Hot Streak

CHAPTER 39

S o the modern-day gunslinger rode off in his silver plane to make the world safe for young drug addicts, vulnerable females, and small children, Molly indignantly mused several hours later. She was lying by the pool in the warm afternoon sunshine, listening with half an ear to the girls splashing in the water. It wasn't that she didn't understand Carey's mission. She even admired the bravery and courage required to take on the Rifats of the world who barricaded themselves behind bastions of killers.

But her understanding didn't mitigate her resentment; nor did her admiration detract from her sense of affront at being captive at Bernadotte's until such a time as Carey determined the danger past. Perhaps what rankled most was that he didn't ask her permission.

Carey Fersten was too selfish, spoiled, a wealthy young man who did as he pleased. Had always done as he pleased. She knew that ten years ago, and she knew it now. He would expect her to make all the concessions, like his asking her to leave for Australia for a year. Gloomy shades of her marriage to Bart began darkening her already ferocious mood. And then, of course, she sullenly thought: Don't forget all the women.

Even Bernadotte's charm reinforced her assessment of Carey. He was utterly charming just like his father, and that only increased her testiness.

Carey had made arrangements to meet Ant and Luger in San Francisco, a midway point. Ant drove up from the sparsely populated forest south of Carmel where he lived in his cabin at the end of a dirt road. Luger gave his secretary the day off, put a closed sign in the window of his modest insurance agency an hour north of the Bay, and, entering the southbound freeway, set the cruise control on his Buick at seventy.

In a basement restaurant in Chinatown the three men exchanged pleasantries while the waiter filled their table with all the specialties of the house.

“How's the third wife?” Luger asked Ant, good-natured teasing in his voice. “Last time I saw you this was going to be the one.”

Ant was a handsome Hispanic with an eye for the ladies and the looks to attract them. “I think it's the backwoods,” he replied with a grin. “Once they're around for a few months, they complain about no shopping and TV. I dropped the last one off at her mother's and said, ‘It was nice.' So how's your old lady? Still singing in the church choir?”

“She plays the piano for the choir,” Luger seriously replied as though the distinction mattered. Methodical and pragmatic, Luger was a detail man.

“That's great. Ain't that great, Carey?” Ant teased. “The world needs more of that kind of stability.”

“We can't all help the divorce lawyers pay for their BMWs,” Luger retorted.

“Hey… we all do our bit for the economy. Besides, I don't have a high overhead like you do. An office and a secretary… pretty damned IRS productive, I'd say.”

“Carol sends her love,” Luger said, as though suddenly recalling the message he'd been entrusted with. His austere face had earned him the nickname Luger because he looked like every typecast SS colonel in the movies. “She said to say hello to whichever number wife is currently residing in your redwood forest.”

Luger was the type of guy who genuinely enjoyed visiting at the coffeeshop in town, who discussed the last city council meeting with the postmaster, who found great satisfaction sweeping the sidewalk in front of his office in the morning and exchanging opinions on the weather with whomever passed by. He'd seen Ant's multilevel home built on a rocky mountainside years ago. As he gazed at the stone, stained glass, and redwood building resembling a sculpture more than a home, he'd remarked, “Wouldn't want to insure that with the mudslides and fires. 'Specially with the state of your road.” It had taken them forty-five minutes to navigate the switchbacks up the mountain. While he understood Ant's need for isolation, Luger had always figured there was plenty of time for solitude in the grave.

“There might not be a number four. I'm getting used to no bitching. It grows on you-you know-the peace and tranquillity… no yak-yak about the hours in the lab and I've been busy.”

Antonio Ramos made a very profitable living as an explosives expert for both sides in the bomb business. Legitimate work paid Uncle Sam his portion and his extra projects kept Ant's Swiss bank account healthy.

“Was that Monte Carlo bank bomb yours?” Luger asked.

“A beauty.”

“I thought it sounded like yours. No one heard it, even though the restaurant next door was open on Sunday.”

“I'm getting good.” Ant winked and touched his thumb and middle finger to his lips. “Refined. Like good sex.”

“Speaking of which,” Carey interrupted.

Ant grinned. “The world-class stud speaks.”

Carey shook his head. “I swore off. I mean the bomb. I need one.”

“Carey Fersten swore off women?” Ant said, checking his watch. “It must be here-the end of the world. Bend over and grab your ankles, Luger.” His smile was accompanied by a disbelieving look.

“I'm in love,” Carey said.

“Jesus, it really is the end of the world. Is that why you need a bomb?”

“Can it, Ant, he's serious,” Luger admonished.

“About what?”

“About both.”

“So what do you need?” Ant asked, all the teasing gone.

“I need some C-4 devices, and some suggestions. I may have to get into a villa that's tighter than Spandau Prison. The man's had so many assassination attempts on his life, his place is damn near impregnable.”

“Never,” Ant said softly.

“I was hoping you'd say that.”

“When do you need this stuff?”

“As soon as possible… with some weapons for long-range attack and contact weapons, Luger. Whatever you think I can use.”

Behind Luger's office was a small room concealed by his bookcase of insurance yearbooks. Inside he had what he called his “hobby equipment”-a collection of state-of-the-art weapons he'd assembled with a passion he reserved exclusively for them. He had contact with the weapons specialists of the world and prided himself on knowing the market.

“I have a couple TOW missiles you can practically carry in a suitcase, and a new Beretta with a state-of-the-art silencer. How much can you carry?”

“Probably only a backpack. I may have to go in over the roof. Just what I can carry comfortably and move fast.”

“Who's the unfriendly?”

“Shakin Rifat.”

“Oooeee,” Ant softly exclaimed. “The killer king of the banditos. What's he done to you?”

“He's been shaking down my ex-brother-in-law, and the kid can't take it. Right now Egon's about dead in a Miami hospital. One of Rifat's shooters used him for a target.” Carey put down his chopsticks and pushed his plate away. “I had a lot of time to think, sitting at the hospital, and I thought maybe someone should send Rifat on that last fine mile.”

“It's been tried before,” Luger said.

“I know.”

“So how you getting in when others haven't?”

Carey lifted one shoulder slightly in a faint shrug. “I'll take a look when I get there.”

Ant glanced at Luger and grinned. “Sounds like this guy needs some professional help along.”

“No… no way. It's my vendetta. I just came here for the equipment.”

“As it happens, I've a delivery to make in Liverpool for the Provo boys,” Ant went on, as though Carey hadn't spoken. “Then on to Switzerland to brown bag the cash. I'll be pretty damn close to Rome by that time. Maybe I'll take a run down to check out the women, now that I'm available again.”

“You're always available,” Luger said between chews of pork lo mein.

Ant picked up a spun-sugar apple slice. “Someone's got to pick up the slack for you faithful guys who stay off the market. I look at it,” he said, the glittering confection lifted to his mouth, “as equalizing the universal equation.”

“Fucking is what it is,” Luger said matter-of-factly, shoveling a shrimp into his mouth.

Ant assumed an expression of mock pain. “The man has no poetry in his soul.”

“Cut the crap, Ant,” Luger remarked, his tone good-natured and mild. “You don't have a soul.”

“Nor do any of us,” Carey said with a smile. “As I recall, we all sold ours to the devil if he'd produce a woman out in the bush after two weeks on patrol.”

“And then those nurses on a fact-finding tour for the dickheads at the command center showed up in three Hueys. You're right. We lost our souls, fair and square.”

“But with a smile on our faces.”

“Every part of me smiled for the next week. Even my toes. As I recall even Luger cracked a grin once or twice that week.”

“Shit,” Luger disclaimed, but his harsh features were transformed by the faintest of smiles.

“So when do we leave?” Ant inquired.

“You don't.”

“It almost sounds as though he doesn't want us along, Luger.”

“And I've never been to Rome. Selfish, if you ask me.”

“Wants all the fun for himself.”

“He always was selfish. If I remember he kept two of those nurses for himself and the rest of us had to make do with one apiece.”

“You're right. And now that Shakin Rifat's the target, he wants all the glory.”

Carey leaned back in his chair and looked at his friends who were grinning like they'd drunk too much rice wine. “Rifat's about ten-to-one odds-against.”

“Then you need us bad.”

“This is the least rational thing I've ever done.”

“No-flying that Phantom you stole out from under Colonel Drake's nose was. He'd have shot you on the spot if he'd found you.”

“Okay,” Carey said, “one of the least rational.”

“So we'll come along to stabilize your gyro.” Ant's voice softened, and his eyes lost their amusement. “We're going, right, Luger?”

Luger continued pouring his cup of tea, as though a mission against the bloodiest terrorist in the world was like answering his secretary's request for a new stamp meter. “Right,” he said.

Ant spread his hands wide and looked at Carey, “There you go, John Wayne… you got yourself a posse.”

Carey gazed at the men he'd lived through the hell of Vietnam with, whose friendship hadn't faltered or lapsed like so many once they'd landed back in San Diego. They were no longer young boys with a reckless courage; they were older now, more pragmatic. And more skilled. “Thanks,” he said, his deep voice hushed. “Thanks a lot.”