She raised her arms and lazily stretched, pulling the front of her dress drum-head tight. “Do you want to sleep with me, Robert?”
What? What did she say?
She rested her chin on one hand and looked at him with a warm, sleepy look. The other hand moved slowly across the table and touched his.
He felt his head bobbing up and down. He made a conscious effort to close his mouth.
“Let’s leave then. I’m ready.”
Toad fumbled for his wallet. He was ready, too. In fact, he had never been more ready in his life.
“He’s still there,” Sakol said when Colonel Qazi got into the car. They were parked under a large tree, well away from the streetlight, with the windows down owing to the warmth of the evening. The entrance to Pagliacci’s drive was over two blocks away, but because of a slight dip in the road the view from here was excellent. Across the street from Pagliacci’s estate was a park. Sakol passed his binoculars to Qazi. “A chauffeur dropped him, then drove away. He went in alone.”
Qazi adjusted the focus. The big lenses seemed to gather the light. There was a streetlight on a power pole near the gate, and he could see the chest-high brick wall. Then he caught the glow of a cigarette just beyond the wall, inside the grounds. “How many of them are there?”
“I think there are at least two of them on duty — one on the gate, then one at the back of the property. There were dogs loose on the grounds last night, so I think the guards go in the house when the old man is alone.”
Qazi turned the binoculars toward the park and began to scan. The occasional lamps by the walking paths provided little oases of light, but there were many impenetrable shadows. “I saw the dogs’ droppings the last few times I was there.”
“Dobermans. I’m surprised he even has two guards. No local in his right mind would dare burgle the place, and two men wouldn’t even slow down a team of hit men. I doubt if Pagliacci even has a burglar alarm.”
“There’s no alarm system. The guards are for appearances, which are so important. One must keep up appearances,” Qazi said and handed the glasses back. “So he’s in there.”
“Yes indeed. Big, mean, and ugly. No doubt paying his respects.”
“No doubt.”
“This pretty much tears it, huh?”
“Tears what?”
“The whole enchilada. If Pagliacci’s spilled it — and there’s no reason to think he hasn’t — your little deal is gonna go off like a wet match.”
“You’re too pessimistic. We mustn’t assume the worst just because two men are sitting together in that house. But perhaps I should go have a chat with them.” Qazi took a pistol from the waistband in the small of his back and a silencer from a jacket pocket. The pistol was a Bernardelli automatic in 380 ACP. The barrel had been altered by a machinist to take a silencer. He screwed the silencer on, then jacked a cartridge into the chamber. After carefully checking the safety, he eased the gun into his trouser belt. “I’ll need the glass-cutter, some tape, and the little torch from the boot.” Sakol opened the car door. The interior courtesy light did not come on. The bulb had been removed from its socket.
“And get an Uzi for yourself, and the climbing rope.”
When Sakol was back behind the wheel, Qazi ran his hands over the rope and steel grappling hook. “Your knife, please.” Sakol unstrapped the scabbard from his right ankle.
Qazi examined the six-inch blade, a scaled-down Bowie. “You Americans make good knives.”
“It was made in Japan.”
Qazi slipped the knife back into the scabbard and pulled up his left trouser leg. His Walther was in its usual place on his right ankle. “If he comes out before I do, use the Uzi. I want him dead. And kill anyone with him.”
“With pleasure.”
Qazi adjusted the knife scabbard on his left ankle and pulled the trouser leg back down. “Then wait for me. No matter what, wait for me.”
Sakol screwed a silencer onto the barrel of the Uzi, then checked that the magazine was full and there was a round in the chamber. He started the car with his foot off the brake pedal and let it idle. “I’ve been watching the park since I’ve been here and haven’t seen anyone. But there may be a man in there watching the gate.”
“We’ll have to risk it.” Qazi screwed the bulb back into the courtesy light socket above the rearview mirror.
“Turn on your lights and drive down to the gate. We’ll use English.”
There was a light on the power pole near the gate. Sakol stopped directly in front of the gate. “Do you see the house number?” Qazi asked in a conversational tone of voice.
“No, but this must be it.”
Qazi opened his door and stepped out. He left the door standing open. Sakol shaded his eyes against the interior courtesy light and squinted at the gate. Qazi took a few tipsy paces toward the wrought-iron lattice, peered about, then extracted a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and swayed slightly as he held it away from him so the streetlight fell on it.
The man on the other side of the wall moved.
“Oh, old fellow,” Qazi said thickly. “Didn’t see you there. Can you tell me, does Colonel Arbuthnot live here?”
The man took three steps up to the chest-high wall. “
“Quickly, let’s get him into the car.” The two men vaulted the wall, wrestled the body over, then dragged it to the car and placed it on the floor behind the front seats. As they did this, Qazi said, “Take the car back where it was and park it. Then come back and get the other guard. Wear this one’s cap. You know what to do. Then wait here by the gate. Don’t let anyone leave alive.”
Qazi vaulted the wall again and walked quickly up the driveway, alert for dogs. He heard nothing except the sounds of night insects and, very faintly, the engine of Sakol’s car as it proceeded along the street. And he could hear the background murmur of traffic from the boulevard a kilometer or so away.
As Qazi approached the house he scanned the windows. The porch light was out, but several windows on the left corner of the house had indirect lighting coming through the drapes. The rest of the first-floor windows were dark. Any of them would do.
He paused by the front door and gingerly tried the knob. It turned! But what did Pagliacci have to fear? The most powerful mafioso in southern Italy, he was perhaps the man who slept the soundest. Qazi turned the knob to its limit and pushed gently on the door, a massive wooden slab eight feet high. It gave and he slipped through.
He stood in the darkness listening. Nothing. The house was as quiet as a tomb. He flashed the pencil beam about. A large foyer. Furniture centuries old. With the light beam pointed at his feet, he moved lightly across the Persian rug to the hallway and turned left.
There were voices on the other side of the door. He strained to hear the words. Just murmurs. Qazi put the flashlight in his pocket, the pistol in his right hand, and pushed the door open.
Their heads jerked around. General Simonov’s shaved head reflected the light, and he glared. Pagliacci looked startled. They were seated in easy chairs, wine on the small table between them.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Sorry to burst in—”
“Who are you?” Pagliacci interrupted, his voice rising.
“It’s Qazi, fool,” Simonov growled.
“General, you must forgive our Italian friend. He knows me as an old man, quite infirm.” Qazi sat down across from them and leveled the pistol at Simonov.
“Now, gentlemen, we have much to discuss and not much time, so let’s get right to it. Which of you wants to be first?”
Simonov merely stared. Qazi watched the general’s hands, resting on the arms of the chair. As they tensed and his feet began to move back under him Qazi shot him in the left knee. Simonov’s motion was arrested almost before it began.
