The candlelight made her face glow. Her eyes were so expressive. He loved the way she used her hands, She was a goddess. He had had too much wine and he knew it, but she was still a goddess. What a stroke of luck to get another date with her! Hoo boy, you’re dancing between the tulips now.
“And the editor — he is a short chubby man with one little teeny-weeny curlicue right here …” She pointed at her widow’s peak and giggled. Toad grinned broadly. “And he wants to sleep with me. It’s so funny. He hints and sighs and prisses about, walking back and forth in front of my door.” She put a hand on her hip and tossed her head and shoulders from side to side, knitting her eyebrows and trying to look serious, then breaking up. Her dress was a strapless number that was cut lower than the law of gravity allowed. What was holding them up?
She giggled again and had another sip of wine. She had had a glass too much, too, Toad decided. But, c’est la guerre. Her fingertips brushed his hand when she set her wineglass down. He could feel the fire all the way to his elbow.
As she rambled on he tried to decide how he should go about the seduction. Perhaps he should just come out with it. Suggest they both go up to her room for a drink. No. That has no class. And she is a class woman. Perhaps a kiss in the dark on the way back to the hotel, then silently lead her straight through the lobby to the elevator. But would that be too presumptuous, too take-charge?
“… to pose in the nude, but his apartment was so drafty. He was very French, très romantic, into photography and anarchy.” The rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed fascinated Toad. He found himself inhaling as she inhaled. Maybe he should take her to a bar first for cognac, sit in a booth and nibble on her ear, and wheedle an invitation.
She raised her arms and lazily stretched, pulling the front of her dress drum-head tight. “Do you want to sleep with me, Robert?”
What? What did she say?
She rested her chin on one hand and looked at him with a warm, sleepy look. The other hand moved slowly across the table and touched his.
He felt his head bobbing up and down. He made a conscious effort to close his mouth.
“Let’s leave then. I’m ready.”
Toad fumbled for his wallet. He was ready, too. In fact, he had never been more ready in his life.
“He’s still there,” Sakol said when Colonel Qazi got into the car. They were parked under a large tree, well away from the streetlight, with the windows down owing to the warmth of the evening. The entrance to Pagliacci’s drive was over two blocks away, but because of a slight dip in the road the view from here was excellent. Across the street from Pagliacci’s estate was a park. Sakol passed his binoculars to Qazi. “A chauffeur dropped him, then drove away. He went in alone.”
Qazi adjusted the focus. The big lenses seemed to gather the light. There was a streetlight on a power pole near the gate, and he could see the chest-high brick wall. Then he caught the glow of a cigarette just beyond the wall, inside the grounds. “How many of them are there?”
“I think there are at least two of them on duty — one on the gate, then one at the back of the property. There were dogs loose on the grounds last night, so I think the guards go in the house when the old man is alone.”
Qazi turned the binoculars toward the park and began to scan. The occasional lamps by the walking paths provided little oases of light, but there were many impenetrable shadows. “I saw the dogs’ droppings the last few times I was there.”
“Dobermans. I’m surprised he even has two guards. No local in his right mind would dare burgle the place, and two men wouldn’t even slow down a team of hit men. I doubt if Pagliacci even has a burglar alarm.”
“There’s no alarm system. The guards are for appearances, which are so important. One must keep up appearances,” Qazi said and handed the glasses back. “So he’s in there.”
“Yes indeed. Big, mean, and ugly. No doubt paying his respects.”
“No doubt.”
“This pretty much tears it, huh?”
“Tears what?”
“The whole enchilada. If Pagliacci’s spilled it — and there’s no reason to think he hasn’t — your little deal is gonna go off like a wet match.”
“You’re too pessimistic. We mustn’t assume the worst just because two men are sitting together in that house. But perhaps I should go have a chat with them.” Qazi took a pistol from the waistband in the small of his back and a silencer from a jacket pocket. The pistol was a Bernardelli automatic in 380 ACP. The barrel had been altered by a machinist to take a silencer. He screwed the silencer on, then jacked a cartridge into the chamber. After carefully checking the safety, he eased the gun into his trouser belt. “I’ll need the glass-cutter, some tape, and the little torch from the boot.” Sakol opened the car door. The interior courtesy light did not come on. The bulb had been removed from its socket.
“And get an Uzi for yourself, and the climbing rope.”
When Sakol was back behind the wheel, Qazi ran his hands over the rope and steel grappling hook. “Your knife, please.” Sakol unstrapped the scabbard from his right ankle.
Qazi examined the six-inch blade, a scaled-down Bowie. “You Americans make good knives.”
“It was made in Japan.”
Qazi slipped the knife back into the scabbard and pulled up his left trouser leg. His Walther was in its usual place on his right ankle. “If he comes out before I do, use the Uzi. I want him dead. And kill anyone with him.”
“With pleasure.”
Qazi adjusted the knife scabbard on his left ankle and pulled the trouser leg back down. “Then wait for me. No matter what, wait for me.”
Sakol screwed a silencer onto the barrel of the Uzi, then checked that the magazine was full and there was a round in the chamber. He started the car with his foot off the brake pedal and let it idle. “I’ve been watching the park since I’ve been here and haven’t seen anyone. But there may be a man in there watching the gate.”
“We’ll have to risk it.” Qazi screwed the bulb back into the courtesy light socket above the rearview mirror.
“Turn on your lights and drive down to the gate. We’ll use English.”
There was a light on the power pole near the gate. Sakol stopped directly in front of the gate. “Do you see the house number?” Qazi asked in a conversational tone of voice.
“No, but this must be it.”
Qazi opened his door and stepped out. He left the door standing open. Sakol shaded his eyes against the interior courtesy light and squinted at the gate. Qazi took a few tipsy paces toward the wrought-iron lattice, peered about, then extracted a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and swayed slightly as he held it away from him so the streetlight fell on it.
The man on the other side of the wall moved.
“Oh, old fellow,” Qazi said thickly. “Didn’t see you there. Can you tell me, does Colonel Arbuthnot live here?”
The man took three steps up to the chest-high wall. “Non comprendo, sig—” The words ceased abruptly as Qazi shot him. The silenced pistol made a little pop. Qazi stepped over to the wall and looked down. The guard lay with his legs buckled under him, his eyes open, a hole in his forehead.
“Quickly, let’s get him into the car.” The two men vaulted the wall, wrestled the body over, then dragged it to the car and placed it on the floor behind the front seats. As they did this, Qazi said, “Take the car back where it was and park it. Then come back and get the other guard. Wear this one’s cap. You know what to do. Then wait here by the gate. Don’t let anyone leave alive.”