Then the side door opened and Umney stood in the doorway, his hands clasped on top of his head.
It would be a difficult shot, Frost thought. The angle was wrong. He couldn’t risk a miss.
Umney screamed, ‘Don’t shoot! Lu’s not here! I’ll help you find him! Don’t shoot!’
Frost’s mind flashed back into the past. He was once faced with exactly the same situation. He had cornered a Viet sniper who had yelled to him that he surrendered. From out of the thicket where he was hiding, the sniper had thrown his rifle which had landed near Frost. Then the sniper had appeared, his hands in the air, and Frost had fallen for it. He came out of his hide, his rifle level. The sniper took off his conical straw hat in which was concealed a hand grenade. As Frost shot him, the hat floated towards him. For a split second, Frost had watched death floating towards him, then he dropped flat. He had spent two months in a field hospital with splinter wounds, but he had survived. He had promised himself that if ever a man came towards him with his hands in the air, he would shoot first, and apologise later.
He rose up on one knee to correct the angle of fire.
Silk lying on the floor of the corridor, peering through the open doorway, caught the movement, but Umney was in the way.
Umney was yelling at the top of his voice. Silk didn’t dare shout to him to drop so he could nail Frost. He didn’t want Frost to know he was there.
Frost shot Umney through the head as he reached the bottom step, then Frost dropped flat, but he wasn’t quick enough.
As Umney was falling, Silk got a clear line of fire and squeezed off a shot. The bullet went through Frost’s ribs and his arm, ploughing a furrow through the flesh of Frost’s chest. He glimpsed Silk, scrambled back, out of sight. He fired. The bullet whistled by Silk’s face and sent wood splinters flying. One big splinter smashed Silk’s glass eye, bringing blood running down his face. Cursing, Silk retreated further down the corridor.
Frost, feeling blood soaking his shirt, crawled away. His Army training stood him in good stead, and like a snake, silent and not moving the shrubs, he reached a clump of trees away from the side door without drawing any more fire.
He looked at his bloodstained shirt, flexed his fingers, grimaced and told himself it could have been worse.
How that one-eyed bastard could shoot! he thought. Well, it’s between the two of us now. One against one... fair enough. Silk’s expertise with a rifle against his expertise as a jungle fighter. It bothered him that he was bleeding, but he had bled before. He took out his handkerchief, made it into a pad and, using his belt, strapped the pad against the wound. Then he crawled away to another position where he had a clear view of the side door, and he settled down to wait.
Silk went quickly down the corridor, down the stairs to the toilets. He bathed his face and stopped the bleeding: a mere scratch. He wasn’t sure if he had hit Frost. If not hit, was Frost still covering the side door? Silk looked at his watch. Time was running out. In another hour the staff would be arriving. He had to kill Frost quickly, then he would fade out of the scene. He had good contacts who would give him a cast iron alibi. The police wouldn’t be able to pin any of these killings on him, but Frost had to be killed or if arrested, he would talk.
Maybe he was already dead, Silk thought, but he mustn’t take any chances. He was now sure he was within grasping distance of two hundred thousand dollars. What to do? If Frost were only winged, he would be as dangerous as a cornered tiger, and he was concealed.
Certainly too dangerous to leave the building by the side door. There was no cover from the main entrance nor from the staff entrance.
The roof!
Silk cursed under his breath. Why hadn’t he thought of the roof before. If he had gone up there when Umney had made his exit, Frost would be dead by now.
Catching up his rifle, he ran up the stairs and to the fire exit. He climbed the iron ladder that brought him on to the flat roof around which was a two foot high wall.
Dropping flat, Silk crawled across the roof until he was immediately above the side door, some ten feet below.
Frost, lying amongst the shrubs saw there was a small puddle of blood beside him. He looked at the pad which was soaked and he began to feel uneasy.
‘Jesus!’ he thought. ‘I’m bleeding like a goddamn pig!’
Savagely, he tightened the belt, holding the pad, and pain shot through him. He was aware of lassitude, and the rays of the sun beating down on him, bothered him. He was also developing a raging thirst.
You one-eyed bastard, he thought. You’ve really done damage! Well, come on, damn you... show yourself!
All was silence and stillness except for the hawk, still floating in the sky.
Frost thought of Marcia. Out of the past, he heard her say, Paradise City is where the real action is. There’s more money to be picked up there than in any other city in the world.
How he wished he hadn’t listened to her!
A dream of five million dollars! Some dream!
If he got out of this mess alive, what would he do? Once more hunting for the crock of gold: always in sight, but always out of reach! That had been his life, and would be his future life.
There was a relaxed feeling of lightness in his body that urged him to sleep. The pool of blood around him was growing larger. He shook his head, blinked his eyes and caught hold of the rifle.
Dismay ran through him as he found the rifle impossibly heavy.
‘I’m bleeding to death,’ he said, half aloud. He made a clumsy effort and dragged up the rifle, disturbing the shrubs around him.
Watching from above, Silk saw the movement, then he saw Frost. His thin lips drew back in a snarl. In one swift movement, he aimed his rifle and fired.
At that moment, Frost looked up and saw Silk on the roof. His reflexes had gone. He saw the gun, but there was nothing he could do. He knew he was an instant away from death. His last thought, as he died, was that this one-eyed punk had beaten him.
Silk knew he didn’t have to fire again. He stood up, stretched, then walked to the edge of the parapet. He looked down at the still body.
Two hundred thousand dollars! Well, no one could say he hadn’t earned it. This had been the most dangerous and tricky kill of his long list of killings.
Then he heard what sounded like the whirring of wings.
A bird?
As he began to look around, the blade of a throwing knife buried itself in his back. In agony, he crouched forward, lost his balance and fell the twenty feet on to the grass, writhed, then went still.
Suka, dressed in black, climbed down the iron ladder, ran out of the restaurant and paused beside Silk. He kicked him over, pulled out the knife, wiped the blade on Silk’s shirt, then walked to where Umney was lying. Satisfied that he too was dead, he walked over to Frost. He looked down at his body for a few moments, nodded, then ran swiftly into the thickets from whence he had come.
Grandi was speaking to Dr. Vance over the telephone.
‘I want my daughter’s body sent to Rome, doctor,’ he was saying. ‘I will leave the arrangements to you. Rome was her city.’
‘Yes, Mr. Grandi. I will arrange everything.’
‘Thank you.’ A pause. ‘I will see that your hospital is endowed,’ and Grandi hung up.
He heard a slight sound behind him. He looked around.
Suka had come in and was standing by the door.
‘All dead, signor,’ he said, as if announcing dinner was served.
‘Silk?’
‘All dead as you instructed.’
Grandi thought of his daughter.
‘Pack,’ he said. ‘We leave for Rome in an hour.’
‘Yes, signor.’
Grandi moved to the big, picture window and looked down at the bay. In spite of the early hour, yachts, with their multi-coloured sails were already leaving the harbour. Already people were coming down to the beach. The traffic was building up. The hot breeze was moving the heads of the palm trees.