Genco Bari puffed on his cigar, stared at Rogan for a long time. “I knew you would have an honorable motive for killing me. You are so obviously an honorable man. All week I could see you planning how to kill me and then get safely on your plane in Palermo. So I’ve helped you. Leave my body here and go forward. Before anyone knows what has happened, you will be in Rome. Then I suggest you leave Italy as quickly as possible. The Mafia has a long arm.”
“If you hadn’t straightened my tie, if you hadn’t distracted me so that Eric could sneak up behind me, I might not kill you,” Rogan said.
On Bari’s emaciated face was a look of surprise. Then he smiled sadly. “I never meant to trick you,” he said. “I thought you knew you were going to die. And so I wanted you to feel a human touch, to comfort you in those last few moments without betraying myself to my fellow murderers. You see, I do not excuse myself from that deed. But I must insist to you now: I had nothing to do with your wife’s death or with her screams.”
The Sicilian sun was directly overhead and the rock overhanging them gave no shade. Rogan felt the sick anticipation rising in his stomach. “Was it von Osteen who killed her?” he said. “Tell me who tortured her, and I swear by her memory and her soul that I will let you go free.”
Genco Bari stood up. For the first time in their relationship he was harsh and angry. “You fool,” he said. “Haven’t you realized I want you to kill me? You are my deliverer, not my executioner. Every day I suffer terrible pain that no drugs can completely banish. The cancer is in every cell of my body, but it can’t kill me. As we did not succeed in killing you in the Munich Palace of Justice. I may live in this pain for years to come, cursing God. I knew from the very first day that you wanted to kill me. I helped you in every way to find an opportunity.” He smiled at Rogan. “This sounds like a rather grim joke, but I will only tell you the truth about your wife if you promise to kill me.”
Rogan said harshly, “Why don’t
He was surprised when Genco Bari bowed his head, then raised it to look directly into his eyes. Almost with shame, the Italian whispered, “It would be a mortal sin. I believe in God.”
There was a long silence. They were both standing. Finally Rogan said, “Tell me if it was von Osteen who killed my wife, and I promise to end yours.”
Genco Bari spoke slowly. “It was the leader of our group, Klaus von Osteen, who had the screams recorded to torture you with later. He was a strange, terrible man-no other man I have ever known would have thought of such a thing at such a time. For it wasn’t planned, you know. It was all an accident. So he had to think of the recording right there, right on the spur of the moment, as the girl was dying.”
Rogan said hoarsely, “Then who tortured her? Who killed her?”
Genco Bari looked directly into his eyes and said gravely, “You did.”
Rogan felt the blood pounding in his head, the skull around the silver plate throbbing with pain. He said thickly, “You lousy bastard, you tricked me. You’re not going to tell me who did it.” He took the Walther pistol from his jacket and pointed it at Bari’s stomach. “Tell me who killed my wife.”
Again Genco Bari looked directly into Rogan’s eyes and said gravely, “You did. She died giving birth to a dead child. None of us touched her. We were sure she knew nothing. But von Osteen recorded her screams to frighten you with.”
“You’re lying,” Rogan said. Without even thinking he pulled the trigger of the Walther pistol. The report echoed against the rocks like thunder, and Genco Bari’s frail form was hurled to the ground almost five feet from where he had been standing. Rogan walked to where the dying man was crumpled against a rock. He put the pistol against Bari’s ear.
The dying man opened his eyes and nodded gratefully; he whispered to Rogan, “Don’t blame yourself. Her screams were terrible because all pain, all death, is equally terrible. You too must die again, and it will not be less terrible.” His breath was coming in bloody ribbons of spit. “Forgive me, as I forgive you,” he said.
Rogan held the man in his arms, not firing again, waiting for him to die. It took only a few minutes, and he had plenty of time to catch his plane in Palermo. But before he left he covered Genco Bari’s body with a blanket from the car. He hoped it would be found soon.
CHAPTER 13
At Rome Rogan caught a flight to Budapest. Arthur Bailey had kept his promise and the visas were waiting for him. Rogan took along some whiskey and stayed drunk on the plane. He couldn’t forget what Genco Bari had told him: that Christine had died in childbirth; that he, Rogan, had been responsible for her death. But could a death so common to women since time began cause the terrible screams of pain he had heard on the phonograph in the Munich Palace of Justice? And that cruel bastard von Osteen making the record. Only a genius of evil could think of something so inhuman on the spur of the moment. Rogan forgot his own feelings of guilt for a moment as he thought of killing von Osteen and the pleasure it would give him. He thought of letting Pajerski’s execution wait, but he was already on the plane bound for Hungary; Arthur Bailey had already arranged things for him in Budapest. Rogan smiled grimly. He knew something Bailey didn’t know.
In Budapest, more than a little drunk, Rogan went directly to the United States consulate and asked to see the interpreter. This was all according to Arthur Bailey’s instructions.
A small nervous man with a toothbrush mustache led him to the inner chambers. “I am the interpreter,” he said. “Who sent you to me?”
“A mutual friend named Arthur Bailey,” Rogan told him.
The little man ducked away into another room. After a few moments he came back and said in a frightened, timid voice, “Please follow me, sir. I will take you to someone who will help you.”
They entered a room in which a burly man with thinning hair waited for them. He shook Rogan’s hand with vigor and introduced himself as Stefan Vrostk. “I am the one who will aid you in your mission,” he said. “Our friend Bailey has requested I give it my personal attention.” With a wave of his hand he dismissed the little interpreter.
When they were alone in the room, Vrostk began to speak in an arrogant manner. “I have read about your case. I have been briefed on what you have done. I have been informed on your future plans.” He spoke as if he were a man of great importance; he was, obviously, a man of overwhelming conceit.
Rogan sat back and just listened. Vrostk went on. “You must understand that here behind the Iron Curtain things are very different. You cannot hope to operate so flagrantly as you have done. Your record as an agent in World War II does show you are prone to carelessness. Your network was destroyed because you did not take proper precautions when you used your clandestine radio. Isn’t that true?” He gave Rogan a patronizing smile. But Rogan continued to look at him impassively.
Vrostk was a little nervous now, but this did not lessen his arrogance one bit. “I will point out Pajerski to you- where he works, his living habits, how he is guarded. The actual execution you must do yourself. I will then arrange to have the underground spirit you out of the country. But let me impress upon you that you are to do nothing without consulting me. You will do nothing without my approval. And you must accept without questioning my plans for your escape from this country once you have completed your mission. Do you understand this?”
Rogan could feel the anger mounting to his head. “Sure,” he said. “I understand. I understand everything perfectly. You work for Bailey, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Vrostk said.
Rogan smiled. “OK, then I’ll follow your orders. I’ll tell you everything before I do it.” He laughed. “Now show me where I can get my hands on Pajerski.”
Vrostk smiled paternally. “First we must have you checked into a hotel where you will be safe. Take a little nap, and this evening you and I shall dine at the Cafe Black Violin. And there you shall see Pajerski. He dines there every evening, plays chess there, meets his friends there. It is his hangout, as you say in America.”
