A shock of wild, white hair drooped over his brow. His skin was lined and leathery looking, yet pale. It had the doughy pallor of someone who lived under artificial light. Despite his age, his features were strong, accented by his gauntness. He looked like a poet should look. He was the kind of older man an impressionable sophomore might find attractive if she were a romantic, and if she didn't look too closely.
He extended his arms. Rachel got up and walked to the sofa. She knew there were some things you just had to do, no matter how distasteful you found them.
Enjoy it, hell. The only thing she would enjoy about Malcolm Parsons was watching the sleazy bastard fry.
She pulled her sweater over her head. What would Mack Bolan think if he knew what she was about to do?
6
Leaning toward the front of the cab, Peter Achison snapped at the driver. "Move it, can't you? I've got a plane to catch."
"Keep your shirt on, pal. Everybody's got a plane to catch. That's why there's so much traffic."
Achison was too distracted to appreciate the cabbie's irony. He was already in hot water. He hadn't gotten Hanley's papers, Otto and Jameson were dead, and now he was going to miss his plane. He'd be lucky if he kept his head, let alone his job.
Achison had taken a bus from Washington to Philadelphia, switched to the train in Philly, looked in on Malcolm Parsons, and then laid up at a cheap hotel in the Times Square area for two days. No one knew yet whether he had succeeded or not. Communication was strictly personal. No phones, no telegrams, no letters. And no papers. Unable to sleep soundly, he had passed the time in the hotel with whiskey and television. Now his nerves were stretched to the breaking point.
As they neared Kennedy International, the traffic got even heavier. A light rain, which had melted any remaining snow from the city's first storm of the season, had made the road slick, and the cars were moving gingerly when they moved at all. His flight was still an hour away, but check-in was a lot more complicated than it used to be. Ironically it was the threat of terrorism that slowed the process to a crawl. He would be a casualty of his own beliefs. Lateness was not expected of someone in his line of work. Nor was it appreciated.
"Hey, pal!" the cabbie hollered. "I said what airline? Ain't you in such a big hurry, after all?"
"BEA, and step on it."
They pulled into the terminal approach road, and cars began to peel off the line as passengers found the appropriate airline. The traffic was still sluggish, but moving with more purpose now. As the car pulled up to the BEA terminal, Achison fiddled with the buttons on his coat, removed his wallet and then jumped out of the cab. After closing the door, he handed the driver two twenties. "Keep the change," he said, extending the money to the cabbie.
"Yeah, pal, thanks," he said. He watched Achison enter the terminal, then pulled away, muttering, "I break my butt to get him here on time and he gives me a buck tip."
Once inside, Achison went right to the check-in counter, checked his bag and got his boarding pass. The clock overhead showed ten minutes before boarding time, so he found a cigar stand, bought a pack of English Ovals and a newspaper, then went to the lounge to wait for his flight. Once on board, he ordered three drinks, added them to the several he had drunk before leaving the hotel and fell asleep. When he woke, they were beginning their approach into Orly. He called the flight attendant for a hot towel to freshen up and ran a nervous hand through his thinning hair. He was to be met at the airport, and he wanted to make a decent impression. His fastidiousness had deserted him under the pressure of the past few days, but it was an asset, and he struggled to restore a sense of control over events.
The terminal at Orly was crowded. The mob scene around the luggage carousel put him on edge, and he had to remind himself that he was in control. When his bag finally showed, he snatched it hurriedly and went to the main lounge. It was eight o'clock. Time to go. Right on the dot, he stood and folded his newspaper three times, tucked it under his left arm and picked up his bag. A man seated across from him also rose and followed Achison into the main lobby. Achison stopped abruptly. The second man bumped him and continued walking. Achison followed.
Out in the cold air, Achison followed the man to a dark green Renault in the parking area and got in the passenger side. His companion started the car and pulled out into the exit lane before speaking. "How'd it go?"
"Well enough, I expect."
"You expect?"
"Yes, I expect. I'll let Andrey make the final evaluation." Achison's tone was abrupt.
He resented the questions. This clown was not someone to whom he owed any sort of explanation.
"Oh, he'll do that. I expect." The man smiled, but Achison ignored him. "He's anxious to look at those papers, you know. He's worried they may be getting onto us."
"I don't think so," Achison said.
'Andrey does."
"Just drive. I'm tired. I don't want to talk."
"Suit yourself."
On the outskirts of Paris, the driver pulled into the driveway of a large estate. A brick wall surrounded the wellmanicured lawns. It was topped with broken glass that glittered in the security lights mounted at thirty-yard intervals.
The estate was the headquarters of an international trading firm, and the rather extensive security was considered a necessity. Too many industrialists and executives had been kidnapped in recent years for the precautions to seem unusual.
After the Renault had passed through, a uniformed guard pulled a heavy iron gate closed behind it.
The Renault continued up the drive and pulled around to the side of the house. Achison got out, taking his bag. Before he could close the door, the driver leaned across to the passenger side and said, "Andrey's in the library. He'll want to see you right away. I expect."
Achison slammed the door on the man's harsh laughter. The huge walnut side door opened as Achison approached. An attractive dark-haired woman greeted him politely and took his bag. After he hung his coat on a rack, she led the way into the dim exterior of the large house. She stopped at a double-doored archway, indicating that Achison should enter. He stepped into the gloomy room, only vaguely aware of the doors closing behind him.
"Sit down, Peter." A flickering flame broke behind a large desk.
Achison could discern the outlines of a large leather chair. As his eyes adjusted, the chair spun.
Andrey Glinkov finished lighting his cigar and snapped his lighter shut. "Did you get the papers, Peter?"
Achison sat down before answering. "No, there was... uh... there was some trouble." Despite his intention to remain calm, he could hear the quaver in his voice.
"What kind of trouble?"
"Someone else was there. He... uh... he killed Otto and took the papers."
"But he didn't kill you? That's very interesting. I should imagine Otto posed more difficulty than you would."
"I don't know. I wasn't there. I mean, I was there, but not when he got Otto. I sent Otto to the car with the papers. Before I left the house, somebody attacked us. He killed Otto and Jameson. He was coming back for me, but I got away. I took a shot at him, but I missed."
"I'm not surprised. It's rather difficult to hit a target you're running away from. I am disappointed, Peter. Very disappointed."
"I know how much you wanted those papers."
"But you did kill Robert Hanley, didn't you?"
Achison relaxed. "Yes, I did. At least that went okay."
"No, Peter, it did not go okay. Your orders were only to get the papers. I said nothing about disposing of Mr. Hanley. This unfortunate matter has called too much attention to affairs we would prefer were unnoticed."