Speedo parked the rental car in front of the house and remained behind the wheel as I got out. He picked up a novel and settled in. I glanced back at him as I stood at the door. He was yawning and listlessly turned pages. Being chauffeured around was a new experience for me. I wasn’t sure that I liked it.
Abu Qasim watched Tommy Carmellini through binoculars from his vantage point on the second floor of the chateau across the road from the Petrou mansion. It was fortuitously empty; the owners were spending the winter at their condo in Martinique, as they did every year.
“He’s here,” he said to the man sitting on the couch across the room. That man, who went by the name of Khadr, removed an automatic pistol from his right-hand coat pocket and a silencer from his left. He pushed the silencer onto the barrel and twisted it ninety degrees, locking it in place. He pulled back the slide, checking for the gleam of brass, and ensured the safety was on. Then he stood and reached for his long coat, which lay on a nearby chair.
Qasim also reached for his coat. He already had his gloves on — he had never taken them off — so there were no fingerprints to worry about.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Khadr followed him from the room.
The butler opened the door at my knock and ushered me in. We crossed the giant foyer and tackled the stairs. Marisa was seated at a small round table in a dayroom on the second floor, reading a newspaper and sipping something hot. A television provided background noise, which would make it more difficult for the NSA wizards to wring conversation from the bugs, but not impossible. The old madame wasn’t in sight.
Marisa didn’t get up. She gestured toward a chair across from her. “Is this seating okay?” she asked innocently. “Or should we sit somewhere else for better reception?”
I dropped into the indicated chair. “I relayed your message to Jake Grafton, and he sent me back for more. Do you want to confess to me or wait to tell him in person?”
Before she could answer, the maid came in. She was actually wearing a French maid’s uniform — I kid you not — and carrying a jug of something hot on a tray.
“Chocolat, monsieur?” she asked as she refilled Marisa’s cup. I shook my head. I wouldn’t have swallowed anything in that house for all the money in Switzerland.
When the maid was out of the room, Marisa said, “You and I need to stop needling each other — that is the word for it, isn’t it? Needling?”
“That word fits,” I admitted.
“We need to sign a peace treaty.”
“Smoke the pipe and bury the hatchet, eh?”
“Smoke … ?”
I waved it away and looked her over as I tried to spin the brain up to speed. She had wide cheekbones, deep brown eyes set wide apart and a magnificent mane of dark brown hair brushed over to her left side, exposing her right ear, upon which a small diamond earring could be seen. She wasn’t wearing any rings on her hands. I didn’t know the protocol for widows, but I didn’t recall ever seeing her with rings. She had long, slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, of course. Whatever Marisa’s problems were, they didn’t include nail-biting.
So what were her problems? Presumably she had inherited enough money to live on. If she didn’t get prosecuted for killing ol’ Jean, life should be looking up. And I seriously doubted that a murder prosecution was in her future, not unless the French fuzz had a digitalis bottle with her fingerprints on it.
I sat there musing about her problems and enjoying the view — she was a beautiful woman — while she sipped chocolate.
Abu Qasim drove down the driveway to the road. A small truck was coming, so he waited until it had passed and the road was empty before he turned north and drove the twenty-five yards to the Petrous’ guard shack. As the car rolled, Khadr removed a ski mask from a coat pocket and pulled it on. It was knitted wool and covered his face, leaving only small openings for his eyes, mouth and nose. Khadr got out of the car as the guard settled his cap upon his head and made ready to leave the warmth of the little building.
As the guard walked out the door he saw Khadr, and began fumbling for the pistol that was in the holster on his belt. Khadr shot him with his silenced pistol. The man’s hat flew off and he collapsed in the doorway.
The assassin pocketed the pistol and dragged the guard’s body back inside the shack. He pushed the button to open the gate and closed the door behind him.
After a glance at Qasim, Khadr walked up the driveway toward the Petrou chateau. Qasim sat in the car, watching. He saw that Khadr was holding the pistol with its long silencer down beside his right leg.
“Why don’t you level with me,” I said to Marisa, “and tell me what’s on your mind?” Of course she wouldn’t tell me the truth, but I was curious about what the story would be. Grafton obviously was, too, and he was even more of a cynic than I was. Maybe because he was older. Wiser. Meaner. More twisted.
“Who plans to kill whom?” I prompted.
She scrutinized my dishonest phiz, undoubtedly trying to figure out what I knew. The answer, of course, was very little, but I didn’t want her to know that.
“From your lips to Grafton’s ears, through me,” I said and tried to look trustworthy.
“Admiral Grafton understands the message,” she said finally.
I raised my hands and shoulders, then lowered them. “He sent me with instructions to get the complete story from you. He doesn’t tell me what he knows and doesn’t know. I simply do as I’m told.” I see.
“Then we’re getting somewhere. Who is the killer?”
“Abu Qasim.”
“Your father?”
She said nothing. Merely stared at me. Okay.
“So who is Abu going to kill?”
“Jake Grafton and the others.”
“More progress. Who are the others?”
“You don’t know or you are trying to find out if I know.”
“Read it any way you like. Gimme names.”
“My mother-in-law, Oleg Tchernychenko, Jerry Hay Smith, Huntington Winchester, Rolf Gnadinger, and Simon Cairnes.”
“Why these people?”
“They are funding Grafton’s war on al-Qaeda.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. So she knew all about the intrepid little band of heroes who were financing a private war on terror. Even worse, according to her, Abu Qasim knew.
“Wolfgang Zetsche?”
“So you aren’t as ignorant as you wish me to think. Qasim had him killed.”
“And Alexander Surkov?”
“The Russians, I imagine.”
“But you don’t know?”
“No.”
“Your husband?” Qasim.
“How do you know?”
“He might have poisoned Jean by mistake, while he was trying to poison Isolde, or intentionally because he was afraid we would learn that Jean betrayed Isolde and the others to Qasim and demand that Jean tell the authorities. I just don’t know.”
“But you didn’t see Qasim poison the food?”
“No.”
“I have a suggestion. Why don’t you just tell me what Abu Qasim told you and the part you are supposed to play in his drama?”
She sprang from the chair and reached for her purse. I was ready to break her neck if she pulled out that Walther, but she extracted a pack of cigarettes and a pack of matches. Her hands shook as she tried to get a cigarette lit. It took two matches to get the thing ignited. Being a gentleman and all, perhaps I should have lit it for her, but I merely sat and watched.
Was she selling out her father?
