Final Flight (25 page)

“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 “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 attache 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 attache 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 you.”

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 on it”.

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.” Azi
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 doubleparked 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 0-3 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.
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?

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 cornprendo 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.

“Quick, 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 position 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.