“Most important, among his numerous personal peculiarities is his attachment to this residence of twenty-two years. He will do business nowhere else. If you want to sell him something, you go there. If you want to buy something from him, you go there. That is all there is to it. There are no exceptions. The delivery boy goes. The art-loving mogul goes. The wealthiest men in the world go to this address in Mayfair.”
Rousset paused, then smiled softly again.
“Well, as it happens, this is an interesting analogy,” he said. “This odd man, this good fellow, is very much like death itself. To him, all men are the same, and he treats them all the same. Eventually all men come to him, prince and pauper alike. He is indiscriminate.”
Skerlic did not appreciate the comparison. He pushed away the wine. He had no idea why rich people came here so they could sweat on this hot fucking coast. He took off his sport coat, which was so pedestrian as to be almost indescribable. In fact, Skerlic himself was so unremarkable as to be almost indescribable.
Rousset reached for another slice of pear.
“That’s the best place to kill Wolf Schrade.”
“Can you get to the point?”
Rousset took a small bite of the slice of pear and chewed it a moment, thinking. Then he went on.
“Schrade will go to Carrington’s to inspect the art.” He paused to emphasize the self-evident point. “We ourselves can prescribe the exact place,” he said, “and the exact time and thereby minimize the chance of any missteps.”
Skerlic studied Rousset. “What about this art dealer?”
“What about him?”
“You have a plan to avoid blowing up his ass in the process?”
“I have a plan, yes. It will require some very precise timing.” He looked at Skerlic’s scorned wine. “Would you like something else?”
“What’s the plan?”
“The plan? That is the plan, my part of it. I can make sure of the delivery. You have to make sure of the execution… so to speak.”
Skerlic used the side of his thumb to wipe the perspiration that had gathered on his brow like beads of warm dew. Then he reached for the bowl of fruit and broke off the long stem of an apple, stripped off the leaf, and rolled the stem between his fingers to remove the rough spots. Then he put the twig into his ear and began probing, tilting his head slightly.
“This is a sure thing?” Skerlic asked. “I can count on this, as of this moment?”
“Oh, most assuredly. I’ve only to negotiate the time. It might take as long as five days, however. I’ll try to hurry it up.”
“I see.”
“Does it suit you? This plan?”
Skerlic pulled something from his ear, looked at it, then flicked it toward the Mediterranean.
“I don’t mind it,” he said. “It could work.”
“It’s ingenious. Very precise.”
“If we do this, there’s no going back. I have to concentrate on the delivery mechanism, and once I get started on it I don’t want you to come to me and tell me you have changed your mind or that it can’t be done. What we settle here, we settle for good. The decision is final.”
“Well, that is good with me,” Rousset observed cautiously, “but, well, this is a bit rigid, isn’t it? I thought one had to be flexible… you know, the value of resilience.”
“You are not so sure, then, after all.”
“You need to be certain that your ‘delivery mechanism’ is realistic, given the context of the situation. You understand? I mean, for instance, what if you’ve thought of a brilliant way to work the explosive into, say, a pat of butter… but butter has no place in an art dealer’s shop. Do you see?”
Skerlic looked as if the comment were so stupid that he didn’t know how to respond to it. But he summoned his patience. The money was so extraordinarily good.
“We will have to meet again, Mr. Rousset, to work out the logistics of the situation. Then you can see for yourself.”
“One more thing,” Rousset added. “About the explosive device. I want to stress that Mr. Schrade is the target. I don’t want… there mustn’t be… a conflagration, an apocalyptic event. You understand?”
Skerlic regarded him with a blank expression. Rousset suspected him of playing dumb.
“The term required is ‘surgical,’ Mr. Skerlic. I don’t want anyone to die except Mr. Schrade. That’s a firm stipulation. I am making the opportunity very accommodating to you. You have to make sure the explosion is precise. Do you understand?” Rousset asked.
“I understand what you want,” Skerlic said.
“That’s good, wonderful.” Pause. “Can you do it?”
“Yes, I can do it. Okay?”
“Very good. That’s important to me. Precision. One can’t just throw a stick of dynamite into the room.”
CHAPTER 29
Strand and Mara drove out of Bellagio at dusk and headed along the east side of the western leg of the lake, driving nearly halfway to Como on one of the most torturous stretches of mountainside roadway in Europe before Strand turned off the pavement outside a small unnamed village perched above the lake. He maneuvered the rental car down a long drive shrouded by the heavy canopies of ancient trees, to the front of a large, gloomy villa resting on the breast of the shore.
Just as Strand cut the headlights and the motor, a figure appeared at the edge of the cinder courtyard, walking toward them. They followed the figure through a portico into an inner courtyard and out again to a curving path that took them in a slow decline to a boathouse on the water.
Inside the boathouse a thirty-foot Abbate speedboat sat in its slip, black, low against the water, glistening in the dim light. Its nose faced out to the lake.
Within moments the boat’s powerful engines came to life, and they eased slowly out of the boathouse, away from the tree-draped shore and into the open lake. It was a clear night, the darkness crazed by the blue light of the stars and the amber lights of the villas along the dark swells of the hilly shoreline.
The Abbate made the ride down the lake an easy endeavor. Soon its engine cut back to a mutter, and the boat slipped toward the Villa d’Este’s boat docks and its floating swimming pool that jutted out into the lake, ringed with lights. Other boats were arriving and departing along the docks, and they had to wait a moment before the long Abbate was able to pull up to the dock and let them off onto the cork-covered landing.
The brightly lighted sixteenth-century Villa d’Este loomed up into the trees above them. They made their way through the formal gardens, passing the hotel’s guests coming and going through the lamp-lighted evening, some in swimsuits and some in formal dress. There were also lakeside residents who, in the summer evenings, boated in from their villas up and down Como’s shores to dine at the hotel’s famous restaurant, a gathering place for those who had acquired a large measure of international wealth and fame.
Strand left Mara in the center of the elegant main hall surrounded by white marble columns and grained ceilings and announced at the reception desk that he was here to meet Lu Kee. Then he turned and watched Mara, who wore a simple black dress. No jewelry-the flight from Rome had not allowed time for that.
“Mr. H.S.?”
Strand turned to see a slim young Chinese whom he guessed to be in his late twenties, dressed in a fine white linen summer suit, looking at him.
“Yes,” Strand said.
“Mr. Lu is waiting.”
Lu’s suite was lavish, with a stunning view of the shores of Como. The old man appeared immediately, dressed nattily in ecru linen trousers, a black linen shirt open at the neck, and a mocha silk jacket with a black kerchief in its breast pocket. He wore light beige espadrilles. His hair was white and very thick. His manner was relaxed and gracious.
Strand introduced himself and then introduced Mara Song. The old man made no pretense of taking her beauty for granted. He bowed to her first and then reached out and took her hand. He did not shake it but simply held it a moment, smiling at her appreciatively. Then he said: