that young, innocent girl again. The one he had known in Corsica. And all the feelings he had felt then—feelings he had forced down and hidden—came back to him now. He moved his lips to her mouth and kissed her softly. Her arms slid up behind him, and he could feel a sudden heat come off her body.
After a time, she pulled her head back and looked at him.
“I want you, Alex,” she said. “I wanted you as a girl in Cervione, and I want you now, as a woman.”
He smiled at her again, telling her with his eyes it was the same for him. Then he drew her to him again.
CHAPTER
40
Antoine’s car moved through narrow streets, weaving its way to Club Paradise in an intricate backtracking route. Antoine was in the back, Jo-Jo Valeria beside him. Two others were in the front, the one in the passenger seat armed with an Uzi already set on full automatic and capable of spitting out two hundred rounds a minute. The trunk of the car held an arsenal of shotguns, pistols, and assault rifles, along with a sealed box of hand grenades stolen from the French Army.
“Why are we going this way?” Antoine snapped. “I want to get there. I don’t want a fucking tour of the city.”
“It is my fault,” Jo-Jo said. “It’s easier to see someone behind us on these narrow streets. I’m sorry, Padrone. It is for your safety.”
Antoine slapped Jo-Jo’s knee. “You’re like an old woman sometimes,” he said. He snorted. “And I’m like an old bull who thinks it may be his last time to fuck a cow.”
Antoine stared out the window, watching the quiet residential dwellings roll past. There were a few young children playing on the sidewalks as their mothers watched over them. A simple life, he told himself. With a husband and father who came home from work and took pleasure in his family. Something you have never known, except from a distance.
He felt the bulk of the old Colt .45 automatic stuck in his waistband, the barrel digging at his groin. It was the same weapon Piers had given him years ago. And he had used it then, and since. And, God willing, he told himself, he would use it again now. It’s the life you have chosen for yourself, and, God help you, you have enjoyed it.
The car pulled up at a stop sign, leading into a larger road. There was no traffic moving along the one-way street, and Antoine wondered at that, given the time of day. He leaned forward and looked to the side from which traffic should be coming. The police had set up a barricade, and there was a truck with workers in the middle of the road, looking as though they were preparing to dig. Just leaning on their shovels, he told himself. Lazy French bastards.
“Do we have enough room to get around?” he asked the driver.
The man pointed to an abandoned gas station. “I can cut through there,” he said. “Then we’ll be clear, Padrone.”
Antoine sat back, grunting his annoyance. No one worked in Marseilles anymore. They were all a bunch of fucking communists who expected everything to be given to them.
The car pulled out and swung wide, around the truck and the workers, cutting toward the abandoned gas station. A burst of automatic-weapon fire raked the front and rear tires on the driver’s side, shredding them and sending the wheel covers flying into the street. The driver fought for control as the car rocked and skidded, the right front fender smashing into the gas pumps, jolting the car to a halt.
“Out,” Antoine shouted. “Get the bastards.” He was seated on the rear passenger side, shielded by the car, and he flung open the door, the old Colt already in his hand, and threw his bulky body to the pavement.
The driver started out, but was thrown back by a fusillade of bullets, his body rag-like, spraying blood across the interior of the car, dead before he hit the seat.
The man on the passenger side was out and firing his Uzi over the top of the car, the weapon cutting an arc through the attacking force.
Jo-Jo tumbled out behind Antoine, his own automatic in his hand. “Fucker,” he mumbled, then turned and fired two rounds into the side of the man with the Uzi.
Antoine turned with the sound and swung his pistol into Jo-Jo’s head, knocking him to the ground.
“You fucking whore,” he roared. He leveled the pistol and fired just as a four-round burst slammed into his side. His bullet struck Jo-Jo in the arm, smashing the bone and almost severing it from his body.
Antoine struggled to his knees and emptied his automatic at the man coming toward him, a Mach 10 in his hands. The man’s body spun and flew off to the side.
Two more bullets struck Antoine in the chest, knocking him back to a sitting position. He looked up and saw a blond man coming toward him, a long stiletto flashing in his hand. He struggled back to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth now, knowing who the man was and wanting him before he died.
As Ludwig reached him, Antoine threw his body forward, his bear-like arms snapping about the younger man’s waist, pinning his hands to his sides. He stood, lifting Ludwig with him, squeezing his midsection with all his strength, praying he would have enough to break his spine.
Ludwig howled in pain, his feet kicking in the air, his knees fighting to find the old man’s groin. But still Antoine held on, squeezing, his face pressed into Ludwig’s chest.
“Die, you Nazi cunt,” he growled, drawing in a breath and squeezing harder. “Come to hell with me, you bastard,” he managed once more.
A .32-caliber bullet smashed into the right side of Antoine’s head, blowing a massive chunk of bone and brain and blood out the left. His hulking old body crumbled to the ground, dropping Ludwig beside him.
Jo-Jo stared down at his dead Padrone. “Old pig,” he hissed, his wounded arm hanging at his side, pouring blood, his other still holding a .32-caliber Beretta outstretched.
Ludwig struggled to his feet and kicked Antoine’s lifeless body. “You old bastard,” he snarled. “You fucking old bastard.”
He glared at Jo-Jo, offering no thanks, nothing. “You stay here,” he snapped. “You survived the attack. Understand?”
Jo-Jo nodded, momentarily wanting to blow the man’s face off.
Ludwig knelt and turned Antoine’s body o
nto its back. The stiletto flashed in his hand.
“Now, you old pig. I’ll leave a present for your fucking brother.”
Michelle lay against him, her head against Alex’s shoulder, her fingers tracing through the hair on his chest. He felt so good to her, as she had known he would, the flash of guilt she had felt at first gone now. Dismissed as the foolishness it was.
She had not been with another man since her husband’s death. She had felt the physical need, but had not wanted to share it. Now it was different, and she understood why.
He had been as gentle, as tender as she knew he would be. He had been patient with her, had felt her momentary reluctance, and had given her time to decide. Just stroking her, petting her like a child who needed comfort, reassurance.
And the fire had come to her, just as she had known it would. She had wanted him with such intensity she could hardly wait. She could barely control herself to give him the pleasure she wanted him to feel. With her. This first time between them.
He had seemed to sense it then, and he entered her, filled her with himself, the sensation of it after so long driving her to a frenzy. They had made love a second time later. Long and slow and languorous love. And then she had given him the pleasure she had wanted him to have, thinking how much better it was now. Now that she was a woman and knew what she could give and how to give it.
“Did you think of making love to me in Cervione?” she asked, her fingers still toying with the hair on his chest.
“At least once a day,” he said. He wondered if that were really true. He knew he had thought of her that way, couldn’t help himself. But he thought he had dismissed it. His mind too turbulent, too filled with rage to sustain anything else. He stroked her back, feeling the soft skin that was damp now with the heat of their lovemaking.
“Perhaps you should have,” she said.
“I would have been killed,” he said. “The entire village would have hung me from a tree.”
She laughed, pressing her face into his chest. “Yes, that is likely. But because you were under the Pisanis’ protection, perhaps they would only have cut certain parts from you.”
Corsican Honor Page 37