diamond cufflinks that made Tom think he was loaded. By now he'd added on the Duoppioni label inside the coat of Rosenstiel's silk suit, the Italian tasselled loafers, the Rolex watch, and the Dunhill gold lighter.
Since Eichmann's arrest, Gregor is well guarded,' said Ilani. He has some powerful friends in the military government. Officials he has bribed with large sums of money.'
While we're on that subject,' said Tom, my terms and conditions include fifty per cent of the consideration, in advance, in cash.'
No problem,' said Moe Dalitz.
Then we have a deal, said Tom. He had been wrong about Rosenstiel. It was the casino that was going to put up the money for the contract. That was okay. They'd probably let him win at roulette, or something. Just as long as they didn't expect him to take his money from a slot machine.
He handed Davidson a sheet of paper.
My bank is Maduro and Curiel's in CuraASSao,' he said. That's the cable address and my account number. When the service has been rendered, I'll telephone to let you know so you can deposit the balance of my fee.'
There is one more thing,' said Ilani. We'd prefer it if you could go to Argentina immediately on your return to Miami.' He handed Tom a ticket. There's a Braniff flight from Miami to Buenos Aires this Friday. We'd like you to be on it. It's just possible Gregor may yet disappear altogether.'
I understand,' said Tom. I can be on that flight. But can you do the passport by then?'
You'll have it by tomorrow morning,' Ilani confirmed.
Then there's just the deposit.'
Sure, sure,' said Dalitz. Ever play keno, Tom?'
I'm more of a golfer than a gambler.'
Keno was the national lottery in ancient China. Funds acquired from the game were used to build the Great Wall of China. Which ought to tell you that the house percentage is bigger than on any other casino game. Maybe in Disneyland they win money at keno, but anywhere else it's the original hard way bet. Damned if I know why but it's about the most popular game in the joint. Vegas loves a winner, Tom. And tonight, my friend, you're it.'
Moe Dalitz handed Tom a keno form. It was divided horizontally into two rectangles. The upper half was numbered 1 through 40, and the lower half 41 through 80. Fifteen numbers had already been marked with a thick black crayon and, in the right-hand corner of the form, was the price of the ticket: $100.
Hand this in at the keno lounge desk,' Dalitz told him. Pay for the bet. The lady will give you back a ticket with the number of the game you're playing. Then watch the keno board. After twenty numbers have appeared turn in your ticket and collect your money. Only don't hang around before the next game, otherwise you'll forfeit your winnings. All thirteen grand of it.'
Grinning affably, Dalitz toasted Tom, and said: Congratulations. You're leaving Vegas with a small fortune. To do that most people usually have to arrive in Vegas with a large one.'
It was the first time Tom ever played keno. And in view of the ease with which the fix had gone in, he thought it would be the last time, too. The whole experience confirmed Tom's belief that luck was something only suckers believed in. Like God. And Justice. Perhaps there were those who might have seen some kind of Nemesis in what was about to befall Helmut Gregor. Tom was not one of these, however. He had no illusions with regard to what he was doing. However heinous the man's crimes, this was plain murder. And plain murder was what Tom was good at. The way some guys were good at pitching a baseball, or playing a saxophone. Not much of a talent, maybe, but enough to make a good living. Tom would have put a bullet through Walt Disney's head if someone had come up with the twenty-five grand.
For considerably more than that - a cool two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to be precise - a consortium of embittered Cubans, angry at Eisenhower's lack of support for their now-exiled President, Fulgencia Batista, had contracted Tom to assassinate Ike during his state visit to Brazil, back in March. Had the Cubans managed to stay out of gaol - all of them were now imprisoned in the notorious Isle of Pines - and come up with even half of the money, it might have been the easiest of jobs: on the newsreels he'd seen Ike riding the length of Rio's mile-long Avenida Rio Branco sitting right up on the back of the open-top limousine so that the crowd with its tickertape welcome could get a better view of him. It had been a rare opportunity. The car had been travelling at just eight miles an hour. Usually, American presidents were not so easy to kill.
Moloch. There he is,' Sylvia reported. The biographical charm bracelet she wore on her wrist clinked noisily as she rocked up and down excitedly.
Her scent was in his nostrils. Something nice. Better than the stink of gunpowder that was to come.
I see him.'
Tom's voice was calm, even appreciative, as if he was observing a rare bird, or a girl undressing in front of an open window. The man who had just rounded the corner looked respectable enough and like someone Tom had once known. Tall and dark-haired, Gregor cut a well-dressed, handsome figure and seemed hardly German at all. More like a typical porteA+-o male: dressed with the care of a Frenchman, and possessed with the attitude of an Englishman. Josef Goebbels in a grey suit, with two good feet and an extra six inches.
Tom could easily see how, for over ten years, the German had managed to fit right in.
He took aim, which was another kind of concentration, choosing the exact spot he wished to hit. It was an old sniper's trick: pick a point of impact that was the same size as your bullet. When shooting at the side of a man's head, Tom favoured the tip of the ear. Shooting from the front, as in this case, he always aimed at the philtrum, the little groove in the target's upper lip. Either way you were certain to hit the brain stem. And at less than a hundred and fifty yards, teeth and bones were hardly likely to deflect a .30-calibre bullet. Tom could shoot groups of one inch at a range of one hundred yards. For a precise shot to the central nervous system, that was really his maximum range. So, keeping the scope's reticle steady on the man walking toward him, and his aiming spot, he waited for Sylvia to report that the target was clear of other pedestrians and traffic. It was like watching a silent movie, except that the picture he could see was in colour.
For almost thirty seconds a horse-drawn carriage obscured his view of the target. Then, the driver, wearing a tweed cap and blue suit, cracked his whip and the single horse broke into a trot and turned the corner of Cangallo, leaving Tom with what Sylvia confirmed excitedly was now a good clear shot.
Slowly he started to gather the trigger under the tip of his forefinger, taking just the slack out of it, until he felt the heavier resistance of the sear, and, gathering his breath once more, pulling back only to the point of release. He was only a second away from firing when Gregor turned his head and glanced behind him as if to be reassured that his police bodyguard was still in tow. Seeing that he was, Gregor looked to his front again, smiling now, and then slowed as he approached the street corner, ready to cross over Cangallo. He did not seem to have a care in the world. Or a conscience.
You're clear to fire,' repeated Sylvia. There's nothing coming either-'
A split second before she heard the gunshot above her, she saw the German reach up for his mouth as though he had felt the sharp pain of a sudden toothache, and his head was momentarily surrounded with what looked like a circle of crimson light as the back of his skull blew off. Both the bodyguard and a pedestrian walking to the rear of Helmut Gregor were splattered with blood and brain coming toward them. Even to Sylvia's untrained eye it was plain to see that Gregor had suffered a fatal head shot. But swallowing her horror she followed his poleaxed body down on to the sidewalk, and continued to report the silent scene visible through the binoculars. Her first thought was that it seemed incredible that Gregor could have been killed from such a distance.
It looks as though you blew the nose right off his face,' she said.
Tom bolted the rifle and relocated his target now lying in the gutter. This time he aimed at the throat, just below the lower jaw.
And I think also the back of his skull,' she added. He must be dead. No, wait. I think his leg moved a little.'
Tom thought it was probably just a spasm, but he squeezed off a second shot anyway, to make quite sure.
Jesus,' exclaimed Sylvia, hardly expecting that Tom would have bothered to fire again. Still watching through the binoculars, she caught sight of Gregor's jaw fly off like a piece of broken pottery. Shaking her head, she threw the binoculars on to the bed, and added that the man was now dead for sure. Then she took a deep breath and sat down heavily on the floor, with her back against the bed, and dropped her head between her knees, almost as if she herself had been shot.
The cruelty of what she had seen appalled her. The coldbloodedness of it, too. She had only a vague idea of
