For forty-five minutes of that hour neither man moved. Each listened for the other to move first. When Quinn heard the scrape he knew it was the sound of metal against rock. Trying to ease the pain in his knee, Orsini had let his gun touch rock. There was only one rock; fifteen yards to Quinn’s right, and Orsini behind it. Quinn began to crawl slowly through the heather at ground level. Not toward the rock—that would have been to take a bullet in the face. But to a larger clump of heather ten yards in front of the rock.
In his back pocket he still had the residue of the fishing line he had used at Oldenburg to dangle the tape recorder over the branch of the tree. He tied one end around the tall clump of heather two feet off the ground, then retreated to where he had started, paying out the line as he went. When he was certain he was far enough away, he began to tug gently at the line.
The bush moved and rustled. He let it stop, let the sound sink in to the listening ears. Did it again, and again. Then he heard Orsini begin to crawl.
The Corsican finally came to his knees ten feet from the bush. Quinn saw the back of his head, gave the twine one last sharp tug. The bush jerked, Orsini raised his gun, double-handed, and put seven bullets one after the other into the ground around the base of the bush. When he stopped, Quinn was behind him, upright, the Smith & Wesson pointing at Orsini’s back.
As the echoes of the last shots died away down the mountain the Corsican sensed he had been wrong. He turned slowly, saw Quinn.
“Orsini ...”
He was going to say: I just want to talk to you. Any man in Orsini’s position would have been crazy to try it. Or desperate. Or convinced he was dead if he did not. He pulled his torso about and fired his last round. It was hopeless. The shot went into the sky because half a second before he fired, Quinn did the same. He had no choice. His bullet took the Corsican full in the chest and tossed him backwards, faceup in the maquis.
It was not a heart-shot, but bad enough. There had been no time to take him in the shoulder, and the range was too close for half-measures. He lay on his back, staring up at the American above him. His chest cavity was filling with blood, gurgling out of the punctured lungs, filling the throat.
“They told you I had come to kill you, didn’t they?” said Quinn. The Corsican nodded slowly.
“They lied to you. He lied to you. And about the clothes for the boy. I came to find out his name. The fat man. The one who set it up. You owe him nothing now. No code applies. Who is he?”
Whether, in his last moments, Dominique Orsini still stuck by the code of silence, or whether it was the blood pumping up his throat, Quinn would never know. The man on his back opened his mouth in what might have been an effort to speak or might have been a mocking grin. He gave a low cough instead, and a stream of bright-pink frothing blood filled his mouth and ran onto his chest. Quinn heard the sound he had heard before and knew too well; the low clatter of the lungs emptying for the last time. Orsini rolled his head sideways and Quinn saw the hard bright glitter fade from the black eyes.
The village was still silent and dark when he padded down the alley to the main square. They must have heard the boom of the shotgun, the single roar of a handgun on the main street, the fusillade from up the mountain. But if their orders were to stay inside, they were obeying them. Yet someone, probably the youth, had become curious. Perhaps he had seen the motorcycle lying by the tractor and feared the worst. Whatever, he was lying in wait.
Quinn got into his Opel in the main square. No one had touched it. He strapped himself in tightly, turned to face the street, and gunned the engine. When he hit the side of the timber barn, just in front of the tractor’s wheels, the old planks shattered. There was a thump as he collided with several bales of hay inside the barn and another crash of splintering woodwork as the Ascona demolished the farther wall.
The buckshot hit the rear of the Ascona as it came out of the barn, a full charge that blew holes in the trunk but failed to hit the tank. Quinn tore down the track in a hail of pieces of wood and tufts of flying straw, corrected the steering, and headed down toward the road for Orone and Carbini. It was just short of four in the morning and he had a three-hour drive to Ajaccio airport.
Six time zones to the west it was nudging 10:00 P.M. in Washington the previous evening and the Cabinet officers whom Odell had summoned to grill the professional experts were not in an easily appeasable mood.
“What do you mean, no progress so far?” demanded the Vice President. “It’s been a month. You’ve had unlimited resources, all the manpower you asked for, and the cooperation of the Europeans. What goes on?”
The target of his inquiry was Don Edmonds, Director of the FBI, who sat next to Assistant Director (CID) Philip Kelly. Lee Alexander of the CIA had David Weintraub with him. Edmonds coughed, glanced at Kelly, and nodded.
“Gentlemen, we are a lot further forward than we were thirty days ago,” said Kelly defensively. “The Scotland Yard people are even now examining the house where, we now know, Simon Cormack was held captive. That has already yielded a mass of forensic evidence, including two sets of fingerprints which are in the process of being identified.”
“How did they find the house?” asked the Secretary of State.
Philip Kelly studied his notes.
Weintraub answered Jim Donaldson’s question: “Quinn called them up from Paris and told them.”
“Great,” said Odell sarcastically. “And what other news of Quinn?”
“He seems to have been active in several parts of Europe,” said Kelly diplomatically. “We are expecting a full report on him momentarily.”
“What do you mean, active?” asked Bill Walters, the Attorney General.
“We may have a problem with Mr. Quinn,” said Kelly.
“We’ve always had a problem with Mr. Quinn,” observed Morton Stannard of Defense. “What’s the new one?”
“You may know that my colleague Kevin Brown has long harbored suspicions that Mr. Quinn knew more about this thing from the start than he was letting on; could even have been involved at some stage. Now it appears adduced evidence may support that theory.”
“What adduced evidence?” asked Odell.
“Well, since he was released, on this committee’s instructions, to pursue his own investigations into the identities of the kidnappers, he has been located in a number of European situations and then vanished again. He was detained in Holland at the scene of a murder, then released by the Dutch police for lack of evidence. ...”
“He was released,” said Weintraub quietly, “because he could prove he was miles away when the crime was committed.”
“Yeah, but the dead man was a former Congo mercenary whose fingerprints have now been found in the house where Simon Cormack was detained,” said Kelly. “We regard that as suspicious.”
“Any other evidence on Quinn?” asked Hubert Reed.
“Yes, sir. The Belgian police have just reported finding a body with a bullet hole in the head, stuck on top of a Ferris wheel. Time of death, three weeks ago. A couple answering the description of Quinn and Agent Somerville were asking the dead man’s whereabouts from his employer around the same time the man disappeared.
“Then in Paris another mercenary was shot dead on a sidewalk. A cabdriver reported two Americans answering the same description fleeing from the scene in his cab at the time.”
“Marvelous,” said Stannard. “Wonderful. We let him go to pursue inquiries and he leaves a trail of bodies all over northern Europe. We have, or used to have, allies over there.”
“Three bodies in three countries,” observed Donaldson acidly. “Anything else we should know about?”
“There’s a German businessman recovering from remedial surgery in Bremen General Hospital; claims it was because of Quinn,” said Kelly.
“What did he do to him?” asked Walters.
Kelly told him.
“Good God, the man’s a maniac,” exclaimed Stannard.
“Okay, we know what Quinn’s been doin
g,” said Odell. “He’s wiping out the gang before they can talk. Or maybe he makes them talk to him first. What has the FBI been doing?”
“Gentlemen,” said Kelly, “Mr. Brown has been pursuing the best lead we have—the diamonds. Every diamond dealer and manufacturing jeweler in Europe and Israel, not to mention right here in the States, is now on the lookout for those stones. Small though they are, we are confident we will be on top of the seller the instant they show up.”
“Damn it, Kelly, they have shown up,” shouted Odell. With a dramatic gesture he pulled a canvas bag from the floor near his feet and turned it upside down over the conference table. A river of stones clattered out and flowed across the mahogany. There was a stunned silence.
“Mailed to Ambassador Fairweather in London two days ago. From Paris. Handwriting identified as Quinn’s. Now what the hell is going on over there? We want you to get Quinn back over here to Washington to tell us what happened to Simon Cormack, who did it, and why. We figure he seems about the only one who knows anything. Right, gentlemen?”
There was a concerted series of nods from the Cabinet members.
“You got it, Mr. Vice President,” said Kelly. “We ... er ... may have a bit of a problem there.”
“And what is that?” asked Reed sardonically.
“He’s vanished again,” said Kelly. “We know he was in Paris. We know he rented an Opel in Holland. We’ll ask the French police to trace the Opel, put a port watch all over Europe in the morning. His car or his passport will show up in twenty-four hours. Then we’ll extradite him back here.”
“Why can’t you telephone Agent Somerville?” asked Odell suspiciously. “She’s with him. She’s our bird dog.”
Kelly coughed defensively.
“We have a slight problem there, too, sir. ...”
“You haven’t lost her as well?” asked Stannard in disbelief.
“Europe’s a big place, sir. She seems to be temporarily out of contact. The French confirmed earlier today she had left Paris for the South of Spain. Quinn has a place there; the Spanish police checked it out. She didn’t show. Probably in a hotel. They’re checking them too.”
“Now look,” said Odell. “You find Quinn and you get his ass back over here. Fast. And Miss Somerville. We want to talk to Miss Somerville.”
The meeting broke up.
“They’re not the only ones,” growled Kelly as he escorted a less-than-pleased Director out to their limousines.
Quinn was in a despondent mood as he drove the last fifteen miles from Cauro down to the coastal plain. He knew that with Orsini dead the trail was at last well and truly cold. There had been only four men in the gang, now all dead. The fat man, whoever he was, and the men behind him if there were any other paymasters, could bury themselves forever, their identities secure. What really happened to the President’s only son, why, how, and who did it, would remain in history like the Kennedy killing and the Marie Celeste. There would be the official record to close the file, and there would be the theories to try to explain the ambiguities ... forever.
Southeast of the Ajaccio airport, where the road from the mountains joins the coast highway, Quinn crossed the Prunelli River, then in spate as the winter rains tumbled out of the hills to the sea. The Smith & Wesson had served him well at Oldenburg and Castelblanc, but he could not wait for the ferry and would have to fly—without luggage. He bade the FBI-issue weapon farewell and tossed it far into the river, creating another bureaucratic headache for the Hoover Building. Then he drove the last four miles to the airport.
It is a low, wide modern building, light and airy, divided into two tunnel-linked parts, dedicated to arrivals and departures. He parked the Opel Ascona in the lot and walked into the departures terminal. The place was just opening up. Half-right, just after the magazine shop, he found the Flight Information desk and inquired about the first flight out. Nothing to France for the next two hours, but he could do better. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Sundays there is a 9:00 A.M. Air France flight direct to London.
He was going there anyway, to make a full report to Kevin Brown and Nigel Cramer; he thought Scotland Yard had as much right as the FBI to know what had happened through October and November, half of it in Britain and half in Europe. He bought himself a single ticket to Heathrow and asked for the phone booths. They were in a row beyond the information desk. He needed coins and went to change a bank note at the magazine shop. It was just after seven; he had two hours to wait.
Changing his money and heading back to the telephones, he failed to notice the British businessman who entered the terminal from the direction of the forecourt. The man appeared not to notice him either. He brushed several drops of rain off the shoulders of his beautifully cut three-piece dark suit, folded his charcoal-gray Crombie overcoat across one arm, hung his still-furled umbrella in the crook of the same elbow, and went to study the magazines. After several minutes he bought one, looked around, and selected one of the eight circular banquettes that surround the eight pillars supporting the roof.
The one he selected gave him a view of the main entrance doors, the passenger check-in desk, the row of phone booths, and the embarkation doors leading to the departure lounge. The man crossed his elegantly suited legs and began to read his magazine.
Quinn checked the directory and made his first call to the rental company. The agent was in early. He, too, tried harder.
“Certainly, monsieur. At the airport? The keys under the driver’s foot mat? We can collect it from there. Now about payment ... By the way, what car is it?”
“An Opel Ascona,” said Quinn. There was a doubtful pause.
“Monsieur, we do not have any Opel Asconas. Are you sure you rented it from us?”
“Certainly, but not here in Ajaccio.”
“Ah, perhaps you went to our branch in Bastía? Or Calvi?”
“No, Arnhem.”
By now the man was trying very hard indeed.
“Where is Arnhem, monsieur?”
“In Holland,” said Quinn.
At this point the man just stopped trying.
“How the hell am I going to get a Dutch-registered Opel back there from Ajaccio airport?”
“You could drive it,” said Quinn reasonably. “It will be fine after it’s been fixed up.”
There was a long pause.
“Fixed up? What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, the front end’s been through a barn and the rear end’s got a dozen bullet holes.”
“What about payment for all this?” whispered the agent.
“Just send the bill to the American ambassador in Paris,” said Quinn. After that he hung up. It seemed the kindest thing to do.
He called the bar in Estepona and spoke to Ronnie, who gave him the number of the mountain villa where Bernie and Arfur were keeping an eye on Sam but making a point of not playing poker with her. He rang the new number and Arfur called her to the phone.
“Quinn, darling, are you all right?” Her voice was faint but clear.
“I’m fine. Listen, honey, it’s over. You can take a plane from Málaga to Madrid and on to Washington. They’ll want to talk to you; probably that fancy committee will want to hear the story. You’ll be safe. Tell ’em this: Orsini died without talking. Never said a word. Whoever the fat man Zack mentioned may be, or his backers, no one can ever get to them now. I have to run. Bye now.”
He hung up, cutting off her stream of questions.
Drifting silently in space, a National Security Agency satellite heard the phone call, along with a million others that morning, and beamed the words down to the computers at Fort Meade. It took time to process them, work out what to keep and what to throw away, but Sam’s use of the name Quinn ensured that this message was filed. It was studied in the early afternoon, Washington time, and passed to Langley.
Passengers for the London flight were being called when the truck drew up in the forecourt of the departures building. The four men who descended and marched through the front doo
rs did not look like passengers for London, but no one took any notice. Except the elegant businessman. He looked up, folded his magazine, stood with his coat over his arm and his umbrella in his other hand, and watched them.
The leader of the four, in the black suit with open-necked shirt, had been playing cards the previous afternoon in a bar in Castelblanc. The other three were in the blue shirts and trousers of men who worked the vineyards and olive groves. The shirts were worn outside the trousers, a detail that was not lost on the businessman. They looked around the concourse, ignored the businessman, studied the other passengers filing through the embarkation doors. Quinn was out of sight in the men’s washroom. The public address system repeated the final call for boarding. Quinn emerged.
He turned sharp right, toward the doors, pulling his ticket from his breast pocket, failing to see the four from Castelblanc. They began to move toward Quinn’s back. A porter pushing a long line of interlinked baggage carts began to traverse the floor of the hall.
The businessman crossed to the porter and eased him to one side. He paused until the moment was right and gave the column of carts an almighty shove. On the smooth marble floor the column gathered speed and momentum and bore down on the four walking men. One saw them in time, threw himself to one side, tripped, and sprawled. The column hit the second man in the hip, knocked him over, split into several sections, and rattled in three directions. The black-suited capu collected a section of eight trolleys in the midriff and doubled over. The fourth man went to his help. They recovered and regrouped, in time to see Quinn’s back disappearing into the departure lounge.
The four men from the village ran to the glass door. The waiting hostess gave her professional smile and suggested there could be no more fond farewells—departure had been called long since. Through the glass they could see the tall American go through passport control and onto the tarmac. A polite hand eased them aside.