halt.
‘Oh, no!’ she breathed.
Papa pressed the button on his walkie-talkie.
‘Say, uh, up there, uh, this here’s Johnson. I got a passenger, uh, and, uh, like the power just cut off.’
‘Is something wrong?’ Delicately.
‘Nab,’ Papa said, ‘they just shut us off there for a second. Don’t you worry none, little lady.’ His walkie-talkie came alive. It was Sharky’s voice.
‘Uh, yeah, sorry about that, Johnson, we, uh, just bad to, uh, reset the flatistan up here. Uh, it’s okay now, uh, you can crank it up again.’
Papa pushed the ten button and the elevator started up again.
‘Sorry about that,’ Papa said.
She smiled at him, looking directly into 1is eyes.
‘It’s perfectly all right.’
Hardly more than a whisper. Papa felt a thrill like he had not felt for many years.
‘Nice weather,’ he stammered for lack of something better to say.
She laughed. ‘Yes. I love the rain.’
Beautiful, Papa thought, nice weather all right. There’s a typhoon outside.
The elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open. Sharky and The Nosh were standing there. Domino looked first at The Nosh and then at Sharky. She stared at him for a fraction of a second and then her lips parted very slightly in a smile.
‘Hello,’ she said as she walked past him.
Sharky was immobilized, nailed to the floor, stunned as though he had been clubbed. It was more than her elegance, her beauty, something else. A softness he had not expected, a vulnerability he sensed, in her eyes and the softness of her voice. The Nosh had to pull on his sleeve to get him into the elevator. Her scent was still there. He watched her until the doors closed.
‘Okay,’ The Nosh said, ‘we’re in business. We go back on the roof, check everything out, and then maybe we swing by Taco Bell, grab a quick burrito supreme.’
Papa smiled. ‘You got my vote.’
But Sharky did not hear either of them. He was like a statue, staring at the closed door. In just a few seconds Domino had claimed a new victim.
Chapter Eight
DeLaroza was hunched down in the rear of the power launch. A forgotten Havana twirled unlit between his fingers. He stared straight ahead, a man hypnotized by his own thoughts, as the boat moved towards the northern end of the lake.
Suddenly his concentration was jarred by a speedboat which charged from a nearby inlet, skipping like a stone across the choppy surface of the lake. He watched through cold eyes as the boat arced wide around them and sped south, its engine buzzing like an angry bee, the driver perched on his haunches at the stern.
By the time the surly north wind had whipped the speedboat’s wake into frothy whitecaps, DeLaroza was deep in thought again, repeating over and over a single word:
It was a form of Shinto meditation he had learned in Japan. In a few seconds the intrusion was forgotten. He was entranced, his mind cleansed.
Once his concentration was purged, be dealt with the problem at hand as he dealt with all problems. His method had been developed thirty years before in Brazil, where he had spent five years and a fortune becoming Victor DeLaroza and developing a personality that fitted the man he created. These had been the difficult years, the dangerous years just after the war, when his constant companions had been paranoia and fear. It was the Jews he feared most, for they could have become the unwitting instrument of a cruel and ironic joke. The Nazis had come to Brazil, seeking anonymity, trying to rebuild their failed dream. And behind them ceme the Jewish commandos, cold, efficient. zealously checking every record, perusing all newcomers, methodically rooting out war criminals. And always there was the gnawing fear-that they might tumble onto him by accident. He was a man wary of every footfall, suspicious of all strangers. The fear of surprise was a worm in his gut. To avoid surprises, he learned to predict them before they happened. His reflexes became as swift and deadly. He lied when necessary, bribed when expedient, arranged murder when he had to, a ruthless survivalist, as he moved on to Hong Kong, where he was Victor DeLaroza, the international businessman who destroyed competitors, sucked up companies, and built his empire.
His method was always the same. First, cleanse the mind of all emotional or personal considerations — they weakened logic; second, feed the facts into the mental computer; third, consider all alternatives, options, dangers. Once this was done, logic released the solution from his brain.
Sitting in the rear of the launch, he considered the facts. He was safe, safer than he had been for thirty years. They had lured Corrigon to Atlanta and eliminated him, and with him the last danger of recognition. His partner was about to leave the country but DeLaroza no longer felt he needed him. In Yokohama friends in the Yakuza were waiting to take care of that problem. Hotchins was no longer the dark-horse candidate. With Lowenthal and his people on the team Hotchins would become a serious contender and eventually the favourite.
Now only Domino posed a threat. No, more than a threat, she was dangerous. She could connect DeLaroza to Hotchins and possibly Corrigon to DeLaroza. Unwittingly she could tie the noose that would hang them all.
