“Perhaps I will let you see me. Before I leave. Just for old time’s sake,” Ludwig said. Bugayev heard him laugh again before the line went dead.
“You must calm yourself,” Bugayev said. “I believe he has made a mistake this time. And I think it will allow us to get to him.”
They were at the KGB safe house, and Alex was pacing the front room like a caged cat. His fists, held rigidly at his sides, opened and closed, and Bugayev thought he might lash out at anyone who came too close.
“Ludwig doesn’t make mistakes,” Alex snapped. “He only makes it appear that he has.”
“Perhaps,” Bugayev conceded. “But we have nothing to lose in seeing if he has. My men are already working on it.”
Alex stopped pacing and turned to face him. “What mistake?” he asked.
“He has given us a telephone number, and time to find its location. I have already confirmed it is not a public booth. It is a private line, in a house or apartment here in Marseilles.” He watched Alex begin to pace again. “We can hit it, before six-forty-five, and then we will know.”
“He’ll kill her,” Alex said.
“Yes,” Bugayev agreed. “I think he will. No matter what we do or do not do.” He gave Alex time to digest that. “I will do whatever you think best,” he said at length.
Alex stopped and stared through the doorway that led to the rear room, and the sliding glass doors at which Michelle had stood only hours before. Watching the family next door, she had been thinking of her own dead child, and he remembered the pain that had been etched on her face. All she would want was Ludwig dead, he told himself. Nothing else would matter to her. But it did to him.
“We’ll do as you suggest,” he finally said. “But I want my uncle’s men involved too. They’re better at moving around the city unnoticed.” He stared at Bugayev. “And I want you to do one other thing for me, Sergei.”
“What is that?” the Russian asked.
“I want you to contact Wheelwright and find out where my father is. And then watch him. If Michelle dies, I’ll want to get to him quickly,” Alex said.
Bugayev nodded, but the request sent a shiver through his body.
The apartment was located in an empty building which was undergoing extensive renovations, in a block behind the Basilica of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. Alex, together with five Pisani men and three KGB agents, hit it at six-thirty-five, using blue-light stun grenades to immobilize anyone inside. The precaution proved unnecessary. Neither Ludwig nor Michelle was there. The telephone, which Ludwig had obviously rigged himself, was connected to an answering machine, on which a recorded message had been left. Alex played the message and heard a voice other than the one he had expected.
“You must go to a telephone located in a café on the corner of La Canebière and rue de Rome,” Michelle’s voice said. “From there you must call this number.”
Alex listened as the number was given. Hearing her voice, doing Ludwig’s bidding, he could hardly breathe.
“Alex,” the message continued, then paused before going on, “Ludwig wants you to know you will be watched when you go there. He said to tell you, he assumes you are standing in the apartment now, listening to this recording. He said he is sorry you wasted your time. He also says you will be watched as you complete the next instruction. And he wants me to tell you …” There was a pause, then a voice in the background before she continued. Alex could not hear what the voice had said.
“He wants you to remember what happened ten years ago, when you did not do as he said. And he wants you to remember what happened with your wife before she died. He said those things can happen again. He said to tell you he knows you will understand. That he just can’t help himself.”
The recording ended, and the machine automatically began to rewind. Alex stood staring at it, the whirring sound of the machine assaulting his mind. There had been an obvious tremor in Michelle’s voice, but he hadn’t been able to tell if it had come from fear or barely controlled rage. And he wondered if she had understood what Ludwig had meant when he alluded to Stephanie. If Ludwig had described in vivid detail what he had done to Stephanie. Done with her, before he had taken her life. He knew personally how much the man enjoyed telling it.
“What will you do?” Bugayev asked. He had entered the apartment immediately after the raid and stood next to Alex, listening to the message.
“I’ll do as he says,” Alex said. “I’ll do everything exactly as he wants it done.” He turned to Bugayev, and his eyes were like nothing the Russian had ever seen before. “And then I’ll do what I’ve been waiting to do for ten years,” he said.
“You did extremely well,” Ludwig said as he removed the headphones he had been wearing. They were fed by the small microphone he had secreted in the apartment, and he had just listened to Michelle’s recording and the reaction it had produced from Alex.
Michelle sat before him, her body trembling with rage. She had been forced to help this man cause Alex even more pain. And then to spy on him. To give him an advantage that would help end Alex’s life. She twisted against the ropes that bound her wrists behind her back. The effort brought a smile to Ludwig’s lips. He glanced across the room.
“Don’t you think she did extremely well?” he asked. His voice was mocking, filled with an elated assurance about what would follow.
Raphael Rivera turned from the window. He had been watching Alex and the others leave the empty building across the street.
“They’re leaving now,” Rivera said, ignoring Ludwig’s question.
“Is Moran taking anyone with him?”
Rivera turned back to the window. “No, he’s leaving in a car by himself. The others are just standing around, trying to decide what to do next.”
“And your man is stationed near the telephone at the café?”
“Just as we planned,” Rivera said.
Ludwig turned back to Michelle and stroked her cheek. She jerked her head away from him. He looked down at her and laughed.
“Make sure your men are well stationed around the final location,” Ludwig said, his eyes still on the woman. “I want to be sure any help that follows Moran is well taken care of.”
“We know our job,” Rivera said. “You just make sure you do your part as we planned it.”
Ludwig’s head snapped toward Rivera, his eyes glaring at the implied rebuke. Rivera softened his tone.
“I don’t want her killed until Moran gets there. I don’t want it screwed up because he failed to show.” He walked toward Ludwig, trying with his eyes and expression to mollify the man.
“It has to look like they killed each other in some dispute over drugs,” Rivera said. “I don’t want anybody back in Washington drumming up sympathy for Moran and forcing an investigation. That won’t help any of us.”
Ludwig turned back to Michelle and reached out to her face again, taking it between his fingers this time and forcing her to look at him.
“Don’t worry,” Ludwig said. “I have no intention of killing her too soon.” He smiled down at her. “And perhaps she won’t have to die at all.” His smile widened, became even more mocking. “Not if she’s especially good to me.”
Rivera had returned to the window and was looking down into the street.
“The others are leaving now,” he said. “As soon as we get the next phone call, we can head for the next location.”
“I can’t wait,” Ludwig said. He was still holding Michelle’s face, still forcing her to look up at him. “I imagine you’re anxious to get there too,” he said to her. His smile had grown grotesquely sexual. “It will be very nice indeed,” he said. “You will see how wonderful it will be.”
CHAPTER
48
Alex punched a button on the visor and disconnected the car telephone. It was a new design that did not require the user to hold it and therefore avoided any unwanted attention.
His uncle had responded tersely to the call, his voice filled with the cold dispassion th
at seemed to mark everything the man did. It was just the way Alex wanted it. Cold and hard and lacking emotion. Ludwig had manipulated his emotions ten years earlier, had kept him stumbling along blindly, terrified at every turn. But not this time. This time he would play it like one of the Special Forces exercises he had run. He would play it coldly and professionally. Not give the bastard any edge he could use.
Michelle forced her way into his thoughts, and he pushed her away. It would do no good to think about her, about what might be happening to her even now. He could help her only by getting to Ludwig quickly and killing him before he could harm her. It was the only thing he would allow himself to think about. Just get to the bastard. Get to him fast.
He pulled the car into an illegal space in front of the café at La Canebière and rue du Rome. It was eight o’clock on Saturday, and the café was alive with couples enjoying a light evening meal.
He made his way to the telephone and found it in use. A young woman was speaking excitedly, angrily at times. To a boyfriend, he supposed. One who had failed to show up as expected. He waited, not allowing the delay to reach him.
The CIA man—one of Rivera’s people, who had been flown in from Bogotá—watched Alex from a nearby table, making it seem he too was observing the antics of the woman.
The target looked too calm, the man thought. Too loose and controlled. Not at all the way he would have wanted him if he were running this hunt. If a target had to know you were after him, he preferred them jittery and tight. They made mistakes that way, and they didn’t watch their surroundings as they should.
The man returned to the omelet he had ordered, not wanting to make his observations too obvious. It would have made him stick out not to have had his attention drawn to the woman’s anger. But too much curiosity, he knew, would be just as bad.
He mouthed a forkful of cheese-drenched egg. He didn’t understand why they just didn’t hit the bastard now and have done with it. Take him on the street and let the French police work it out. Christ, the man’s connections with the French underworld should provide enough reasons for anyone. But Rivera wanted it to look like a drug deal—was insistent about it—and that just seemed like one helluva lot of overkill to him.
But, shit, what did he care? The team would do its job and be on their way back to sunny South America the next day. Back to all those lovely señoritas who liked to sweat when they did it. He smiled to himself. Life was good there. And it held the promise of getting even better.
The woman hung up the phone and stormed across the room. Alex took her place, keeping himself cold and relaxed, telling himself the delay had proved beneficial. He had spotted the watcher three tables away. The man’s movements had been good; he had been well schooled. But that was all, and whoever had picked him had done it badly. The man was too big, too bulky to pass as a Frenchman. And the clothing was wrong. It was the wrong style for a continental European, and too formal for an American or British tourist. And the man held his fork in his right hand, something a non-American would never do.
He had committed the man’s features and clothing to memory, and one phone call from the car would have two Pisani men on him as soon as he left. If he simply followed, he’d be taken out of the game. If they were lucky, he’d head to the final destination. Then they’d have Ludwig pinned, and the real game could begin.
The phone rang four times before Ludwig answered, just as Alex knew it would. Part of Ludwig’s plan to raise the level of tension.
“It is déjà vu, Alex, is it not?” Ludwig began without preamble.
“Does seem that way,” Alex said. “Are you ready for me, Ernst?”
“Oh, yes, Alex. And by the way, don’t waste your time tracing these calls. They are being automatically transferred to another location. It is amazing, is it not, how science has improved our lives.” He laughed. “Oh, and your choice in women, it has improved over the years as well. I compliment you. This new one, she is exquisite.”
Alex forced down the rage, allowing it to flow from his body in a momentary pause.
“It’s just your age, Ernst,” he said. “You’ve come to appreciate them more.”
The pause came from Ludwig now. The unexpected calm, the token insult, had thrown him off.
“I hope it won’t be necessary to hurt this one, Alex,” he said. “I hope you’ve overcome your tendency not to do as you are told.”
“Come, Ernst. Let’s not play games. You’ve killed her already.”
“No, no, Alex. I have not. I am saving her. She is quite special.”
“Let’s get on to something important,” Alex said. “Like where I’ll find you.”
Ludwig paused again, hesitant now, uncertain. Moran seemed not to care about the woman, and that didn’t play into the expected scenario.
“You don’t believe me, Alex,” he said, probing. “That hurts me. I like to be thought of as a man of my word.” He hesitated a beat. “Would you like to speak to her?” He paused again, then hurried on before Alex could answer. “Of course you would. But understand if she is a bit breathless. She has been very busy.”
Alex’s hand tightened on the receiver, and he felt the rush of his heart rate, and he forced himself to breathe evenly. It was the only game he had thought possible with Ludwig. Make him wonder if the woman really mattered to him. But just enough doubt. Enough to make him keep her alive, so he could see at the very end. Retain that final bit of perverted pleasure for the last.
“Alex. Don’t come, Alex. He’s—” The phone was pulled away, and the last he heard of her was a small cry of surprise and anger. Her voice had sounded strained, and there had been an edge of fear in it, but he could tell she was fighting it. Ludwig’s voice purred back across the line:
“I think she wants more time with me, Alex,” he said. “And, I must confess, I would like that as well. Your Stephanie had a lovely mouth—oh, I learned that so well over all the months we had together. And I have not yet had time to explore this one’s talents in that area.” He laughed softly. “But I will, Alex. I will take the time.”
Alex remained silent.
“Am I boring you, Alex?” The laughter again. “No, I think not. I think you are just jealous of the pleasure I will have. But enough of that.” He rattled off another telephone number. “You will go to a telephone booth in the parking lot nearest the labor exchange. You have ten minutes, Alex. More time than you need. But I need time to have you watched.” He paused. “Oh, and you will not be speaking to me when you call.” Again the laughter. “I expect to be busy. But the instructions you receive will be mine. See that you follow them precisely.”
The disconnecting buzz hummed in his ear, and Alex replaced the receiver carefully, almost as though it were made of porcelain and might break in his hand. He turned and wound his way through the tables, passing close to the watcher, resisting a primal urge to smash his fist into his face, and headed out to his car.
Thoughts of Michelle were flooding his mind again, and this time he could not push them away. But she was alive. And that was more than anyone—excluding himself—had hoped for. Now, if only he could keep it that way. Just for a while longer. Just a little longer this time.
He punched out Meme’s number on the visor phone as he pulled away from the curb, and immediately heard his soft, cold voice over the speaker. He gave him the description of the watcher and the location to which he was headed.
“My men are outside as we speak,” Meme said. “I too am leaving. But I will have a man here to relay your messages.”
Alex understood. Ludwig had killed Antoine, and Meme wanted to be there when he died, wanted to see his body, even have the satisfaction of killing him if he could. There are too many people after you, Ernst, he told himself as he disconnected the car phone. Too many people with too good a reason to want you dead. He wondered if the man understood that. Wondered if his vanity made him feel secure with the men who were covering his back. I hope so, Ernst, he thought. I truly hope you do.
Ludwig pushed Michelle down the darkened corridor ahead of him and into the large, open room that would be his killing ground. There was a certain poetry to the place he had chosen, and he liked that. Liked the final effect it was sure to have on Moran, the final edge it would put on his nerves before he killed him.
Michelle stumbled and fell, and she floundered, trying to right herself, her hands still bound behind her back, making it difficult. Ludwig pulled her roughly to her feet and turned her toward him.
Immediately her knee shot up, striking for his groin, but he turned his hips and easily warded off the blow. His hand lashed out, slapping the side of her face, and the force of it knocked her to the floor again and loosed a thin line of blood from the corner of her mouth.
He grabbed his crotch and squeezed it provocatively, his eyes glaring down at her.
“Is this what you want?” he hissed. “I will let you have it. I will let you have all of it you can stand.” He stepped forward and used the barrel of the Uzi to spread the opening in her blouse, forcing one button loose, then a second.
Michelle scuttled back along the floor, and he stepped with her, toying with her inept attempt at flight.
“It is too bad I can’t untie your hands,” he said, his voice soft, the terrifying purr back in it now.
“Are you afraid what I might do with them?” Michelle snapped, fighting her fear, struggling for some obscure, unattainable degree of dignity.
Ludwig laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself.
“You are a silly bitch,” he said. “Why not enjoy your final minutes? You would be amazed at the pleasure I could give you.” He laughed again. “Even more than you would get by killing me. Of course, maybe you are the type who has an orgasm when you kill. Is that it?” His face settled into a leering grin. “I can understand that. It has happened that way for me.” He rubbed his crotch in a grotesque mockery of sex. “It makes me hard here, the way women like me to be. Even when they’re dead.” The grin returned. “Perhaps it will again.”
Corsican Honor Page 46