He slipped the key into the ignition and prepared to turn the switch. The garotte slipped over his head with a faint whisper, and before Rivera could react, it had snapped tightly around his neck. He arched his back and twisted violently, his arms and legs flailing, his hands reaching for the wire, which had already cut through the skin. The back of his head was pressed against the head rest, and he stretched out his hands, trying to reach the horn on the steering wheel, fighting to send out some kind of alarm that might bring help. But the fingers fell just inches short, and he flailed his arms again, beating against the side window, and kicked with his feet, one finally coming up over the dashboard and against the windshield.
The last thing Rivera saw was his foot smashing the windshield into a spiderweb of cracks, then finally breaking through as one foot emerged into the cool morning air. Then he felt the blood pouring down his shirt front from the severed veins and arteries in his neck, and he died thinking he would never be able to wear the shirt again, and that it was quite new; had been made for him only a month ago.
Chevy Chase, Maryland
John Batchler sat behind the desk in his walnut-paneled study, reviewing the incorporation papers his attorney had just faxed to his home. They were for a new security business he was forming, one specializing in industrial espionage, and taking full advantage of his eighteen years with the Company. He had not intended to take that step for another two years, and then with the advantage of a government pension to help cover the expense. Not cover it financially, but rather do so without dipping into the substantial funds he had secreted away in a Panamanian bank account. Now he would have to worry about those IRS bastards raising questions about where the investment capital had come from, and that was something that always had to be avoided. The last thing he wanted was to end up living on some mosquito-infested island with a bunch of jungle bunnies for neighbors.
But he had to work. He’d go crazy without something to occupy his time. He’d end up sitting at home with his wife, or be off with her—like she was today—to that incredibly boring tennis club where she spent all her time, sitting and chatting with that group of insipid Yuppie wives. Christ, he thought, even a group of jungle bunny neighbors would be better than that.
He stood and stretched, then headed for the kitchen to get himself a sandwich and a cold bottle of beer. He pulled open the refrigerator, then stopped. A faint scratching sound was coming from the adjoining garage, and he walked to the door that led to it, opened it, and reached for the light switch just to the left of the door frame. Nothing. The damned bulb must have died, and now the scratching had stopped. Probably some goddamned vermin that had found its way in and was chewing on something valuable, like his new four hundred dollar fucking golf bag.
He went down the three steps, then stopped to listen again, giving himself time for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He didn’t want to open the garage door and let the damned thing escape, so he would have to get the flashlight from the glove compartment of his Mercedes. He stepped toward the car, then stopped, squinting at the door frame. There was heavy duct tape lining the driver’s window and covering a hose that had been stuck inside. Sweat began to flood his body as he followed the hose back to the car’s tailpipe.
The bastards, he thought. They had assured him no sanction would be issued if he just got out. And now this. Now this.
He turned slowly, expecting to find a pistol leveled at his face, but all he saw was the faint outline of a man standing so close he should have heard him; he couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard him come up from behind.
The last thing Batchler saw was a flash of movement as the edge of a hand cut the air and crashed into the side of his neck. Then he felt himself falling, but he never felt the floor come up to meet him.
Inside the kitchen, the cold beer remained unopened on the counter top. His wife would wonder later that day why he hadn’t drunk it before he had taken his own life.
Georgetown
Christopher Baldwin had decided to get himself into shape, drop the thirty extra pounds he had managed to gain and get back into the size forty-two suit he had not worn in fifteen years. Jogging and diet was the solution, he had decided, and after a thorough physical, to ensure his heart wouldn’t burst with the effort, he had begun a daily regimen that had already shed ten pounds of flab in the past month.
He reflected on that success as his Reeboks beat a tattoo on the footpath that ran alongside the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal. It was an easy run—not too many hills, and only a few blocks from his home—and the Washington humidity took care of the needed sweat. And there were also the young lovelies from Georgetown University, up on the hill, to take one’s mind off the pain in one’s legs.
He rounded a turn and thought about the woman he had met at F. Scotts the night before—the neighborhood watering hole that had become a regular stop since he had left the Company two months before. She had been attracted to him even with twenty pounds yet to go, and they had made a dinner date for the following week. He would not end up like that fool Batchler, he told himself. No one would ever find him sucking on an exhaust pipe in his garage.
He had just passed the Key Bridge, and he glanced out toward the wide stretch of the Potomac off to his left. It was 6:00 A.M., and the river was free of boats, and even the sounds of traffic along the Whitehurst Freeway and normally frantic M Street were nothing more than a distant hum.
He caught movement some thirty feet ahead of him and looked toward it, then staggered and stumbled to an unsteady halt. The man had stepped out from behind a tree, and he held a silenced automatic in both hands, the barrel level with Baldwin’s nose.
“Jesus Christ. Don’t!” he stammered.
The man tilted his head to one side, almost in a gesture of resignation. “Your money or your life,” he said. But there was no mirth in his voice.
“Come on,” Baldwin said. “We can talk about this. We can work something out.” He was trembling, his legs shaking so hard, he thought they’d give out on him. His bladder suddenly felt as though it would burst.
“I had nothing to do with it,” he rattled on. “It wasn’t my—”
The 9 mm. bullet took him in the forehead, just above his left eye, and his body fell like wet laundry, his head just off the path.
The pockets of Baldwin’s sweat pants were gone through quickly. His keys were tossed aside, the few dollars he had, removed. Washington had become a dangerous city, a newspaper columnist would write a few days later. Drug addicts were mugging and murdering people every day.
Norfolk, Virginia
The mouth of the James River was smooth as glass as Walter Hennesey pointed his forty-five-foot sloop into the channel that would take him out into the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, past Cape Henry, and into the Atlantic. His last tour of Navy duty, more than twenty years ago now, had been here at Norfolk, and so he had sailed these waters endlessly, knew them, he told himself, like the proverbial back of his hand.
It felt good to be on the water, and in ten minutes, when he had cleared the other boats moored off the marina, he would cut the engine, hoist sail, and enjoy the solitude of the water hissing beneath the hull. It was a great deal of work, running a boat this size single-handed. But it was the way he preferred it, and he hadn’t exactly been overwhelmed with offers of companionship when he had moved into a house near the old base a month earlier.
He had taken his Navy retirement. The bastards in the Company hadn’t been able to deny him that, although they had certainly tried: But the word had gotten around—as it always seemed to—and his one visit to the base officers’ club had made him feel like the pariah he had become.
Fuck them all, he told himself as he watched the gulls circle above the mast. Next week he’d take the boat down the intracoastal to Florida, then over to Bimini, or out to Key West. And then, when things had died down, he’d tap the money that had been accumulating and drawing interest for more than fifteen years, and he’d start his own bloody navy if he chose to.
&nbs
p; Piers Moran flashed across his mind, and he wondered where the old francophile had finally holed up. At least he didn’t have Meme Pisani on his tail. The old greaseball had not taken any offense to his role in the whole fouledup game. He had had no personal relationship with the brothers, so his actions had been viewed strictly as business. But Piers had been another matter, and he had known it, had gone on the dodge as soon as his feet had touched back down in the States.
Poor bastard, Hennesey told himself. No doubt stuck away in some godforsaken hole, not even able to really enjoy the money he had packed away over all those years. And his snooty old bag of a wife had decided to stay in Palm Beach. Or perhaps Piers had just left her there. He really couldn’t be sure. Well, maybe he’s found some young thing to keep him happy. It was probably the best he could hope for now.
Hennesey glanced ahead to see how many more boats he had to pass before he could safely cut the engine and set sail. It would be better without the sound of the engine. He liked the quiet. The quiet and a running sea. It was always better then, he told himself.
Alex Moran watched from shore, the field glasses fixed on the retreating forty-five-foot sloop. The gelatin capsule, with its innocent-seeming sodium mixture, would be cooking now, as the fuel was steadily heated by the boat’s engine.
He lowered the glasses and kept his eyes fixed on the spot, the boat only a small speck in the distance. When the ball of flame erupted it seemed small and insignificant, as did the rumble of the explosion. Only the following plume of black smoke really indicated that anything truly significant had taken place.
But it happened so often these days. People just couldn’t seem to remember to start the blowers on their engines, or to check to make sure the natural gas for the stove was turned off. Then it only took a spark, and all that was left was a burnt-out hull several fathoms beneath the sea.
Pity, Alex told himself, as he turned and headed for his car. He had a flight back to Marseilles that night, and it was still a long drive back to New York.
Cervione
Alex watched as Michelle busied herself about the kitchen, helping Colette put together trays of food to serve their guest. She had not ordered him out of the way yet—nor had Colette—but it would happen soon, he had no doubt of it.
He loved to watch her doing the simple things that had become their daily life together. And he knew the more simple it remained, the more he would enjoy it.
And he loved to look at her as well. The disfigurement to her face, where Ludwig had beaten her so viciously, didn’t matter. Everything about her was pleasing to him, and every day he found a new enchantment in her, and anxiously awaited what he might discover next.
The doctors in Marseilles had told her the disfigurement could be corrected, and that only a few small scars would remain. But she had chosen to do nothing about it. Perhaps she still required the wounds, either in repentance for what she had done, or to remind herself that her child’s death had finally been avenged. It was her decision, and he knew it was something he would never ask her to change.
He had brought little Pierre’s body and that of her late husband back to Corsica, and with Meme’s permission he had laid them to rest next to Antoine. He had convinced Michelle it was best that she be close to them, and that, together, they would fulfill the Corsican dictate that flowers be placed on the graves every day.
“Why are you standing there staring at me?” Michelle said, fighting back a smile at the sudden look of guilt that covered his face.
“Yes, why?” It was Colette this time, her voice, and her look, sterner.
“I just like looking at you,” he said. He glanced at Colette. “And you,” he added.
“Get out!” Michelle said, still fighting the smile, with even more difficulty this time. “Go see to our guest. And make sure he doesn’t make you promise to do anything for him.”
“I promise you that will never happen,” he said. It was a promise, he knew, he very much wanted to keep.
Pat Cisco took in the view from the stone terrace that looked out over the maquis to the distant sea. He had flown in from Marseilles that afternoon, unannounced but expected. It had only been a question of time, Alex knew, before Washington sent out a firm warning.
“So Antoine left you this place in his will,” Cisco said, openly impressed with Alex’s unexpected inheritance.
“Yeah, surprised the hell out of me,” Alex said. “It seems Meme owned the house in Marseilles, and this one was Antoine’s. The will said he was leaving it to his favorite pants pisser,” he added.
“What the hell does that mean?” Cisco asked.
“It’s a long story,” Alex said. “Someday I’ll tell it to you.”
“So you’ve retired to the country life,” Cisco said. There was no question in his voice, but his look asked it anyway.
“Completely,” Alex said.
“No excursions planned to South America or the States or any other interesting ports of call?”
“None planned, none anticipated,” Alex answered. “I don’t have any reason to travel.”
“And if I tell the boys at Langley that, you won’t make a liar out of me?”
“Never happen.”
“Good. Then I won’t have to deliver their warning.”
“That’s a shame,” Alex said. “I imagine it was an especially awesome one.”
“You know the Company. ‘Awesome’ is their middle name.”
“I always thought it was ‘clown,’” Alex said.
Cisco smiled and turned back to the view. “They do get a bit belligerent when their people—even their defrocked people—die unexpectedly, and they’re forced to answer awkward questions.” Cisco turned back to face Alex. “Actually, it’s the awkward questions they mind more than the deaths.”
“Have some of their friends passed away?” Alex asked. “I haven’t kept up with the newspapers.”
Cisco smiled at the open innocence Alex projected, caught Alex battling a smile himself.
“Yes. Four to be exact. They had all been forced to resign or retire. Cut off. Just like your father was.”
It had been done rather cleverly—especially for Lang-ley. No questions from the press or oversight committees. A minor miracle. Used guises of poor health, time in service, outside business opportunities. And it actually seemed to have worked. No embarrassment for the Company. Then the recently departed all started to really become departed. And they all died in sort of a rush. Quite embarrassing.
“How’d it happen?” Alex asked. His face showed nothing now, not even the previous hint of a smile.
Cisco looked down at his shoes and gave a slight shake of his head. He didn’t mind playing the game, would have played it himself had he been on the other side of the conversation.
“Raphael Rivera was the first,” he said. “He’d resigned to pursue business interests in Buenos Aires.” Cisco smiled. “I suppose he’d accumulated a bit of capital over the years.
“Anyway, seems someone garotted him when he got in his car one morning. Was on his way to a country club he had joined. Wasn’t found for several hours. And it was a hot day, and the windows of the car were closed. I doubt it was the way Rivera saw his departure from this vale of tears.”
Alex shook his head. “Nasty,” he said.
“John Batchler was next,” Cisco said. “He’d left the Company to start his own security consulting operation. Something must have gone wrong. They found him inside his Mercedes locked in his garage. The motor was running, and there was a hose going from the tail pipe to the car’s interior.” Cisco looked back toward the sea. “Funny thing, though. There weren’t any fingerprints on the hose. Not even John’s.”
“He was always a very neat man,” Alex said.
“Next came Baldwin. Apparently shot by a mugger while he was out jogging in a park near Georgetown University. Early in the morning. No witnesses, I’m afraid. He’d retired for health reasons. Extreme fatigue. Company had to explain what he was doi
ng jogging. A Company doc told them it was prescribed therapy for a related stress problem.”
“Cities are stressful. And they aren’t very safe anymore.”
“No,” Cisco said. “They’re not. The Washington Post even had an editorial about that.
“Seems boats aren’t very safe either. Walter Hennesey—he’d taken early retirement and moved back to the sight of his last naval command, Norfolk—he was out sailing when the engine on his sloop blew up. Burned right to the waterline.”
“It’s the way he’d like to have gone,” Alex said. “Down with his ship.”
Cisco drew a deep breath. “So, anyway, the Company decided to find out if there was any connection with all these sudden tragedies. Even questioned Meme Pisani, I understand.”
“I heard,” Alex said. “But he never said what he told them.”
Cisco smiled. “I understand most of it had to be deleted from the report for security reasons—and to avoid offending anyone who might be sensitive about language. But the gist of it was, he was sorry someone else beat him to it.”
“That sounds like Uncle Meme.”
“Yeah, well, no one came up with any proof of movement by his people to the areas in question anyway.”
“So that left me,” Alex said. “I’m sorry they think I’m capable of such things.”
Cisco fought a smile again. “Oh, I don’t think they were terribly sad about the deaths. I think they were a bit miffed that someone from Defense Intelligence might be able to off so many of their people and get away clean. That, and the embarrassment it caused in other ways.”
Alex nodded and looked out toward the sea himself. “Well, tell them I’m innocent. That should ease some of their concerns.”
“I don’t think I’ll go that far,” Cisco said. “But I will tell them you don’t have any future travel plans.”
Alex turned back to him and grinned. “I plan to stay right here,” he said.
“So what will you do?” Cisco asked.
“The inheritance also included Antoine’s share of the Pisani vineyard. We’ve divided it. Broken it away from Meme’s part. Michelle and I are going to make some wine.” Alex smiled. “She knows how to make it,” he said. “So far I’m just able to drink it.”
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