“Just to be sure,” he said, pressing the barrel of his gun even more firmly against Alex’s head, then moving it down along his neck and back as he continued the search.
“You’re early,” the man said. “How come?”
“I remembered this place. Thought I’d check it out.”
“Remembered it?”
“Ludwig killed my wife here. Ten years ago. But he was just a common-variety terrorist then. And I was just a poor slob station chief.” Alex paused a beat. “How does it feel? Helping scum like that against one of your own, you fuck?”
The man jammed the gun harder into Alex’s back, making it arch with pain.
“You’re the fuck, Moran,” he snapped. “You should have followed the Company line or kept your fucking nose out of it. Not play the rogue bastard you’ve always been.” He pressed the pistol in again. “But you don’t have your big boss daddy to save your ass this time. Your daddy’s playing with the A-team. And you’re just an over-the-hill clown who can’t even walk into a building without getting himself nailed. Now move your ass down those stairs.”
“Wait. Listen,” Alex said. “There’s got to be a deal here somewhere.” He began to turn slowly, cautiously, and the man stepped back, the barrel of the pistol rising toward Alex’s chin, the hammer cocked, ready to fire. Alex’s hands were still behind his head, and his eyes seemed to be pleading.
“No deals, Moran. Nothing.”
Alex bent his head forward, as if begging with it. “Just listen to me?” he urged.
The thin handle of the knife came up and his hand slipped around it, then continued in a smooth arching motion while the other hand snapped down at the same time, the soft, meaty flesh between the thumb and index finger jamming inside the hammer, blocking the pistol’s firing pin.
Alex felt the hammer slam into his flesh as the man instinctively pulled the trigger, and his hand closed around the ejection chamber as the knife in his other hand slashed into the man’s neck, cutting deep, severing veins and arteries and muscle, and sending a spurting plume of blood out across the darkened hall.
The man’s body began to convulse, and Alex felt him pulling the trigger again and again. He pulled back the knife, then jammed it forward into the man’s eye and twisted it, slicing as much brain as the four-inch blade would allow.
The pistol dropped from the man’s hand, and his body convulsed again, the muscles losing all control; the legs kicked out, and he began to fall. Alex caught him and eased him to the floor. He smelled the urine and feces as the man who wanted to help him die gave up the last his own life had to offer.
Alex hovered over the man, crouched in the darkness like an animal, his body shaking uncontrollably, his breath jagged and rasping, as he struggled to hear any sound from the basement, any sign that the man’s death had given him away.
Ludwig froze with the sharp sound that seemed to come from above and behind him. His fist was still poised to smash again into Michelle’s face. He looked at her quickly and lowered his hand. There was no need to hit her again. Her face was battered pulp, covered in blood. She was unconscious, possibly even dead. He swung his leg from on top of her and picked up the discarded Uzi, quickly chambering a round and snapping the selector switch to full automatic. Then he remained still, listening, holding his breath so he could hear every sound.
He heard a faint creak, on what could have been the stairs, and he rose slowly to his feet. Moran, he thought. He shouldn’t be here yet, but he could be—he could have figured it out and gambled on finding him. But where were the others, the ones who were supposed to stop him, then bring him down here to die?
He grabbed Michelle by the hair and yanked her to a sitting position, his legs astride her so that her head was below and between his legs. He lowered the barrel of the Uzi to the top of her head and watched the entrance to the stairs. He never saw her hands flop free as he lifted her between his legs.
Alex descended the stairs, close to the wall, the Walther he had retrieved from the dead CIA agent held in both hands, the barrel along his face, almost touching the side of his head. The short hall ahead, the turn into the large basement room, all came back to him, and he felt his heart pounding in his chest, just as he had ten years earlier. You’re going to die, Ludwig, he told himself. No matter what else happens, today you’re going to die.
He edged his way along the dimly lit hall, fighting to control his breath, wanting it steady and even so he could draw one final deep breath, let it partially out, then hold it just as he swung into the room and opened fire. There was no sound coming from the open, dirty basement, just as there had been nothing all those years before when he had entered it, ready to kill the same man, only to find his wife hanging there, butchered like an animal.
His heart began to pound even faster, and his breath seemed to come in gasps as he thought of finding Michelle there dead and butchered, left by Ludwig as some perversely repeated joke.
He took the final three steps, knowing he should hesitate, wait for some sound of movement, some indication of direction to which he should turn. But he couldn’t, and he spun into the room, the Walther out before him now, both eyes open, sighting down the barrel.
“Don’t, Moran, or she’s dead.”
Alex stared at Ludwig’s face, at Michelle’s bloodied features, held between his legs. He saw the Uzi against her skull, Ludwig’s finger on the trigger, seeming larger than life. It all came in flashes, more images being added each mini-second, as if his brain were shorting out, suddenly operating in fast forward and fighting to keep up with the information.
Ludwig’s filthy smile came to him. Then the contrasting hard eyes. Then finally his voice, as everything began to slow, return to normal speed. The pistol in his hand began to waver; the hand itself began to tremble, and he struggled to steady it.
“You figured it out,” Ludwig said. “I hadn’t counted on that. Didn’t give you that much credit.” He moved the Uzi slightly, making sure Alex’s eyes were drawn to it. “I can kill her even if you fire. It’s set on full automatic, and you know what it will do, even on reflex. It will send her head all over the room.” The filthy smile widened and the eyes glittered madly. “Put the gun down, Alex. Put… it … down!”
The Walther wavered in his hand and slowly began to fall to his side. Alex’s eyes were fixed on Ludwig’s, knowing he would see it there first, when he began to move the Uzi to swing it in his direction. He caught the faintest of movements between Ludwig’s legs, but didn’t dare look to see what it was.
Ludwig didn’t see it either. His eyes were fixed on Alex, looking for the opening he wanted, the chance to kill him quickly and cleanly.
Michelle’s hands moved along the floor, fumbling, finally finding the handle of the stiletto and bringing it in front of her. She grasped it with both hands and raised her eyes, barely able to see through the blood that covered her face. But she could see enough. She could see what she wanted. And she could hear his voice, floating down to her.
She thrust the knife up just as Ludwig began to swing the Uzi up and away. She used both hands, almost raising her body from the floor, as she plunged the blade into his groin. Then a second time. Then a third.
Alex watched Ludwig’s eyes snap open in horror—his mouth formed a silent scream—as the slender blade stabbed into his crotch. He swung the Walther up as the blade struck again, bringing a wail of agony from Ludwig’s lips. The Uzi fired a long, deafening burst as Ludwig squeezed the trigger reflexively, and bits of the ceiling rained down as Alex fired three rounds into his chest.
The Walther’s 9 mm. bullets lifted Ludwig up and threw him back like a discarded doll, sending the Uzi flying off to one side.
Alex stepped toward Michelle, but before he could move farther, she had spun around and was scuttling back along the floor, chasing after the fallen body, the stiletto still in her hand, a cry of pure animal rage pouring from her mouth.
She was on him in seconds, and the knife plunged down into Ludwig�
��s chest again and again and again.
Alex came up behind her and pinned her arms to her sides.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.”
Michelle stared down at Ludwig’s body, and Alex felt her muscles begin to shake violently. Then she fell back against him and her body went suddenly slack; she began to sob.
CHAPTER
49
Piers Moran paced the living room of the luxurious suite he had occupied for the past five days. The hotel—one of the finest in Marseilles—was located on the Corniche President Kennedy, and all of its rooms opened onto the Mediterranean. Piers had spent the first two days staring at the sea. The next two were spent pacing the room. Now, on the fifth day, he had added drinking to his cat-like prowl.
He had left repeated messages for James Wheelwright at the consulate, but each call had gone unanswered. Then in desperation he had telephoned Walter Hennesey in Washington, and had been assured he would “get on Wheelwright’s ass” and have him call back immediately. That had been three days ago, and now Hennesey too was among the missing.
The newspapers had carried accounts of shootings in the old quarter, but the details had been sketchy, and he had thought about contacting Raphael Rivera, or the other members of the “ad hoc committee.” But he wasn’t certain his calls weren’t being monitored just to see who he did call. So he had waited.
He walked to a small side table and replenished his long-stemmed glass from a martini pitcher. Then he opened the French doors that led to the balcony. The fresh sea air hit him immediately, ruffling his hair and making him feel slightly unsteady, and he reached out for the stone balustrade to support himself. He was dressed in the same shirt and trousers he had worn the day before, and his tie was missing, and he had not shaved or even brushed his teeth. He was coming apart, and there was nothing he could do about it.
In the old days, if he had needed to know something, he had simply called Meme Pisani, and within hours he had that information. But that was no longer possible. Marseilles was no longer the friendly city it had been. And he was no longer a man of power here.
It was ridiculous. He could remember it all so clearly—it seemed no more than a year or so ago—when he and Meme and Antoine and Colette had stood on that sea wall, watching hundreds of French children waving tiny American flags as a train filled with food pulled into the station. Now that had been power. In those days a man could bend an entire city to his will, an entire nation. Today his government—the most powerful nation on earth—was lucky if it could get some shitpot dictator like Noriega to take its money without adding a dozen outrageous conditions to every deal.
He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with sea air, as the wind battered his hair again. He turned and walked back into the living room, then suddenly froze. The long-stemmed glass fell from his hand, splashing his drink over the carpet. Alex stood across the room staring at him, his eyes flat and cold and dispassionate.
Piers bent and picked up the glass, then looked around for something with which to clean up the spilled drink, not certain why he was doing so.
“How did you get in here?” he asked, not certain why he had said that either.
“Old intelligence trick,” Alex said. “Opening locked doors. I’m sure you remember.” He walked to a chair and sat, then pointed to the sofa. “Sit down,” he said. Piers did as he was told.
“It’s good to see you,” he said. “It’s good to see you well.” He was truly pleased that Alex had survived. But he didn’t think the boy would understand that.
“Let’s cut the crap,” Alex said. He did not seem angry, but more like a man who was doing something he had to do, something which he found distasteful.
“Ludwig’s dead,” he said. “And Walter Hennesey’s on a medical leave. So are Baldwin and Batchler. Seems there’s something contagious going around Langley.”
“So you turned over the documentation of our little arrangement with the Pisani brothers,” Piers said.
“No, I gave the information to Wheelwright. I owed him a favor. The documention’s in the safe of a Zurich attorney. To be released to the French media in the event of my untimely death. Langley wasn’t pleased to hear that. But they were content that the information wouldn’t turn up, by way of France, on the pages of the Washington Post.”
“So it’s over for us,” Piers said.
“I would think so.”
“Pity.”
“You had a long, profitable run,” Alex said.
Piers stared at him. “It was more than that, you know. It helped us control France. We accomplished a great deal for the country. Our country.”
“I’m not interested in your reasons. Or excuses.”
Piers nodded. “What will happen to the others?” he asked. Alex noted he seemed to harbor no concern for himself.
“I don’t know. You’d know the answer to that better than I. But I doubt the government will issue sanctions against so many ranking intelligence officers. It might look odd, having that many people fall off boats, or crash cars, or commit suicide, don’t you think?”
Piers ran his hand through his wind-blown hair, straightening it. He realized how he must look to his son, and it distressed him.
“Meme said you’d come to kill me,” he said. “Is that why you’re here?”
There was a slight slur in his father’s voice, and Alex realized he was drunk.
“No, I think there’s been enough attempted murder in our family. It’s starting to feel like a Shakespearean play.” He paused. “If Michelle had died, I would have. But she didn’t. Besides, I think Uncle Meme will take care of that.”
“He said not.”
Alex leaned forward and interlaced the fingers of his hands, his forearms resting on his knees. “He lied to you. We wanted you to go to Ludwig, just as you did.”
Pier’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “You followed me?”
“No. I had too much respect for your skills. We wanted you to get Ludwig to come for me. Use you as a sort of a Judas goat. Somehow it seemed appropriate.”
Piers bristled, sat straighter in his seat.
“Don’t be impertinent,” he snapped. “This wasn’t personal. This was a business matter. You were in the game long enough. I thought you’d understand that. It’s why I directed you into the business in the first place. You were the best of the brood.”
Alex laughed. “Oh, come, Father. Let’s not add one lie to the other. Old Richbird was always the paternal favorite. We both know that. I was always the son you didn’t quite know what to do with.”
Piers stood and began pacing the room again. Then he turned and faced his son. He was pleased Alex was alive, and he even felt a grudging admiration for what he had done.
“Richard was always an adequate man, of a sort,” he said. “And I loved him. Just as I loved you. But in intelligence he wouldn’t have been able to find his dick with both hands, as our Corsican friends are wont to say. You, however. Well, you’ve shown what you can do. It’s why we had to do what we did. You were simply too good to risk gambling on.”
Alex laughed and sat back in his chair. “You truly amaze me, Father. But then, I suppose you always have. Yes, I’m sure old Richard would have been very offended if you had tried to have him killed.” He shook his head, still staring at his father, who suddenly seemed very old. “You are an incredible old shit,” he said.
Piers’s eyes narrowed, and his lips formed a thin, disapproving line. Alex thought he looked like a schoolmaster displeased with an errant student.
“And you are still a man who has a penchant for tilting at windmills,” Piers said. “Always looking for a dragon to slay.”
“There seem to be a lot of them around, don’t you think?”
“Is that what you’ll do now? Go after the others?”
“Perhaps.” Alex stood and looked at his father for what he knew would be the last time. “But you’re the biggest dragon I know. And Uncle Meme h
as a bit of a Don Quixote complex himself. I’d be careful if I were you.”
“I’ll survive Meme,” Piers said.
“Perhaps you will.”
Alex turned and started for the door, then stopped just as his hand touched the doorknob. “I don’t imagine it will be terribly comfortable, though. All the places you’d enjoy, they’ll be the ones where Meme will look for you first.”
“Perhaps I’ll surprise you,” Piers said.
“You always have.”
Piers realized he would not see his son again. He regretted it. But he knew he’d survive it too.
“I’m glad you killed the bastard,” he said. “I’m glad you got to do what you’ve needed for so long.”
“So am I,” Alex said. He pulled the door open.
“Do me a favor,” Piers said, stopping him again. “Come to my funeral. Just for old time’s sake.”
“Perhaps I will,” Alex said. “If it’s convenient.”
“I’ll try to see that it is,” Piers said.
EPILOGUE
Buenos Aires
Raphael Rivera climbed behind the wheel of the gray Lincoln he had imported from the United States, and briefly checked his appearance in the rearview mirror. He was on his way to the club he had joined two months earlier, shortly after he had arrived in the Argentinian capital. There was a particular woman—the rather wayward wife of one of the members—whom he intended to look up today. She had engaged in a casual bit of flirtation the past few weeks, and today he planned to take her up on it and see where it would lead.
Retirement wouldn’t be bad, he told himself. He was really too young for it, but the alternative hadn’t been all that attractive. And there was enough money to live exceptionally well, and one could do far worse than play out one’s days in a beautiful city. Especially one that was filled with lovely Spanish women. He smiled at the thought, but the smile faded quickly. He would miss the power, that was certain. But then, power had a way of returning if you knew where to seek it out. And had the money to pursue it.
Corsican Honor Page 48