Qazi vaulted the wall again and walked quickly up the driveway, alert for dogs. He heard nothing except the sounds of night insects and, very faintly, the engine of Sakol’s car as it proceeded along the street. And he could hear the background murmur of traffic from the boulevard a kilometer or so away.
As Qazi approached the house he scanned the windows. The porch light was out, but several windows on the left corner of the house had indirect lighting coming through the drapes. The rest of the first-floor windows were dark. Any of them would do.
He paused by the front door and gingerly tried the knob. It turned! But what did Pagliacci have to fear? The most powerful mafioso in southern Italy, he was perhaps the man who slept the soundest. Qazi turned the knob to its limit and pushed gently on the door, a massive wooden slab eight feet high. It gave and he slipped through.
He stood in the darkness listening. Nothing. The house was as quiet as a tomb. He flashed the pencil beam about. A large foyer. Furniture centuries old. With the light beam pointed at his feet, he moved lightly across the Persian rug to the hallway and turned left.
There were voices on the other side of the door. He strained to hear the words. Just murmurs. Qazi put the flashlight in his pocket, the pistol in his right hand, and pushed the door open.
Their heads jerked around. General Simonov’s shaved head reflected the light, and he glared. Pagliacci looked startled. They were seated in easy chairs, wine on the small table between them.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Sorry to burst in—”
“Who are you?” Pagliacci interrupted, his voice rising.
“It’s Qazi, fool,” Simonov growled.
“General, you must forgive our Italian friend. He knows me as an old man, quite infirm.” Qazi sat down across from them and leveled the pistol at Simonov.
“Now, gentlemen, we have much to discuss and not much time, so let’s get right to it. Which of you wants to be first?”
Simonov merely stared. Qazi watched the general’s hands, resting on the arms of the chair. As they tensed and his feet began to move back under him Qazi shot him in the left knee. Simonov’s motion was arrested almost before it began.
“Why are you here tonight, General?”
The Russian wrapped his hands around the damaged knee. His eyes remained on Qazi, expressionless. Blood oozed from between his fingers and began dripping on the carpet.
Qazi shot him again, in the right biceps. Simonov leaned back in the chair.
“You won’t succeed,” the Russian said at last. “El Hakim is mad. Surely you know that?”
Qazi nodded, his head moving an eighth of an inch. Blood was flowing freely from Simonov’s arm wound.
“The Israelis, the Americans, the British. They’ll launch preemptive nuclear strikes.”
“Only if they think they can succeed, General. Only then. They are careful men.”
“You cannot control—” And Simonov was hurling across the ten feet of space between them, driving on both legs in spite of the knee wound, his arms gathered. Qazi’s bullet hit him in the neck, and the general collapsed at his feet. Blood pumped onto the carpet. Apparently the bullet had damaged the spinal column, for the Russian did not move again.
Qazi swung the muzzle of the gun to Pagliacci. “Talk or die.”
The old man was trembling. Sweat glistened on his face and dripped from his veined nose. “Mother of God, holy mother …”
Qazi stood and walked toward the Italian.
“The Russian wanted to know about the helicopters. When and where. Don’t hurt me! I’m an old man. For the love of God.”
“And you told him.”
“Of course. He pays me much money every month. He has things he wishes to know about the Americans and we tell him. When ships come and go, what weapons are aboard, documents he wants, documents …” He was babbling.
“When did you tell him about the helicopters?”
“You will kill me anyway. I will tell …”
Qazi placed the muzzle of the pistol against the man’s forehead. “When did you tell him about the helicopters?”
“Tonight. Just tonight.”
“And the delivery at Palermo? Did you tell him about that?”
“Not yet. We hadn’t time to cover everything.”
“If you are lying, I will come back and kill you.”
“I’m telling the truth, on the blood of Christ. On my mother’s grave I swear it. I swear it on my wife’s grave….” His words became incoherent.
“And the villa? When did you tell him about the villa?”
“He did not know about that. I was going to get him to pay me more before I told him.” He was sobbing.
“Stand up.”
“Oh pleeease, you promised!”
Qazi pocketed the pistol and hoisted the old man to his feet. He spun him around and broke his neck with one hard wrench on his jaw.
Qazi grunted as his arms absorbed the now-dead weight. He dragged the don over to the general, taking care to avoid stepping in the bloodstains. He rolled the general over, then pulled Pagliacci across the wet blood smears. He rolled Pagliacci’s body over. Good, the blood was still wet. Now he placed the general’s corpse facedown, partially on Pagliacci, and gently squeezed the Russian’s neck. More blood oozed from the hole in the throat, directly onto Pagliacci’s shirt.
The pistol he wiped with his shirttail, then he pressed the Russian’s fingers against the gun, then Pagliacci’s. The nails of the Italian’s fat fingers still had dirt from the garden under them. He let the pistol fall beside the two bodies and kicked the spent shell casings to random positions around the room. How Pagliacci had gotten the gun from the general was, of course, the weak link, but that was unavoidable. Finally Qazi placed the general’s right hand behind the don’s neck.
He paused and scanned the scene. It would hold up to scrutiny by amateurs for at least twenty-four hours. The police would never see this room. Twenty-four hours would be sufficient.
He wiped the doorknobs on his way out, and remembered to retrieve the climbing rope from the foyer, where he had left it upon entering.
Sakol was standing in the deep shadows as Qazi walked down the driveway blotting his forehead with his sleeve. “Where’s the other guard?”
“In the car with the first one.”
“Let’s go.” After they were across the wall, Qazi said, “You dispose of the guards so that their bodies are not found for at least twenty-four hours.”
“No problem. You killed the Russian?”
“I hope I die as well when my time comes.”
Fifteen minutes after Qazi and Sakol had driven away, a figure emerged from the darkness of the park. Under one arm he carried a medium-sized camera bag. The man crossed the street and climbed carefully over the wall. In ten minutes he was back. He crossed the street again and disappeared into the park.
Toad Tarkington awoke at four A.M. with a raging headache. The pain throbbed above his eyeballs with every beat of his heart. Then he became aware of a weight on his chest and legs.
Judith was sound asleep, her arm across his chest, her right leg across his. He inched up in the bed, trying not to disturb her. The bedspread and blanket were on the floor. Clothes were scattered where they had fallen or been tossed.
He closed his eyes and let the headache throb as he listened to her breathing. Finally he opened his eyes again. She was still there, warm and naked and sound asleep.
Why did you drink so much, fool?
He eased himself away from her and went to the bathroom. Her purse was on the vanity and he rooted in it. She had a tin of aspirin. He took three and washed them down with water from the tap.
He sat in the little chair by the writing table and watched her. She was so lovely.