Both men unholstered their sidearms.
'This is the Virginia State Police! ' Niccolo called from the foot of the stairs.
'We better get some more help here,' Walsh whispered. Niccolo motioned for him to shut up. 'Come on. IV
Dominick Niccolo, then James Walsh, headed up the shag-carpeted stairway. Both men had their guns pointed up into the dark hallway above.
Right at the top of the sWm they found a woman.
Carole Hill was barefoot, dressed in a flowered blouse and white walking shorts. Blood was caked on her face and chest. A pool of blood was on the carpet beside her.
Two bedrooms down the hall, James Walsh found a teenage boy.
Mark Hill was inside his clothes closet. The boy was gagged and tied up with a telephone wire. But at least he was alive.
In the master bedroom, Dominick Niccolo was calling the trooper barracks in Alexandria. 'The house is on Shad Stream Road,' he said into a pink princess telephone. 'Belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Harold Hill. The husband doesn't seem to be here.... Johnny, you won't believe this, but there's a three-foot machete stuck in the poor woman's heart. Jimmy Walsh is up here puking in the hallway. Hurry up, will you?.
The machete murders had come to America. Almost to Langley. Just fourteen miles from the White House. The warning couldn't have been any clearer.
May 9, 1979 Wednesday
Stalk
Tall
Blond
Man
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
From the Rose Diary
In December of 1978 1 had wired, then telephoned, our last important player-an expensive English shooter named Clive Lawson. At that time, Lawson was buying and selling cocaine and fourstar pornography in North Miami Beach, Florida.
During our eventual phone conversation, I told Lawson that Sefior Miguel Alvarez of Caracas (Pietra Forte) and Anthony Patriarca of Miami (Cosa Nostra) were my sponsors; that I was interested in purchasing a large stock of 16-millimeter films I heard he had, or could get.
'Do you have anything that might stimulate older gentlemen?' I asked him over the phone. 'Large, private screenings for older gentlemen?'
Lawson said that he might have something. He didn't know. He didn't do business over the phone.
On the fifteenth of December, we met in the ry unlikely Poodle Bar at the Fontainebleau Hotel.
For our meeting, the English killer was wearing a wrinkled white shirt. A funky plaid sports jacket. Thick, black-rimmed glasses that were so squarelooking, I couldn't quite believe them.... Because, you see, Clive Lawson was an exceptionally handsome man. A little like Michael Caine from a distance. A lot like Damian.
He ordered Tanqueray with a twist, and I had something chic like Campari. Both of us played our parts for a while, then I simply announced to him that I was Carrie Rose.
After that admission, we talked about the Congo and Southeast Asia-places where we'd both worked and vaguely heard of each other. We talked about how Clive had fallen into the pornography business through the Pietra Forte-the so-called Latin-American Connection. We talked about Darnian and me.
Then, as factually yet vaguely as possible, I exlained something about San Dominica to the English killer. 'As a further introduction,' I said at the end of my opening gambit, 'I have to tell you that we can't let anyone in on the total picture down there. Like who holds the contract. That's rule number one.... On the other hand, we're offering very large fees for peripheral work that shouldn't be all that hard.
The green eyes behind Lawson's black-rimmed glasses sparkled like large emeralds. He had a relaxed, confident manner that I was beginning to like. 'My favorite sort of work,' he said. 'Do go on.'
'For one week in May,' I continued, 'your job will be to lead the San Dominican police on a wildgoose chase all over the island. That's where your time in the Congo fits in nicely for our purposes. It's also where you earn your money.'
Lawson's eyebrows arched a little. 'Will I be shooting at people? Or getting shot at?'
'If you're careless, you'll get shot at, I'm sure. The usual ground rules apply, Clive. There will be at least two hits for you. Probably military targets. Lower-echelon assholes.' The tall blond man smiled. He understood perfectly. At least he thought he understood: he was to run cover for our escape.
'How much?' he asked next.
'Fifty thousand dollars.'
Lawson started to laugh. 'No haggling, ay? I don't even get a chance to try and bargain you up. All right, I think so.... How about sixty? I assume I have to get my own behind out of there.
'Sixty is fine.'
'Money in advance, of course.'
'Of course. '
