The look in her eyes made clear she understood. Terrorists usually operated in small groups independent of one another. This tactic gave them the advantage of secrecy, but it also meant they had no network to depend upon for weapons, information, and safety routes. After all, an assassination required careful planning. Unless a terrorist group was engaged in a suicidal mission, they needed “clean” weapons, never before used, untraceable to them. As soon as a mission was completed, these weapons would be disassembled and either destroyed or discarded in widely separated areas, preferably at sea. Such virgin weapons were expensive. But even before an operation, the victims had to be located, their daily schedules determined, their moments of exposure discovered. This information was costly to acquire. After the mission, of course, the terrorists would need to go to ground. Alibis, escape procedures, safe houses—these too were expensive. A first-class mission, one which by definition meant that the terrorists would survive unapprehended and be able to kill again, had a minimum price tag of $150,000. The money was supplied to terrorists by various governments committed to causing chaos, and the terrorists in turn paid the money to middlemen, sometimes called brokers, who provided the weapons, information, and safe houses, no questions asked. As far as the middleman was concerned, what his clients did with the services he made available was none of his business. Carelli, a.k.a. Gatto, had been one of these middlemen.
“He had professional ethics,” Drew said.
“You mean he was careful.”
“Exactly. The information he gave us never exposed his clients,” Drew continued. “But he had no qualms about accepting money in exchange for what he knew about terrorists imprudent enough not to have hired him.”
“Sounds like a charming fellow.”
“To tell the truth, if you could forget what he did for a living, he was.”
“And of course you hated him.”
“Him and the hate he fed off. But if anyone might know if terrorists abducted Cardinal Pavelic, it’s Gatto.”
“Or it would have been Gatto eight years ago. Either he’s changed his conduit system since then, or he’s left the business,” Arlene said. “Of course, there’s a third possibility. Maybe he knew too much and became a liability to his clients. Do business with the Devil …”
“And the Devil destroys you. In this case—I never thought I’d say it—I hope the Devil held off.”
“It looks like you’ll never know.”
Drew shook his head. “There were alternate methods to get in touch with him. Different phone numbers, different intermediaries.”
He stepped back into the booth. His next three attempts resulted in similar “no Carelli” answers. Glancing with discouragement toward Arlene, he made his final call.
A nasal female voice said, “Pontine Medical Supplies.”
“Can you get a message to Mr. Carelli?” Drew asked.
The woman didn’t answer.
“Carelli,” Drew repeated. “Can you … ?”
“I haven’t heard that name in almost six months.”
“It’s been even longer since I spoke with him,” Drew said.
“If I can get in touch with him, who … ?”
“Mr. Haverford,” Drew told her, supplying the pseudonym he’d always used when dealing with Gatto.
“I’ll ask around. Please call again in thirty minutes.”
Drew walked with Arlene toward the Colosseum, back toward the phone booth, back toward the Colosseum. Precisely thirty minutes later, he redialed the number.
“I phoned earlier about Mr. Carelli.”
“Write down these directions.”
6
Filled with misgivings, Drew urged the rented Fiat up a zigzag wooded road. Never, in his many discussions with Gatto, had they met at a residence. The rule was to use a one-time-only public meeting place, a restaurant or a park, a location that could never be traced to Gatto’s organization. You didn’t do business at anyone’s home. For Gatto to jeopardize the safety of whoever lived here, he must have had an extremely good reason.
The moment Drew entered the lavish drawing room in the heavily guarded villa, he knew the reason—Gatto was too sick to leave the premises. The villa was ten miles north of the outskirts of Rome, situated on a bluff with a view for miles around. Every luxury surrounded him. But the once-robust man, formerly engorged on the fees he earned from terrorist killings, was now a shell, his facial skin hanging loose, his complexion liver-spotted, his loss of hair disguised by a wide-brimmed hat. He slumped on a sofa.
“Ah, Haverford,” Gatto wheezed. “It’s been too long. And such an attractive companion you bring with you.”
“Mr. Carelli.” Smiling, Arlene grasped the bony fingers he extended. Her smile didn’t waver when he pressed his shrunken lips to the back of her hand.
Two bodyguards stood at the narrow ends of the room.
“Yes, it’s been a while,” Drew said. “I had a change of heart … I might say a change of soul … I retreated from the profession.”
Gatto coughed. “As did I. Refreshment? Wine?”
“You know I never indulged.”
“I remember. But with your permission …”
“Of course.”
Gatto poured purple liquid into a glass. He had trouble swallowing it. The room smelled of medication. “Now that we’ve honored the amenities, Haverford, how may I help you?” His grin was a rictus.
“In former times, you used to provide me with information about those foolish enough not to be your clients.”
Gatto’s sagging clothes shook as he laughed. “Those foolish enough.” He chortled. “Haverford, have you seen my new Matisse?” He gestured toward one wall.
Drew turned, assessing it. “Impressive.”
“A million dollars, Haverford. What I sometimes earned on one assignment. How many people died, do you suppose, for Matisse to paint that picture?”
“None … except a part of Matisse.”
Gatto coughed again. “And even if I sold it for the magnificent profit due to me, it wouldn’t save my life. Come closer, my dear. Sit next to me.”
With a smile, Arlene complied.
“So tell me, Haverford, in my place what would you do?”
“In your place?”
“If you were dying.”
“I see. In that case, I’d confess.”
“Oh?”
“To a priest.”
“Oh?”
“And do my best to save my soul.”
“You’ve got religion, Haverford?”
“Late. But finally.”
“And is it comforting?”
Drew thought about it. “No. In fact, it’s quite a burden. But it’s powerful.”
“Power, I understand.”
“And it helps me to adjust to thoughts of death.”
“That, my friend, is priceless,” Gatto said.
“So let me make an offer. A minister of God has disappeared. Can you help me find out why?”
“A minister?”
“Actually a cardinal. Krunoslav Pavelic.”
Gatto nodded, recognizing the name.
“We think some of your former associates might be responsible for his disappearance. If you help me find him, I’d consider it a favor. No doubt, the Lord too would consider it a favor. And of course I would pay you.”
“Pay me? In this regard, Haverford, I don’t care to be paid.”
“Then … ?”
“I want revenge!”
“Against?”
“Those who abandoned me in my infirmity!”
Drew spread his hands. “You know what they’re like. You can’t blame them. They’re survivors.”
“Survivors? Not if I can help it!” The effort of his outburst made Gatto close his eyes in pain. “The bastards dispense death readily enough, but they can’t bear to do business with someone on the verge of death.”
“You’re that offended because they won’t do business with you?”
“Bus
iness gave my life meaning.”
“Then maybe it’s time to find another meaning.”
“Religion?” Gatto’s spasm of pain subsided. He opened his eyes into slits. “Very good, Haverford. Help you find the cardinal, and in the process save my soul?”
“Try to save it anyhow.”
“If it isn’t too late.”
“The greatest sin is despair.”
“I meant if it isn’t too late to find the cardinal. He disappeared months ago. From rumors I’ve heard, I gather the fullest efforts were made to find out what happened to him. Now that the trail has gone cold …”
“I’m interested in other kinds of rumors,” Drew said.
“About my former clients?” Gatto’s eyelids trembled as he fought back his pain. “If they were responsible for taking the cardinal, don’t you think they’d have bragged about it? Letters to newspapers, phone calls to Interpol?”
“Since they didn’t, I’m wondering if they bragged among themselves.”
“The truth?”
“It’s always refreshing.”
“You won’t like it. The truth is, I don’t know. My disease was diagnosed in January. Word traveled fast. I haven’t heard insider news since February. I always enjoyed discussing world events with you, Haverford, so for old times’ sake, I agreed to see you. But your trip here, I’m afraid, has been wasted. I’m not the man to ask.” Gatto winced and held his breath. When he exhaled, it sounded like a tire deflating.
Drew stood. “I’m sorry. We’ve stayed too long. We’ve exhausted you.”
“But I do know who you should ask.”
Drew kept himself perfectly still. “Who?”
“The maggot who replaced me. The vermin who took my clients, who would have insider news. His name in Bonato.”
“His pseudonym?”
“Medici.”
“Political intrigue. Chaos. Appropriate. Can you arrange an introduction with him?”
“From me? Impossible, Haverford. When he gained the favor of my clients, I became dispensable. I exist by his sufferance, because I’m close to death already. If I told him I was sending you to meet with him, such an introduction would cost you your life. I’ll tell you how to get in touch with him. The rest is up to you. Be cautious. Ask him questions at your peril.”
“Believe me, I intend to be careful. Tell me about him. Everything.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Haverford. Perhaps God will look with favor upon me if I show concern for His cardinal.”
7
Dressed in black, Drew stood with Arlene in the shadows of an alley, watching the cars in a parking lot next to a restaurant across the street. The time was shortly after 8 P.M. They’d waited here for fifteen minutes, and if Gatto’s information was correct, the broker with the pseudonym of Medici would arrive at the restaurant within the next five minutes. The restaurant is considered off-limits, Gatto had said. Neutral ground. No business is ever conducted there. Medici favors its menu and its wine list. He always arrives at five minutes after eight, eats heartily, tips generously, and at precisely ten o’clock returns to his mansion, where a whore—different each night—attends to his pleasure. His home, of course, is superbly guarded. But his weak spot is that restaurant. Mind you, under usual circumstances, his routine presents no risks. Terrorist groups have no reason to harm him. And the authorities realize that, if they moved against him, all terrorist groups who’d commissioned services from him would automatically revise their plans.
Then if we move against him, Drew had said, won’t that alert whatever terrorist group might have taken Cardinal Pavelic?
The cardinal is ancient history. Who’d suspect that the motive for grabbing Medici was to learn about an operation from several months ago? Haverford, you needn’t worry.
Drew did, however—about whether what he and Arlene planned was possible. This kind of mission normally required a well-rehearsed team of at least ten people. Two could do the essentials, yes, but what about contingencies? What if the unpredictable happened and backup was needed, for defense and for distractions to implement escape?
In the shadowy alley, Drew put his hand on Arlene’s shoulder, pressing it gently, providing reassurance.
She raised a hand, lovingly touching his in return; she spoke as if she knew what he’d been thinking. “We don’t go in unless it looks good. Only two of us, there’s a good chance we won’t attract attention as even the best of teams can. And Medici certainly won’t be expecting us.”
Drew agreed. The alternative was to give up this potential source of information. And then what? With no other leads, they’d be forced to hide and bide their time until the Fraternity found them and punished them for their failure. As he and Arlene had decided the previous night, an uncertain death was better than a certain one. To gain his freedom to be with her, he would face—eagerly—the calculated risk awaiting him.
To his left, a limousine swung into the nearest intersection, coming his way. He took his hand off Arlene’s shoulder. They stepped back farther into the alley. As the limousine came closer, Drew saw a chauffeur. A shadowy partition separated the driver from whoever was in back. Drew studied the passenger window on his side, but its smoke-colored, reflective, and presumably bulletproof glass concealed the rear seat. Not that Drew needed to see inside. The license plate was identical to the one Gatto had mentioned. The limousine belonged to Medici.
It pulled into the restaurant’s driveway and stopped. The chauffeur got out, a handgun in a shoulder holster bulging his jacket. He opened a rear door, allowing another man to step out. This second man wore a suit instead of a uniform, but his jacket too bulged from a handgun. Next came a short weaselly-faced man in a tuxedo; he matched Gatto’s description of Medici.
The plan was to subdue the chauffeur while he waited for Medici to eat dinner. When Medici came out at ten, Drew and Arlene would cancel the bodyguard in the suit and escape with Medici in the limousine. The plan had the merits of simplicity and practicality. From the information Drew had been given, he gathered that Medici would be too difficult to grab from his home. But here? Regardless of his armed escorts, Medici clearly felt unassailable.
The death merchant walked ahead of his bodyguard toward the restaurant. The chauffeur turned toward the limousine. Drew took a deep breath, preparing himself to attack the chauffeur as soon as he parked the car in the lot beside the restaurant.
But Arlene suddenly murmured, “Something’s happening.”
It didn’t take long. Twenty seconds at most. But the length of time was difficult to determine. Too much occurred. The driver of a small red car stopped behind the limousine and got out, shouting obscenities at the chauffeur. The man wore a peaked cap that almost concealed his red hair. His face, though contorted with fury, was extremely pale. He was taller than the chauffeur but thin, almost emaciated. He shook his fists at the chauffeur, screaming insults at him for having blocked the driveway. The chauffeur strode indignantly to meet him.
At once another man appeared from the shadows of the parking lot. He wore a black knitted cap that didn’t completely conceal his blond hair. He was square-faced, tanned, and muscular. He pulled a canister from his Windbreaker and sprayed its contents at the face of the bodyguard, who fell, unmoving, as if he’d been clubbed. Bracing himself like a boxer, the blond man punched Medici’s chin and, even as the death merchant toppled, shoved him into the limousine.
The red-haired man confronting the chauffeur easily dodged the punch directed at him and chopped the chauffeur’s larynx with a force great enough to break it. The chauffeur fell. The red-haired man jumped into the limousine with the blond-haired man and Medici. The red-haired man backed the limousine onto the street, ran over the chauffeur, and sped away.
It had happened so swiftly, so smoothly that only when the limousine disappeared down the street did a crowd gather, staring down at the bodies. Almost as an afterthought, someone screamed.
8
Drew pressed his foot harder on
the rented Fiat’s accelerator. Tires squealed up the winding road.
“ ‘Professional’ doesn’t begin to describe it. Those guys were artists,” he said.
Arlene gripped the dashboard, bracing herself against the car’s sudden swerves. “They had the same plan as we did. But instead of waiting for Medici to come outside after dinner, they moved in as soon as he arrived. Who are they? And why did they want Medici?”
“Let’s hope we soon find out.” Drew braked. His headlights gleamed toward Gatto’s estate. For the second time today, they were coming here for information.
The gate to Gatto’s villa was disturbingly open. Two guards lay dead beyond them, chests dark with blood. Drew sped up the lane to the Romanesque house. He rejected caution, suspecting that whoever had killed the guards had departed quite a while ago. The absence of lights in the villa confirmed his suspicion. The attack had occurred during daylight.
He stopped before the huge front door of the villa and raced from the Fiat, Arlene running beside him. Three guards lay dead on the steps. He charged through the open door, found a light switch and flicked it, staring in momentary paralysis at yet more bodies, then scurried from room to room. Death. Everywhere death.
Gatto lay on a lounge beside his swimming pool, his throat slit, his cotton robe soaked with his blood.
“The two men at the restaurant. The blond and the redhead,” Arlene said. “They must have come here.”
Drew nodded.
“It’s the only explanation I can think of,” Arlene continued. “They made Gatto talk. About Medici. They realized the perfect time to grab him, the same as we did.”
Dismay made Drew’s throat ache. “Coincidence? I don’t believe in it. What happened here and what happened at the restaurant are related.” He stared at Gatto’s corpse. “I wonder. What do you do to a man who’s dying from cancer? How do you add to his misery so much that his cancer can’t compare to the pain you cause him? How do you convince him to reveal what he doesn’t want to when death is a foregone conclusion?”
Drew tugged open Gatto’s robe, revealing the obscene mutilation inflicted upon him.