Michelle cringed at the sound of his laughter, fought off the shudder she felt coursing through her body. She could play up to him, get him to untie her hands, she told herself. Give herself a chance to get to the knife in the pocket of her skirt. But the thought revolted her: The idea of his hands touching her, for whatever purpose, was more than she could bear.
Ludwig knelt beside her, keeping to the side of her leg, out of range of any blow. He reached inside her open blouse and cupped her breast in his hand. Michelle began to pull away, but he squeezed her breast and pulled her toward him, causing her to cry out in pain.
“Ah, a cry of passion,” he purred. “I do so like to hear that in a lover.” He laughed again and mocked her with his eyes. “Tears of joy. They so become you,” he said.
He reached up to wipe away a tear moving slowly down her cheek. Michelle’s head snapped to his hand, and her teeth clamped down, and she let out a cry of rage as she bit through the flesh, feeling his blood in her mouth, tasting it.
Ludwig howled in pain and surprise, and he reared back and sent the Uzi crashing into the side of her head. Michelle’s body fell back; her head hit the floor with a loud crack, and her eyelids momentarily fluttered as she lost consciousness.
Ludwig raised the Uzi, preparing to bring it down in a crushing blow to her skull. His eyes were filled with rage and pain, and his mouth twisted into an obscene mask. Then he grew suddenly calm. Staring at the woman, he sucked on the wound to his hand. He would wait, he told himself. Keep her alive until the end. Then kill her with all the misery he could give her. He looked at the wound, at the trickle of blood that had started up again, and his eyes flared. Then he leaned forward and spat in her face.
Alex placed the phone call and listened to an American-accented voice speak to him in French. He was given another location, another telephone number to call. Another ten minutes to do it.
“And Ludwig wants you to know he’s fucking her now,” the voice added.
“Your French stinks,” Alex said, and hung up the phone.
He returned to the car, punched out Meme’s number, and passed on the new location.
“The man from the cafe,” the voice said. “He did not follow you.” He gave Alex the location to which the CIA man had been followed.
Alex’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. You should have known, he told himself. You should have known where he would go to do his killing. He snapped out instructions to the man, then checked the rearview mirror to reassure himself he wasn’t being followed, and spun the car into a sharp right turn into a narrow side street. He pressed the accelerator to the floor.
Michelle regained consciousness slowly, the pain in her head throbbing, bringing a new rush of tears to her eyes. She fought back a moan as she turned to see where Ludwig was. He was across the room, his back to her, and he was fixing a rope to the ceiling, giving the task his full attention.
Michelle twisted her body, moving the side of her full skirt under her so her bound hands could reach the knife. She slid it clumsily from the pocket, brought it behind her back, then pressed the button and snapped the blade into place. Slowly, awkwardly, she struggled to bring its razor edge against the ropes that held her wrists.
The figure approached the telephone booth and dialed the number, then listened to the American-accented voice rattle off yet another, and give directions to a third location some fifteen minutes away. Another obscene message followed, but the caller only grunted in response, then replaced the receiver and returned to the car, which was identical to the other Pisani-owned vehicle Alex had been driving.
The man’s name was Michel Bonaventura, and he had worked for the Pisani faction for more than twenty years. He was the same height and weight and age as Alex, and had dressed earlier in clothing identical to that which Alex was wearing. From a distance there was no way to tell he was not the man he was portraying.
Alex walked along the Street of Refuge, barely feeling the worn cobblestones beneath his feet, more than aware of the thick film of sweat forming beneath his clothing. Despite the planning, despite the cold deliberation he had imposed upon himself, Ludwig had reached him. Meme’s men had followed the CIA agent who had watched Alex in the rue de Rome cafe to a building on the Street of Pistols. Ludwig had set their final reckoning in the basement where Alex had found Stephanie’s body ten years earlier.
Alex entered the dark alley where Meme and five of his men waited. To the west, at the other end of the block-long Street of Pistols, a half dozen more of Meme’s men cut off that route of escape. Bugayev, who had insisted on lending his support, had stationed men along the outside perimeter of the area, out of range of any armed conflict with CIA agents aiding Ludwig but effectively eliminating any routes of escape by means of the labyrinthine tunnels that crisscrossed the old quarter of the city. Everything—every detail of the plan they had meticulously prepared to trap Ludwig—was now in place. Everything was ready except the main ingredient. Alex Moran himself.
“The man from the café went inside the building,” Meme said. “First he met with others, who later took up positions in buildings across the street. We know where each of them are, and can get to them before you move.”
“And the man inside?” Alex asked.
“It will be hard to reach him without alerting Ludwig,” Meme said. “Ludwig will not escape in any event, but—”
“He’ll kill Michelle,” Alex said, finishing the sentence.
“I do not want her killed,” Meme said. There was no accusation in his words, just a simple statement of fact. “So there seems only one solution.”
“Let the man inside take me,” Alex said.
“He may kill you before you have a chance to kill him,” Meme said.
“No. Ludwig wants that for himself. The man will disarm me and take me to him. It will give Ludwig time to do it pleasurably. He never had that chance ten years ago. He only had time to leave me a gift. I think he felt cheated.”
Meme watched his nephew and knew he was fighting back the image of that time, the memory of the failure he had felt then. There was a line of sweat on Alex’s forehead, and his eyes held a look of uncertainty Meme had seldom seen there before.
“You must do this thing,” Meme said. “I will send men into the tunnels to be as close to you as possible, but men coming in with you would be heard. If this pig knows more than two men are approaching, he may panic, kill Michelle, and run.”
Alex nodded and turned to go. Meme grasped his arm.
“I have something for you,” he said. He nodded to one of his men, who began removing a thin, brightly braided rope from around his neck. It looked like a decorative necklace beneath the open collar of his shirt.
“What is it?” Alex asked.
“An old Corsican weapon,” Meme said. He took the braided necklace from the man and held it up in the dim light. Attached to the back was a small sheath fitted with a short-bladed combat-style knife.
“It goes around the neck, under the shirt,” Meme said. “The knife hangs between the shoulder blades, high up near the back of the neck. When you are searched, clasp your hands behind your head, then lean your head forward. The knife will rise up under your collar close enough to your hands to reach it.”
Alex removed the knife from the sheath. It was flat and compact, and even the handle was no more than a quarter of an inch wide. The blade was four inches, just long enough for a kill, and razor sharp.
“It will kill quickly,” Meme said. “It is best to face your enemy after you are disarmed, with your hands still behind your head. Then strike while he is confident he has removed all threat.”
Alex nodded and fitted the thick braid around his neck, then practiced the technique several times. The weapon was beautifully balanced and far more concealable than any of the small combat knives used by the military. But then, they were seldom searched as the Corsicans were.
“Will you kill him before he takes you to Ludwig?” Meme asked.
�
�If he gives me the opportunity,” Alex said.
Meme’s eyes hardened, turning coal black and gleaming in the dim light.
“Take your time with Ludwig,” he said. “Kill him slowly. Let him feel his death coming for a long time. Do it for Stephanie, and for Antoine, and for Michelle’s husband and baby.” He clasped Alex’s arm with surprising strength. “And do it for me,” he said.
Alex nodded, not knowing how to respond to this old man he had known and cared for since childhood. But he knew, after this day, he would never feel the same about him again.
The Corsicans moved into the buildings where the CIA team had stationed itself. Each man was armed with a silenced weapon, and each penetrated the buildings through the basement tunnels that had been known and used by the milieu for decades.
The CIA men never had a chance to defend themselves. All died quickly, never understanding how they had been found, never able to give a warning of the Corsicans’ attack.
The Corsicans left the bodies where they fell and re-entered the tunnels, making their way to the building across the street, ordered to remain far enough back to avoid alerting Ludwig of their presence. They were there to kill him if Alex failed. It was their only purpose. Alex was now on his own. They were simply a final fail-safe device for Meme’s brand of Corsican justice.
Alex turned into the Street of Pistols, his mind racing with the same walk he had taken ten years before. Then he had been looking for a small mark on one of the doors, and he had been sweating and frightened and uncertain what he would face. This time there was no mark, no question what awaited him. But the other feelings were the same. He knew only he had to survive long enough to see Ludwig dead. That, and to keep Michelle from his butcher’s hands.
Ludwig turned and caught her watching him. Michelle’s immediate impulse was to feign unconsciousness again, but she instinctively knew it was too late, that it would only provoke him, perhaps even arouse his curiosity and make him search her again. And she couldn’t afford that. The knife had not yet finished its work; the rope still held her wrists.
She looked past him, to the heavier rope that hung from the rafters. He followed her gaze, then looked back at her. The hate-filled smile had returned.
“It is where his wife was when he found her,” Ludwig said. “Of course, she was quite dead.” He walked slowly forward, then knelt at her side. “I never had the pleasure of seeing his face then. It was most disappointing.” The smile widened. He was choosing not to say why the rope was there again, but Michelle had no illusions about that.
“It was a shame,” Ludwig said. He reached out and stroked her cheek. This time she did not pull away, and it seemed to surprise him.
“Being forced to kill the woman, I mean.” He ran his finger along her blouse, near the unbuttoned portion above her breasts. “She was wonderful, sexually. A very giving, passionate woman. Alex must have enjoyed her favors immensely.” He raised his eyebrows lasciviously. “Of course, she did like to spread them around a bit. But I’m sure it was better than being with a frigid French bitch.” He ran his hand along the top of her breast. Michelle ignored it.
“I am not French,” she said. “I am Corsican.” She twisted her wrists, praying it would force the final strands of rope to give way. It made her move closer to his hand.
“Well, then perhaps I was wrong about you.” Ludwig cupped her breast, believing the movement he had just felt was intended for his hand. His eyes glittered. He was convinced now he would have everything he had intended. Michelle’s jaw tightened, and she fought off the scream of rage she felt building inside. These were the same hands that had killed her child, her husband. And now they were touching her.
“Why did you kill her if she was so good to you?” she asked, buying time, praying her hands would become free. She could see his mind work quickly, searching out a facile lie.
He offered a faint, regretful shrug. His hand was working at her breast now, one finger lightly brushing the nipple, and she saw pleasure come to his eyes. She twisted her wrists again. Still nothing.
“There was no choice,” he said. “I couldn’t get to him. He was too well protected by your fellow Corsicans. And I had to make him pay, don’t you see? And, unfortunately, she was the only means I had.”
He shook his head in mock regret. Her nipple between his fingers was erect from the stimulation, and he was rubbing it more roughly, convinced he had finally aroused a sexual need.
“It is different this time,” he said. He nodded toward the rope hanging from the rafters. “There is no need for that, if I choose.” He looked at her eyes, wanting to be certain she understood. “I wish the same had been true for her, for Alex’s wife.” He closed his eyes momentarily, as if recalling the pleasure the woman had given him. “Her mouth. It was exquisite what she could do with it.”
The thought came to Michelle in a sudden, revolting rush. He would give her the same opportunity, and he would do it eagerly. She could take him in her mouth, and she could bite down with all the ferocity she felt. She could severe his member from his body, leave him screaming in pain as the blood gushed from his body, unable to be stopped. He would kill her, but he would die as well. She pressed against his hand, intentionally this time.
“I am told I do that better than anyone,” she said. She pushed away all doubt, all the revulsion she felt, and forced her eyes to become coy. “But I don’t know. I only know it is something that has always given me pleasure.” She smiled. “Since I was a young girl.” She could feel his fingers tighten on her nipple, and she felt a strange sense of arousal now, with the knowledge that she might soon be able to kill him.
Ludwig placed the Uzi beside him, his hand moving to the zipper on his trousers, the other still working her breast—more feverishly, urgently. Michelle twisted her wrists again. Again, nothing.
Ludwig reached inside his pants, then froze. The other hand pulled away from her breast. His eyes searched her face, then seemed to reach a conclusion.
“You’re a clever bitch,” he said. “But what if I said I just wanted to fuck you? Would you spread your legs for me?” He sneered at her, defying her to make his words false.
“I would be disappointed not to have the other first,” she said. She fought to keep the coy look in her eyes, parted her lips slightly to make her mouth more alluring.
Ludwig shook his head. His eyes were sly and knowing.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Suddenly I don’t trust your mouth. But your cunt, I trust that.” He reached under her skirt and began to pull roughly at her pants.
Michelle pushed away, forcing herself back along the filthy floor. Her eyes filled with the rage she had held in check.
“You never had the woman, did you?” she baited. “You only said it to cause Alex pain.” Her mouth twisted with the overwhelming hate she felt. “But what woman would want a pig like you?” she snapped. “I’ll bet you tried with his wife, and you made her sick. It’s probably why you killed her. Because you couldn’t stand her being sick at the sight of you.”
Ludwig drew back his fist and sent it crashing into her cheek. The blow snapped Michelle’s head back, and her mind instantly clouded, only the faint sensation of pain fighting through. Her head began to clear, and she felt both his hands beneath her skirt, pulling viciously at her pants. She drew her knees up and began kicking wildly, not directing the blows, striking out at any part of him within reach.
A foot connected with Ludwig’s groin, and he gasped and doubled over in pain. Then his rage swelled up again, and he threw himself on top of her, one hand seizing her throat, the other, in a fist now, crashing into her face again and again.
Michelle’s consciousness began to fade under the pain and the repeated concussions. Ludwig’s face began to spin in front of her, and it seemed to move farther and farther away as she gradually weakened and finally lost consciousness. The last thing that registered in her head was the snapping of the rope that held her wrists.
Alex moved up
the stairs he had climbed ten years earlier, feeling the same sensation of cold and sweat and terror he had felt then. It was as though nothing had changed; the intervening years had never occurred, and he had simply chosen to relive a horror that would repeat itself again and again and again.
He reached out and took hold of the doorknob, feeling the cold metal against the wetness of his hand, and he pushed the door open and stepped slowly inside. His hands were empty, the Walther automatic still tucked into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. He moved into the darkened hall, and it seemed the same cooking smells, the same dankness, still permeated the walls, and he saw the same small shaft of light coming from the stairwell that led to the basement.
Ten years ago he had heard a man cough, and the sound of it had terrified him, sent him flat against the wall, pistol raised and ready to kill. Now there was nothing, not the faintest hint of life, and the silence somehow seemed ominous, more threatening.
He stepped toward the basement stairwell, knowing he would be stopped soon, fighting not to anticipate where the man would come from. He wanted the man confident in his element of surprise. He wanted him to feel a sense of satisfaction at his own deftness, his ability to lure a target in and take him easily, almost effortlessly. He wanted him cocky, self-assured.
He felt the cold, hard pressure behind his right ear as he reached the basement door. The voice was equally cold, but there was also a degree of pleasure in it.
“I don’t want to kill you, Moran,” the man said. “It would upset your buddy downstairs if I did. But if I have to, I don’t much give a shit about upsetting him. Understand?”
Alex raised his hands slowly, cautiously, knowing it was what the man would want, and placed them on the back of his head.
“It’s in the waistband, at the back,” he said.
The man went for the pistol and tucked it into his own belt, then began to run his hands along Alex’s chest and waist, then arms and legs and sides.
Corsican Honor Page 47