Final Flight

She permitted him to use only his tongue and lips. Already she could feel her nipples harden and the wetness begin in her vagina. She ran her fingertips slowly up her legs and over her hips, then slipped a finger under the teddy, into the wetness. The sensation made her weak.

She checked her reflection again in the mirror and moistened her lips with her finger. Then she unlocked the door and opened it.

* * *

On the sixth floor of a downtown building two blocks from the Vittorio Emanuele Hotel — behind a door marked in English and Italian, “Middle East Imports-Exports, Ltd”—another set of photographs was being examined. These photos were black-and-white, but they had been shot on fast infrared film and were grainy.

Judith Farrell selected one of the blowups and taped it on a wall. She stepped back. The photo was of two men standing near a car with a black latticework in the background. There was a heat source above them, to their left, on a pole. It reflected on the faces, changing them somewhat. With infrared film, each face and figure generated its own light, since it generated its own heat.

“It’s him,” she finally said. “It’s Qazi.”

“He certainly did a number on Simonov and Pagliacci. Lots of blood.” The speaker was a man of about thirty years, tall and pale with stringy blond hair that hung over his ears. He selected a conventional photo of the bodies of Pagliacci and Simonov and taped it to the wall beside the infrared one. He had turned the general’s head to try to get some of the face in the picture. Even so, the tanned head and bristle hair were unmistakable.

“Qazi did everyone a service killing Pagliacci. He’s been assisting the Soviets too long.”

“His successor will pick up where he left off. The Russians have the money and the Mafia has the organization. It’s a marriage made in Communist heaven.”

Judith sorted through the infrared photos until she found one that showed a three-quarters view of the second man by the car. She held it at arm’s length and squinted at it. Too bad it was so grainy.

“Who’s he?” the man asked.

“I don’t know,” Judith said at last and put the print back on the table.

“Should we let the CIA know?”

“I suppose so,” Judith murmured. She tossed her head to get her hair back from her eyes and looked again at the prints taped to the wall.

“Why not send copies of these to the Soviet embassy? Maybe the GRU would like to know who rubbed out one of their generals.”

“We’d have to get permission to do that. It’s an idea. But I think not. Moscow won’t be pleased about Simonov’s death — or his disappearance — and they’ll suspect the Mafia. Qazi set it up rather well. He’s very good at that.”

“So why is Qazi in Naples?”

“It wasn’t to kill these two. He took many chances going in there alone, with only one backup waiting on the street. Too spur-of-the-moment.”

“A hijacking? A bombing? Some American sailors have not returned to the carrier. Perhaps he is behind that,” the man suggested. “But should we move before we know?”

“We can’t let him slip through our fingers again. He won’t go back to Pagliacci’s. That was just one of the possible places he might turn up. If only we had been ready!” She took a last look at the pictures and turned away. “He’s been to the Vittorio every night for three nights. It’s going to have to be there.”

The blond man shook his head. “Uh-uh. Too many people, too many exits — our team is too small for a place that big. Too many risks.”

“Have the team ready. We’re very, very close. I can feel it.”

“Not the Vittorio.”

“Yes. There. Tonight if possible. This may be our only chance.”

“Listen, this man is dangerous. He spotted David in Rome. And killed him. We need a better setup, a sidewalk cafe setup. We’ve got to be able to get in cleanly and quickly, make the hit, and escape.”

“David chased Qazi,” Judith shouted. “He knew better. He had been told a dozen times.” She glared at Joel. “But if I had been David, I would have tried to take him then and there too. David’s mistake was that he stood and watched, trying to decide, until it was too late.”

They stared at each other, thinking of David and the year the team had spent tracking leads and sifting information, chasing a will-o’-the-wisp. “We will never,” Judith said, “ever find Colonel Qazi sitting quietly in a public place two days in a row, just waiting for us to walk up and assassinate him by the numbers — one, two, three, bang bang bang — not if we hunt him for a thousand years. He’s too clever. And you know as well as I do, we don’t have enough people to tail him effectively. It would take a dozen to do the job properly. We’re lucky if we know where he is three hours a day, give or take five kilometers.”

“If the Italians catch us …” The blond man gestured upward. “You know that! God in heaven … a hotel! Full of people! Taxis with radios parked in front. Police everywhere.” He fell to his knees and stretched out his arms to her. “Qazi’s here in Naples with his own team. If we’re patient, we might get them all.”

“No.” She shook her head. “He’s too clever. And too dangerous. At the first hint that we are closing in — the slightest hint that he’s being followed or observed or his movements noted — he’ll slip through our fingers … again. We’ll come away empty if we don’t grab the chance when we get it.”

“Call Tel Aviv. Clear this with the Old Man.” As badly as the Old Man wanted Qazi, surely he would not approve such a risky operation.

“I already have.” Joel slumped. “Get up off your knees,” Judith said. “The position doesn’t become you.” She turned to the window and looked across the rooftops at the Vittorio. “We were so close in Tangiers. He was aboard that ship.”

Beyond the hotel, several miles out on the sea, the long low silhouette of the United States was a darker blue against the hazy vagueness of the sea and sky. On the horizon beyond, slate gray clouds were just visible. “He’s interested in the carrier.” She balled her fist and tapped gently on the window frame. “We’re so damned close. We’ve never been this close.”

“What about this American naval officer? Tarkington? What does he want? Where does he fit in?”

“He just wants my body.”

“Oh.”

She whirled. “Watch your tone of voice, faggot,” she snarled. “Some men do like women’s bodies. That’s why you arrived in this world.”

The blond man threw up his hands. “Hey, I just asked. If you want him, that’s fine with me. I won’t lose any sleep. Just as long as the mission isn’t compromised.”

Judith waved her hand angrily, dismissing the subject.

He approached her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry for you that I am the way I am.”

“Oh, Joel.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Be sorry for us.” She pressed her face against his shoulder.

* * *

“What would you like to do today?” Jake Grafton asked his wife.

“You’re not going to the ship?” Shock. Amazement.

“I’m going to stay right here with you this livelong day. I may not even get out of bed.” He tossed the sheets away and examined her nude body critically.

“It’s already ten o’clock, lover. Do you think we could still get breakfast from room service?”

“You’re a remarkably well preserved specimen of womankind. Care to share any of your love secrets with an admirer?”

Callie pushed him onto his back and sat astride his midriff. The face on the pillow looking up at her wore a boyish grin. She bent down and began to nibble on his neck.

He picked up the telephone. “Room service, please…. Send up two large orders of ham and eggs. Extra toast and a pot of coffee.” He gave them the room number and cradled the phone. “They say they’ll bring it up in about twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes,” she whispered into his ear. “That’s barely enough time to cover today’s love secret, Jacob Grafton. But I’ll try.”

It was noon before they were out on the street, casually dressed and strolling hand in hand. “Let’s go catch the ferry to Capri.”