Sergas looked at her as the door quaked under the shoulder impact. Screws from the lock flew into the room. An evil little smile flitted across his mouth. He moved swiftly against the wall to the left of the door. As he did so, the door burst open and the black, snarling, his knife blade flashing in the sunbeams coming through the shutters, rushed in.
The girl on the bed screamed, covering her breasts and cringing back.
Moving like a striking cobra, Sergas came from behind the door. The side of his open hand cut down on the black’s bull neck in a vicious karate chop.
The shack shook as the black went down like a pole-axed bull.
The girl screamed again.
“Relax,” Sergas said. “Don’t excite yourself.”
“Is he dead?” The girl scrambled to the foot of the bed and peered down at the vast, inert body.
“No... no. Just asleep.” Sergas put on his sweat shirt.
“When he wakes, he will kill me!”
Sergas bent to put on his loafers.
“No, he won’t. I’ll fix that for you.”
“He’ll beat me!” the girl moaned.
Sergas shook his head, his long hair like a yellow flag.
“He won’t.”
“He will! He’ll beat me until I bleed!”
Sergas bent over the unconscious black, then taking one of the black’s enormous hands, he fastened on to the little finger. With a quick jerk, he wrenched back the finger, breaking the bone. Taking the other hand, he again broke the little finger, then smiling at the girl, he said, “He won’t be able to touch you now, baby. He’ll be too sorry for himself, but just in case he feels like kicking you, I’ll fix his feet.”
As the girl stared in horror, her body shivering, Sergas pulled off the black’s shoes and broke the two little toes of the black’s enormous, stinking feet.
“You take care of him, baby. He’ll be glad of your care.” Then giving his mirthless smile, he walked out, got astride his Honda and roared off back to his Miami apartment.
As he entered the small shabby room, he saw the answering light on his telephone was glowing. The girl at the reception desk told him there was an urgent call for him and gave him a Paradise City number.
Sergas’s eyes lit up.
His uncle!
He dialled the number.
“Sergas,” he said when he heard his uncle’s voice.
“Come immediately to the Belvedere hotel, Paradise City,” his uncle said. “You are now a member of Mr Radnitz’s staff,” and he hung up.
Sergas replaced the telephone receiver. He stood still for a long moment, then began hurriedly to pack.
The long wait was over.
four
Fred Scooner, Head of the security guards, permanently attached to the Washington Fine Arts museum, stood at the head of the three broad flights of marble steps leading to the entrance lobby of the first floor where the Hermitage exhibits were on display.
Scooner, in his early fifties, was a bulky man, wearing a dark blue uniform with a peak cap. The gold braid on his cuffs indicated his rank.
By his side was FBI Agent Jack Trumbler, wearing a dark suit, bare-headed, his jacket bulging slightly, concealing the police special .38 he carried in a shoulder holster.
The two men were regarding the orderly queue of people as they waited to go through the security screen. A guard was posted at the entrance doors, regulating the flow of the queue. Another guard was directing people to a long counter where they handed in everything they happened to be carrying.
Trumbler, lean and hard-faced, in his early thirties, disliked this assignment. It wasn’t his idea of action just to stand around and watch art-lovers and gawpers, but his instructions had been precise and clear. His boss had told him he and his four men must be continually on the alert.
“This goddamn city,” his boss had said, “is full of nuts. The exhibits are all wired so the chances of a steal are remote, but a nut with a bottle of acid can do damage. I have it from the President himself that there must be no incidents, and it will be your ass in a sling if there is.”
The same instructions from the White House had been passed to Fred Scooner. Every one of his men for the past week had been on key-alert, and the strain was beginning to tell. Even when the museum closed at 20.00, guards, in shifts, remained on duty throughout the night.
“I’ll be glad when this shindig is over,” Trumbler said. “One more week!”
Scooner nodded.
“These people look all right, but no one ever knows. There are so many anti-Russian cranks around. Someone politically motivated could try to damage one of these exhibits. I reckon the last week will be the most dangerous.”
“You mean someone casing the joint, then returning?”
“That’s my guess.”
“If someone does do damage, there’ll be one hell of a row,” Trumbler said gloomily. “What a chance for the Soviets to claim we are irresponsible: It wouldn’t surprise me if they would be happy if a nut did do something.”
“The security is as tight as we can make it.”
“Yeah. How do you get along with those KGB creeps?”
“No contact. They pretend they only speak Russian.”
“Me too.”
While the two men were talking and while a continuous stream of people moved up the museum’s steps, in the grounds, more queues were forming.
A small blue van on which was painted Washington City Electricity Corporation pulled up at the entrance gates. A tall black, wearing the familiar Corporation’s uniform, slid out of the van and went over to one of the guards.
“Mr Scooner phoned,” he said. “You have trouble with your fuse box.”
The guard eyed the black.
“You know where the fuse box is?”
“Sure.” The black grinned. “Around the back.”
The guard, seeing a big air-conditioned coach pull up, impatiently waved the black through. The van drove off around the back of the museum where there were no guards.
The guard moved to the coach. From it came a short, fat, beaming clergyman.
“Reverend Hardcastle,” he said. “I have brought my flock to see the exhibition. It has been arranged, I believe.”
The guard had been alerted that thirty-five Vietnamese refugees would be arriving in charge of a Reverend Hardcastle.
“Tickets, sir?” he said, saluting.
“Certainly.” The fat clergyman produced a book of tickets and a passport.
The guard waved the passport aside.
“That isn’t necessary, sir.”
“I understood the security is very strict. I thought I should bring my passport.”
Clergymen, fat or thin, were, in the guard’s opinion, goddamn do-gooders and a nuisance. He checked the tickets, looked at the yellow faces peering down at him from the coach windows, snorted, then waved to the driver.
“Go ahead, sir,” he said to the clergyman. “There’s a security check in the lobby. Please tell your people to leave everything in the coach that they may be carrying. This will save time. Umbrellas, bags, canes and any metal objects.”
“I understand. Thank you,” and the clergyman returned to the coach which drove up to the entrance of the museum.
There was a delay before the passangers descended. There was confusion in the coach while they rid themselves of their possessions. The last two women out of the coach had to be assisted. They were both in advanced stages of pregnancy.
“Oh, hell!” Scooner muttered. “Look at this lot!”
He stared down at the group of Vietnamese; some men, some women, some with small children: all dressed in their national costume: the women in Cheong-sams, the men in white shirts and black trousers.
“Refugees,” Scooner went on. “The padre organized this outing through the Brotherhood of Love society.”