Final Flight

16

Colonel Qazi and Ali sat in the car and stared through the chain-link fence at the six helicopters sitting on the concrete mat.

“There’s another in the hangar,” Ali said. “Pagliacci’s man says the choppers will be fueled and ready tomorrow night. The watchman at the gate and the man at the office of the helicopter company have been visited by Pagliacci’s men. We are to tie up the watchman.”

“We only need three helicopters.”

“We may take any three. All will be fueled and ready, so if we have a problem with one, we merely leave it and take another.”

“What if none of them are ready?”

“But …”

“What if the watchman gets frightened before you arrive and calls the police? What if there is a police car sitting there beside the office? What if the transport company manager has panicked and sabotaged the helicopters and none of them will start? We will already be aboard the ship. We will be committed. What will you do then?”

“Well, if it’s just a police car, we’ll kill the policeman and proceed as planned. If the helicopters won’t start, we will go to the backup machines at the military base.” Weeks ago Qazi and Ali had examined every airport within fifty miles, and had located acceptable machines they thought they could steal if necessary. “Nothing will go wrong, Colonel. We will get the helicopters.”

“Where is our watcher?”

“Over there.” Ali nodded toward an abandoned warehouse. “He’s in that little room up at the apex. We relieve him every twelve hours and Yasim develops his photographs. If the watchers see anything suspicious, they will let us know immediately by telephone.”

“Who are you using as watchers?”

“The pilots. Here and at the military airfield. But the last shift before departure will have to be stood by nonpilots. It’s unavoidable. We only have four of them. Still, it’s an acceptable risk. Nothing will go wrong, inshallah.”

“Don’t give me that ‘if Allah wills it’ dung! You will succeed no matter what happens, because you will be very careful, take precautions, and be ready for the unexpected.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

Qazi sounded weary. “Everything will go wrong. Believe it. Know it and be ready and keep thinking. Now tell me who comes to see the watchman after ten P.M.”

“Occasionally, every third or fourth night, a security guard parks his car and they play dominoes. We haven’t seen anyone else during the night, except helicopter company employees and passengers. Occasionally rich people arrive just before dawn and are flown to their yachts. And occasionally a chopper goes away and returns with a yachtsman, but those trips are in the morning or early evening.”

“I am tempted to forego these machines,” Qazi said thoughtfully, staring at the hangars and the black windows that looked down upon the concrete mat and the street. “One wonders about Pagliacci.”

“Has he not done everything he promised — the vans, the uniforms, the weapons, the wiretap equipment, the cooperation of the ship-painting firm? For him, this is just good business.”

“Ayiee, the faith of the foolish! Help me, Allah,” Qazi muttered. “So tell me again how you will take the helicopters.”

Ali did so. He had gone over the plan on four previous occasions with Qazi. He had it down. When he was finished, Qazi put on his brimmed hat and motioned toward the gate. Ali spoke to the man in the watchman’s booth, the day watchman, then drove slowly on and parked by the door to the office of the helicopter company. He got out of the car with an attaché case and came around to the passenger’s side, where he held the door for Qazi. The colonel eased himself out. Once again he was an old man. Ali preceded him and handed him the case as Qazi passed through the office door.

The only person in sight in the offices was a young woman. She had a breathtaking bosom and wide, ample hips. Her hair was yellowish blond, dark at the roots. She stubbed out her cigarette as Qazi muttered, “Prego, Signor Luchesi.” She rose from her desk and bolted for the manager’s door, glancing at Qazi over her shoulder.

He steadied himself with his cane and scanned the room. Aviation magazines lay on the table near the four pea-green chairs where customers presumably waited. Aviation charts of southern Italy and the islands covered the walls.

The door opened and a man in shirtsleeves appeared. The secretary was visible behind him, nervously smoothing her dress. “Prego.” He gestured and Qazi entered his office, steadying himself several times by touching the wall for support. He carefully lowered himself into the armchair across the desk from the manager. The secretary took three steps toward the door, then stopped and stood, shifting from foot to foot, twisting her hands.

“Grazie, Maria.” The manager nodded toward the door. He was at least twenty years older than the woman, bulging badly at the waist. His complexion was mottled, as if he had a heart condition. “I am Luchesi,” he said.

Qazi opened his attaché case. He extracted three large manila envelopes and tossed them on the desk. “Count it.”

“There is no need, signore.” The perspiring manager spread his hands and tried to smile. “I trust …”

Qazi took the Walther from the case and laid it on the desk. Then he closed the case firmly and snapped the latches. “Count it.”

The manager ripped open the first envelope and shuffled through the bills.

“Count it slowly.”

Luchesi’s head bobbed and his lips began to move silently. The light from the window reflected on the moisture on his bald pate. When he finished with the third envelope, he said, “Fifty million lire, grazie. I will do as promised …”

Qazi opened the case and put the pistol back in.

“You may rely …”

The colonel lifted himself from the chair. He opened the door and shuffled past the secretary, who sat at her desk chewing her nails. He could feel her eyes boring into his back.

Ali drove through the gate and proceeded toward the heart of Naples.

“He took the money. He’s a nervous, silly little man. He’d better plan on making a fast departure from Italy. He’ll confess everything within an hour under interrogation.”

“Why won’t he leave now?”

“Because Pagliacci arranged this. If he runs without earning the money, he’ll be a walking dead man. He knows that.”

“Perhaps he’ll panic and betray us before the time comes.”

“Not unless he’s suicidal. And his secretary was hovering all over him. He had to tell her to leave the room.” Qazi grimaced. “She’ll clean him out in weeks. Ah well, every man should learn such a lesson with someone else’s money.”

Ali drove down the Via Medina past the Vittorio and double-parked in front of the fountains in the Piazza Municipio. Once again, he helped Qazi from the car, then handed him a folded newspaper that lay on the front seat.

The colonel made his way across the sidewalk, inched over the curb, and crossed the grass to the fountains, where he seated himself on the edge of the circular water basin and watched the children kicking a ball on the grass. Dogs drank from the fountains and growled at each other. Soccer balls went awry and were chased diligently while mothers chatted with other mothers and tended infants in strollers.

Occasionally Qazi glanced behind him at the entrance to the Municipal Building. The policemen on duty there ignored the people streaming in and out of the building through the high archway and smoked cigarettes while they talked to each other.

Down the street, past the parking area where Ali had stopped the car, Qazi could see the gate to the passenger terminal and fleet landing at the end of the short boulevard. To the right were the stark ramparts of the Castel Nuovo.

A man in his sixties clad in baggy trousers and a sleeveless undershirt sat down beside him. The man hadn’t shaved for several days. He glanced at the two-day-old copy of Il Mattino that protruded from under Qazi’s left arm.

“Have you finished with your paper?”

“I’ve only read the front page.”

The man nodded absently and rested his elbows on his knees. A child on crutches sank to the grass in front of him. He grinned at her.

“Your daughter?” Qazi asked.

“At my age? I wish. She’s my granddaughter.”

“Why did you agree to help us?”

The man turned his head and looked straight at Qazi. “I need the money.”

Qazi laid the newspaper between them.

“Grazie!” The man never looked at the paper.

Qazi used the cane to get upright. He was almost bowled over by a kicked soccer ball as he made the step down to the sidewalk, but the ball bounced off his legs and shot down the sidewalk toward Ali, who caught it and tossed it back.

Jake Grafton stood on the quarterdeck by the officers’ brow and watched Callie step from the launch to the float and climb the long ladder. After the officer-of-the-deck greeted her, he stepped forward with a smile. “Hi, beautiful.”

“Hello again, sailor man,” she grinned. “What a big ship you have here!” She put her hand on his arm and he led her through the large open watertight door into the hangar bay.

“Did you have a good ride out?”

“Oh yes. The junior officers whispered and told each other that I was your wife. I haven’t felt so privileged or admired in ages.”

Jake laughed. “Did a junior officer stop by the hotel today to see you?”

Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “One did. He said you had suggested that he ask my help in a romantic matter.”

Jake told her about Toad’s visit to his office as they walked across the hangar bay and climbed toward the O-3 level, the deck above the hangar, where his office was located. “So did you get ol’ Toad fixed up?”

“He and Judith have a dinner date this evening.”

“Now that’s what I call service.”

“He is head over heels about her. It’s very interesting. For a moment when I spoke to her, I sensed her hesitation, but she agreed immediately to dinner.”

“Maybe she’s just lonely, like Toad.”

“Perhaps, but …” She broke off as they entered the CAG office and Farnsworth snapped to his feet.

“Farnsworth, you remember my wife?”

“I most certainly do. It’s a pleasure seeing you again, Mrs. Grafton.”

“Farnsworth looks after me when you’re not around, Callie.”

Jake slipped into his office, leaving the door open, and let the two of them talk. In the three or four minutes they sat chatting, she elicited almost his entire life history. The man positively blossomed under her attention, Jake noted as he dialed the telephone. The admiral’s aide answered his call and suggested he could bring Callie to the flag wardroom at his convenience.

Cowboy Parker’s taut, angular face cracked into a large grin as Callie entered the wardroom. The chief of staff, Captain Harold Phelps, and the admiral’s aide were there, and Callie called each of them by name as she was introduced. Captain Phelps and the aide, Lieutenant Snyder, chattered through dinner, basking in the glow of her attention. Jake was once again amazed at the grace and wit of his wife, who could make anyone she met feel as though they were one of her lifelong friends. After dessert, Phelps and Snyder excused themselves, leaving the Graftons and the admiral alone.

“Callie, it really is great to see you again,” Cowboy said. “This is the most pleasant evening I’ve spent in quite a long time.”

Toad Tarkington was leaning back in his chair, a sappy smile on his face, watching delightedly as Judith Farrell talked about her job on the International Herald Tribune. Similar conversations were going on at other tables and their waiter was whisking away the dessert dishes, but Toad didn’t notice.

The candlelight made her face glow. Her eyes were so expressive. He loved the way she used her hands, She was a goddess. He had had too much wine and he knew it, but she was still a goddess. What a stroke of luck to get another date with her! Hoo boy, you’re dancing between the tulips now.

“And the editor — he is a short chubby man with one little teeny-weeny curlicue right here …” She pointed at her widow’s peak and giggled. Toad grinned broadly. “And he wants to sleep with me. It’s so funny. He hints and sighs and prisses about, walking back and forth in front of my door.” She put a hand on her hip and tossed her head and shoulders from side to side, knitting her eyebrows and trying to look serious, then breaking up. Her dress was a strapless number that was cut lower than the law of gravity allowed. What was holding them up?

She giggled again and had another sip of wine. She had had a glass too much, too, Toad decided. But, c’est la guerre. Her fingertips brushed his hand when she set her wineglass down. He could feel the fire all the way to his elbow.

As she rambled on he tried to decide how he should go about the seduction. Perhaps he should just come out with it. Suggest they both go up to her room for a drink. No. That has no class. And she is a class woman. Perhaps a kiss in the dark on the way back to the hotel, then silently lead her straight through the lobby to the elevator. But would that be too presumptuous, too take-charge?

“… to pose in the nude, but his apartment was so drafty. He was very French, très romantic, into photography and anarchy.” The rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed fascinated Toad. He found himself inhaling as she inhaled. Maybe he should take her to a bar first for cognac, sit in a booth and nibble on her ear, and wheedle an invitation.

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. “Non comprendo, sig—” The words ceased abruptly as Qazi shot him. The silenced pistol made a little pop. Qazi stepped over to the wall and looked down. The guard lay with his legs buckled under him, his eyes open, a hole in his forehead.

“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.

“Why are you here tonight, General?”

The Russian wrapped his hands around the damaged knee. His eyes remained on Qazi, expressionless. Blood oozed from between his fingers and began dripping on the carpet.

Qazi shot him again, in the right biceps. Simonov leaned back in the chair.

“You won’t succeed,” the Russian said at last. “El Hakim is mad. Surely you know that?”

Qazi nodded, his head moving an eighth of an inch. Blood was flowing freely from Simonov’s arm wound.

“The Israelis, the Americans, the British. They’ll launch preemptive nuclear strikes.”

“Only if they think they can succeed, General. Only then. They are careful men.”

“You cannot control—” And Simonov was hurling across the ten feet of space between them, driving on both legs in spite of the knee wound, his arms gathered. Qazi’s bullet hit him in the neck, and the general collapsed at his feet. Blood pumped onto the carpet. Apparently the bullet had damaged the spinal column, for the Russian did not move again.

Qazi swung the muzzle of the gun to Pagliacci. “Talk or die.”

The old man was trembling. Sweat glistened on his face and dripped from his veined nose. “Mother of God, holy mother …”

Qazi stood and walked toward the Italian.

“The Russian wanted to know about the helicopters. When and where. Don’t hurt me! I’m an old man. For the love of God.”

“And you told him.”

“Of course. He pays me much money every month. He has things he wishes to know about the Americans and we tell him. When ships come and go, what weapons are aboard, documents he wants, documents …” He was babbling.

“When did you tell him about the helicopters?”

“You will kill me anyway. I will tell …”

Qazi placed the muzzle of the pistol against the man’s forehead. “When did you tell him about the helicopters?”

“Tonight. Just tonight.”

“And the delivery at Palermo? Did you tell him about that?”

“Not yet. We hadn’t time to cover everything.”

“If you are lying, I will come back and kill you.”

“I’m telling the truth, on the blood of Christ. On my mother’s grave I swear it. I swear it on my wife’s grave….” His words became incoherent.

“And the villa? When did you tell him about the villa?”

“He did not know about that. I was going to get him to pay me more before I told him.” He was sobbing.

“Stand up.”

“Oh pleeease, you promised!”

Qazi pocketed the pistol and hoisted the old man to his feet. He spun him around and broke his neck with one hard wrench on his jaw.

Qazi grunted as his arms absorbed the now-dead weight. He dragged the don over to the general, taking care to avoid stepping in the bloodstains. He rolled the general over, then pulled Pagliacci across the wet blood smears. He rolled Pagliacci’s body over. Good, the blood was still wet. Now he placed the general’s corpse facedown, partially on Pagliacci, and gently squeezed the Russian’s neck. More blood oozed from the hole in the throat, directly onto Pagliacci’s shirt.

The pistol he wiped with his shirttail, then he pressed the Russian’s fingers against the gun, then Pagliacci’s. The nails of the Italian’s fat fingers still had dirt from the garden under them. He let the pistol fall beside the two bodies and kicked the spent shell casings to random positions around the room. How Pagliacci had gotten the gun from the general was, of course, the weak link, but that was unavoidable. Finally Qazi placed the general’s right hand behind the don’s neck.

He paused and scanned the scene. It would hold up to scrutiny by amateurs for at least twenty-four hours. The police would never see this room. Twenty-four hours would be sufficient.

He wiped the doorknobs on his way out, and remembered to retrieve the climbing rope from the foyer, where he had left it upon entering.

Sakol was standing in the deep shadows as Qazi walked down the driveway blotting his forehead with his sleeve. “Where’s the other guard?”

“In the car with the first one.”

“Let’s go.” After they were across the wall, Qazi said, “You dispose of the guards so that their bodies are not found for at least twenty-four hours.”

“No problem. You killed the Russian?”

“I hope I die as well when my time comes.”

Fifteen minutes after Qazi and Sakol had driven away, a figure emerged from the darkness of the park. Under one arm he carried a medium-sized camera bag. The man crossed the street and climbed carefully over the wall. In ten minutes he was back. He crossed the street again and disappeared into the park.

Toad Tarkington awoke at four A.M. with a raging headache. The pain throbbed above his eyeballs with every beat of his heart. Then he became aware of a weight on his chest and legs.

Judith was sound asleep, her arm across his chest, her right leg across his. He inched up in the bed, trying not to disturb her. The bedspread and blanket were on the floor. Clothes were scattered where they had fallen or been tossed.

He closed his eyes and let the headache throb as he listened to her breathing. Finally he opened his eyes again. She was still there, warm and naked and sound asleep.

Why did you drink so much, fool?

He eased himself away from her and went to the bathroom. Her purse was on the vanity and he rooted in it. She had a tin of aspirin. He took three and washed them down with water from the tap.

He sat in the little chair by the writing table and watched her. She was so lovely.

He retrieved her dress from the floor and draped it carefully across the back of the chair. What would it be like to come home every evening to this woman, he asked himself. This intelligent, fiery, beautiful woman? It would never be dull. Never boring.

Whoa, Toad. You’ve never thought like that about a woman before. And this is just a one-night stand. One hell of a one-night stand, but that’s all it is. She’s a lonely woman in a strange city and you just happened to get the nod for stud service. She probably still thinks you’re a jerk. She’ll walk away in the morning without looking back.

He was holding the drapes apart and looking out the window when he heard her stir.

“What time is it?”

“About four-thirty.”

“Come back to bed, lover. There’s still some night left.”

She captured him in her arms. She smelled of pungent woman and sleep. Her skin was soft, yielding over hard muscle, warm and sleek. She drew him in as if she had waited for years for his tension and power and desire, as if she had searched and hungered all her life just for him.

When he next awoke the sunlight was leaking through the drapes. He sat up in bed and looked around. Judith was gone.

She had gathered her clothes and tiptoed out while he slept. Oh, he had done that very thing himself — how many times? He had slept in their beds and escaped just as the sun rose. He had fled from the soft, scented sheets and the photos on the dresser and the frilly curtains on the windows. He had stepped over the panties and bra lying on the floor and never glanced back.

He could see himself in the mirror over the dresser. He needed a shave. The bed still smelled of her. The room was as empty as his life.