Bai, or how he had managed to contact him, but it's not important; indeed, it may have been Master Bai who contacted the man when he learned of the man's difficulties with Sinclair. This time my grandfather attacked John Sinclair's mind and heart, as well as his body, with a most unusual weapon-my sister, who was an expert in the more sensual of the Black Flame arts. Sinclair should have been destroyed, but he was saved by a Hmong woman who loved him. This woman killed my sister, and Sinclair killed my grandfather. Now it falls to my father and I to-'
Al abruptly stopped speaking when one of his men entered the library from a door at the far end. The man walked quickly across the library to where Al was standing, whispered something in his ear. Al frowned, turned to face the other end of the library, then loudly issued a command in Japanese.
I stiffened as three Black Flame soldiers and their prisoner entered the library. One of the men was carrying a bulky, elaborate array of assassin's equipment-a high-powered rifle equipped with night-vision telescopic sight, and a tripod with gyroscopic stabilizers. The other two assassins were each firmly gripping an arm of their prisoner, a familiar, grizzled figure with thick, silver-streaked black hair, coal-black eyes, weathered flesh, a barrel chest, and a pronounced limp. The servile, eager-to-please air I had come to associate with my ex-chauffeur was completely absent; he was obviously angry and frustrated, but most of all Carlo looked embarrassed.
Chapter Twelve
Another sturdy, straight-backed chair was brought to the library, and Carlo was quickly and unceremoniously tied into it. The business with the paralyzing drug was omitted, and Al went straight to the foul-smelling, nausea- inducing 'truth brew.' Carlo spat out the first mouthful, and I winced as Al put his fingers on the back of the old man's neck and squeezed, with the predictable result: Carlo screamed long and hard, and after he had finished, he drained the liquid from the cup. His response to Al's first question was apparently a lie, for he vomited all over the front of his green plaid flannel shirt. After vomiting, he slumped in the chair, breathing very rapidly, his soiled chin resting on his broad chest.
'Now let us begin again,' Al said cheerfully. 'What is your name?'
'Carlo Santini, you little bastard,' Carlo answered in a rasping voice. 'Who the hell are you, and what's that shit you gave me to drink?'
'You were discovered sitting on top of a hill overlooking this estate with the equipment of a sniper in your possession. What were you doing there?'
'I was hunting pheasant, and my eyesight isn't too-'
I certainly had to give my chauffeur-assassin credit for having guts, if no brains; but courage wasn't going to save the day for him. He proceeded to empty his guts, or what was left of them, onto his shirt front. When his stomach was empty, he continued barking in dry heaves before again slumping in his chair, exhausted and pouring sweat. Now he looked completely spent, beaten.
'That's enough!' I shouted at Al as he once again started to reach for the back of Carlo's neck. 'For Christ's sake, he's got the idea!'
Al didn't seem much interested in my opinion, for he went ahead and pressed the nerve cluster at the base of Carlo's skull anyway. Carlo screamed and then passed out. Al ordered that more of the dark, greasy liquid be brought to replace what Carlo had voided. When the old man returned to consciousness, he drank it feebly, without resistance.
'What were you doing on the hill, Carlo?' Al asked, resuming his cheerful tone. 'Who was your intended target?'
'John Sinclair,' Carlo answered in a rasping whisper that was barely audible.
'And what led you to believe you would find John Sinclair here?'
'The dwarf and his friends are here,' Carlo said with a rattling sigh and a weak, desultory nod in my direction. 'The dwarf has always been the key.'
'Indeed?' Al said, glancing in my direction and raising his eyebrows slightly. 'From what he has said, I would not have thought so. Mr. Insolers, and you apparently, misjudged his role completely from the beginning. He knew nothing.'
'It didn't make any difference. Whoever you are, you misjudged his role too-but you're here. We're all here because of the dwarf.'
This turn of conversation did not please the dwarf. The nausea I was suddenly feeling had nothing to do with any brew Black Flame had concocted, and I turned my head away.
'Elaborate,' Al said.
'Why? You know what I'm talking about.'
Al placed his hand on the back of Carlo's neck. 'Indulge me.'
'The CIA has always suspected that Sinclair has friends and contacts in high places, people who are both powerful and influential. The problem is that these people would die before they betrayed him, and they're not exactly loose-lipped; that's why Sinclair gave them the gift of his trust in the first place. The thing was that if just one of these people could be identified, then that person's calls and movements could be monitored in the hope that sooner or later the friend would contact John Sinclair, or vice versa, and we might be able to get the tricky bastard in our sights. When this Cornucopia thing went down, it soon became obvious that something had changed; Sinclair was hanging around and leaving signs, almost as if he were inviting people to come after him.'
'He was extending the invitation to us,' Al said quietly. 'It was a challenge.'
'He's hunting you?'
'A decision I'm sure he now regrets.'
'Who the hell are you? The CIA never told me-'
'Please continue your story,' the young man in the Harvard sweatshirt said with an impatient wave of his hand.
'What story? I was hired to kill Sinclair. I figured it was a good bet that the dwarf would take me to him. I was right, for the wrong reasons, probably just the same as you. You've probably already heard everything else there is to know, so why do you want to hear it from me?'
'It's because he's so goddamn afraid of Sinclair,' I said, making no effort to keep the bitterness out of my voice. 'He wants to understand the thinking that led everyone to follow the village idiot here, because Sinclair is no fool. He may have anticipated what would happen, or at the least realized what was going on. It's a question of who's trapping who. Our fearless leader is beginning to have second thoughts about his own cleverness.'
'That's correct, Frederickson,' Al said in a flat tone.
'Chant wouldn't sacrifice us,' Jan said with feeling. 'Not to save his own life, not even to exterminate an unspeakable creature like you.'
I watched Al's face as he studied the woman, and it occurred to me that he agreed with her. But he was still afraid. He turned back to Carlo, said, 'If you don't want me to hurt you again, continue your story. You mentioned the CIA's suspicion that Sinclair has influential friends.'
Carlo shrugged. 'Interpol was keeping very close tabs on everyone of note who began showing up in Switzerland after the Cornucopia thing went down. Frederickson fits the profile of someone who might be connected to Sinclair, so when Interpol told the CIA that Frederickson was coming to Zurich to supposedly do something for Neuberger, the agency put me on the case. I was to follow Frederickson to Sinclair, if I could, and then kill him. I managed to latch onto Frederickson as a chauffeur.'
'So much for your theory of the insider,' I said to Insolers, who had a very peculiar expression of what looked like disbelief on his face as he stared at Carlo.
'You and Mr. Insolers seem to have shared the same notion about Dr. Frederickson,' Al said to Carlo. 'How interesting.'
'If you say so, friend. I don't have the slightest notion about Insolers' notions, and I don't give a shit.'
I again glanced at Insolers, who now appeared even more disbelieving. Color was beginning to rise in his cheeks.
Al took a step closer to Carlo. 'You must have realized almost at once that Frederickson knew nothing-he had never met Sinclair and had no interest in the man beyond his immediate assignment. Yet you stayed with him.
