by Ted Bell
“Who the fuck are you, kill my friend Preacher?” Stoke said.
“No, señor, who the fuck are you?”
“I asked you first, Slick.”
“Why did you follow my car?”
“I like Bentleys. That’s an Azure, right? Brand-new? What do those go for now? Two-fifty? Three?”
“You find yourself amusing?”
“Somebody got to.”
“It’s a small group.”
“Yeah? Why she smiling?”
“Maybe I just let her play with the big dog.”
“See. I knew it. Any man start to talk about his own dick size, you automatically know the underlying problem.”
“What problem?”
“The little dick problem.”
“Really? How about the no dick problem?”
Guy had pulled out a pair of silver scissors from inside his shirt. Wore them on a black ribbon around his neck. He took a few steps closer, stopped, and turned around, smiling at his squeeze. Stoke thinking, Yeah, you Scissorhands all right. Found your ass, Rodrigo. Man who goes around killing brides on church steps. Innocent young kids like that speedy English kid who stepped on your landmine in the churchyard. Or little Preacher over there, never hurt nobody. Had a heart of gold, you worthless piece of shit.
The scissors flashed and Stoke felt his cheek burn.
Yeah. Got you just where I want you now, Scissorhands, your ass is mine.
“Hey. You ain’t as blind as you make out, are you? You—”
“Silence! You want to do it, Chica?” the guy said to Fancha, snickering his shiny silver scissors, making a kind of whispery noise, “Or, you want to watch?”
Stoke gave him a big smile, catch his attention.
“What t’hell’s wrong with you? Seriously. Before you go cutting anybody’s private parts off, you got to know something, fool. You mess with my ass, you in a world of hurt.”
“Really? Why do I not believe you?”
“You stupid, that’s why. You don’t bother to ask for information, find out what’s going on. You think we just dropped by here for the package tour, me and my friend over there and that poor little Rastafari kid you killed? You think we just showed up ’cause we curious about lifestyles of the rich and famous?”
“I pretend curiosity about you for thirty seconds. Mr. Jones, sí? From New York.”
“You spend a lot of time in England?”
“No.”
“How ’bout Cuba?”
“No.”
“How ’bout South Beach? The Blue Moon Apartments over on Washington Avenue? Specifically apartment 3-A where that SWAT guy got himself whacked in his bed?”
“No.”
“Slip your mind, maybe. You stole his Leupold & Stevens sniper scope.”
“One more dead cop, what does it matter if I did?”
“See? That’s better. Won’t do you any good to lie. The truth set you free. Take them mirror glasses off, my man. Look me in the eye.”
“You want the truth? I’m going to enjoy killing you. Slowly, with my scissors, because you have insulted me. Then, I’m going to kill your friend over there. The same way. Three more bodies for the alligator fiesta out in the Everglades. End of story, señor.”
“Maybe for me. Ain’t the end for you, Scissorhands. We got folks expecting us. We don’t show up back home, your trouble is just beginning, if it isn’t bad enough already.”
“Where do you get this name?”
“Scissorhands? What your homeboys all call you, man, you know that. Back in the old country. Before you stuck your scissors in Fidel’s back and sided with them cocaine cowboy generals. You talk to Fidel lately? I imagine he’s pissed at your ass. Wouldn’t surprise me he wasn’t the one been trying to whack your ass lately. That’s what I’d do, I was him.”
“Shit! Guards!”
“See? Now you’re raising your voice. Means I got your attention. Take those glasses off, Slick. Let me see your eyes. Maybe you’re not even the guy we looking for. If not, we say we sorry, we’re out of here, no hard feelings. Come back when you open to the public.”
“You fuck now with the wrong man, señor.”
“My friend over there. One you drugged? Name is Ross. He’s Scotland Yard. You look in his pocket, you’ll see a warrant for your extradition and arrest.”
“Arrest? Ridiculous.” That’s when the guy flashed the scissors right under Stoke’s nose.
“Leaving a murder weapon stuck up in a tree at the crime scene, now that’s ridiculous—hey, get them scissors out my nose. You liable to do something you regret later, you—”
“You are under arrest for the murder of Lady Victoria Hawke,” Ross said suddenly. Sound of his voice, Stoke could tell he’d been awake for a while, just playing possum. “On the steps of the Church of St. John’s, Gloucestershire, at eleven o’clock on the morning of May 15th last. You bloody bastard.”
“See? Ross is back. That’s good. Now you got Scotland Yard plus a big-city homicide dick on your ass. Now the odds are better, traitor. Two against twelve, you don’t count Fancha. Look at her, girl be smiling at the old Stoke again.”
“Guards!” the Cuban guy shouted and he heard them all rack the bolts on their assault weapons.
“I’ll kill this one,” the Cuban guy said to the guards, “Just blow the other one away.”
Stokely felt a white-hot pain as the man slowly drove the razor sharp scissors upward inside his left nostril, headed no doubt for his brain. He tried to twist his head away, but the thing was too far up his nose. He thought he heard Ross yell something about getting down, and then he was sure he was going to black out from the unbelievable pain, and then all the windows and doors of Vizcaya exploded inward.
Stokely jerked his head back, planted his feet and rocked his chair backwards, getting away from the damn scissors, the flying shards of glass, the flash-bang and smoke grenades somebody was now lobbing in from outside the house, and all the wild bullets the panicked Chinese pajama guys were spraying all over.
That’s when the main explosion occurred, blowing all four walls apart to make room for the roof and chimneys and all kinds of damn shit to come down on top of them. Just before all his lights went out, Stokely had one last thought.
Hey, Stoke, guess what?
You one dead cat.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Cotswolds
A FIRE WAS BLAZING IN THE MASSIVE HEARTH AT THE FAR end of the dining hall. The three men sat at one end of the long mahogany table. Down the length of the table stood a row of gleaming silver candelabra and Pelham had lit every candle.
It was a fine, richly paneled room, with a vaulted Adam ceiling picked out in blue and white. A massive Victorian chandelier hung from the center, modeled after a nineteenth-century hot air balloon. Alex himself had purchased it, upon learning that the huge glass balloon had been originally designed to contain live goldfish. He’d intended to try it himself, but had never quite gotten round to it.
After the wine had been poured, Pelham withdrew from the room and returned to the kitchen to ensure the first course was ready.
“Tell us about it, Tex,” Alex said, as gently as he could manage. It was obvious that the aging Texas Ranger was suffering deeply.
“That message,” Patterson said, “the one came down here by courier from London. It was from my station chief in Madrid. I knew what it was before I even opened the thing. Heck, I knew this was comin’, sooner or later.”
“What happened, Tex?” Alex asked.
“The father of those two wonderful little kids up in Dark Harbor,” Patterson said, choking the words out. “The husband of the beautiful Deirdre. Evan Slade was his name. As fine a gentleman, father, and husband as ever I met. A great American.”
“The bastards got him too, Tex?” Hawke said, leaning forward, lacing his fingers under his chin.
“Naw, it wasn’t like that, Alex. Evan was sitting at his desk at the embassy over there this morning. Had the al-Jaz
eera network on the TV. All of a sudden they showed the—the pictures—the goddamn movies of Dierdre and the children, Alex! The whole thing. He put a. 45-caliber gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He just wasn’t—strong enough—to see that, Alex. To see his kids—in their beds—”
Hawke stood up and went around to where Patterson sat, slumped forward. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Tex,” Alex said, looking down at Patterson’s shattered expression. “None of us would be strong enough to see that. None of us. You know that.”
“Dreadful business,” Congreve said. “Horrific.”
And then everyone was silent while Pelham served the first course. It was some kind of creamed soup, served hot. Leeks or celery or something like that. Hawke could care less. He’d lost his appetite.
Each man picked up his spoon. Hawke, a bit unsure about what to do with the sprig of rosemary that lay atop the soup, put down his spoon, plucked the sprig of rosemary from the soup bowl and held it to his nose.
“Don’t touch that soup!” he barked at his two companions who were in the midst of lifting their spoons to their open mouths. “Drop the spoons!”
Patterson and Congreve looked up at him in shock, lowering their soupspoons.
“What on earth, Alex?” Congreve said.
“I intend to find out,” Hawke said, pressing the button mounted under the table that would summon Pelham from the butler’s pantry. A moment later, he was at Hawke’s side.
“Something wrong with the soup, m’lord?”
“Pelham, do we have any new staff in the kitchen? Any recent hires, I mean?”
“Well, there is the one, sir, joined us the month before you arrived home from America. Excellent qualifications. She was sous-chef at l’Hôtel de Paris and—”
“Would you kindly ask her to join us?” Hawke said, and Pelham, a look of distress on his face, rushed from the dining room.
“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, Alex?” Tex said gravely.
“We’ll know in a moment,” Hawke said, and sniffed the soup once more.
Pelham ushered in a pretty, dark-eyed young woman, mid-twenties, wearing a white apron with a toque blanche atop her black curls. She wore an expression of calm despite the unusual summons. Pelham looked stricken. Something clearly was amiss.
“Good evening, I’m Alex Hawke. You’re new here, I understand.”
“Oui, Monsieur Hawke. One month since I arrive from Paris.”
“Bienvenue, mademoiselle. I wonder. Why would a pretty young woman want to leave Paris and move to the dreary English countryside? Seems a bit odd.”
“To learn some English. And, because of my boyfriend, he have a job at the Lygon Arms in town.”
“Did you prepare this soup?”
“Mais oui, monsieur. I hope you are enjoying it. C’est bon? Encore un peu?”
“Quite delicious. Has an odd, nutty aroma I can’t quite identify.”
“C’est un pâté de noix moulues, monsieur, a paste of ground walnuts. Peut-être cela—perhaps that is—”
“Eh bien. No. That’s not it,” Hawke said, dipping his spoon into the soup. “Here, you taste it and tell me what you think it is.” He handed her the spoon but she simply stared at it.
“Is there a problem?” said Hawke.
“Non, monsieur.”
“Then taste it.”
“I cannot, monsieur. It is not proper.”
“Did you put something in this soup that should not be there, mademoiselle?”
“What are you saying, monsieur?”
“I am saying that if you don’t taste that bloody soup in the next two seconds I’m going to have my friend Chief Inspector Congreve over there arrest you.”
“Of what charge, monsieur?”
“Attempted murder should do it.”
The girl’s eyes flared angrily and she flung the spoon to the floor. Before Alex could react, she bent forward and grabbed his soup bowl from the table and raised it to her lips.
“I would sooner eat all of it!” she shouted defiantly and tilted the bowl toward her open mouth, wolfing down the contents in one long, single swallow. She stood then, looking down at them, eyes blazing, yellow soup smeared on her chin and down the front of her apron.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyeing all of them insolently.
“Porcs infidels! Je vais au paradis sachant que mon valeureux successeur réussira là où j’ai échoué!” she said, smiling at them.
A second later, she made a small noise and collapsed to the floor.
Congreve shoved back his chair and went to her, kneeling at her side. He placed two fingers at the carotid artery just beneath her ear, paused a moment, then shook his head.
“Unconscious?” Alex Hawke asked.
“Dead,” Ambrose said. “What was it, Alex, in the soup?”
“Aflatoxin, most probably. Derivative of the extremely toxic mold produced by peanuts when they go bad. Brilliantly disguised, I almost missed it. She was very good at her trade, this one. She’d most likely have gotten away with it.”
“Alex is right,” Tex said, holding the soup bowl under his nose. “Aflatoxin’s a tough one to catch. Our postmortems would show only damage to the liver. Shucks, after all the port wine we’ve had today, nobody would—” He put the bowl down.
“What was her name?” Alex asked Pelham.
“She called herself Rose-Marie, sir,” a very shaken Pelham said, gazing down at the lifeless figure. “I must say I’m thoroughly mortified, your lordship. Someone should have—”
“Rose-Marie…Rosemary…” Congreve said, more to himself than anyone in the room. He placed the sprig of herb on his linen serviette and doubled it over.
“Now, you listen here, old thing,” Alex said, putting an arm around Pelham’s frail and trembling shoulders, “There’s no way anyone in this household is to blame. You’re shaking. I want you to go into the library, pour yourself a largish whiskey, and put the whole matter behind you. We’ll join you in a moment. It’s quite over as far as I’m concerned.”
“I’ll just go ring the constabulary, your lordship,” Pelham said, and disappeared as if in a daze.
Alex eyed the fragrant twig in his fingers. “Rosemary. It appears you’re quite right, Ambrose. First Iris in Maine, then Lily in Paris, and now I find this little sprig of rosemary right here under my own nose.”
“You’re forgetting one, Alex,” Patterson said. “Rose.”
“Rose?”
“When we pulled Simon Stanfield out of the Grand Canal, he was wearing a single rosebud in his lapel. According to his wife, he hated flowers, especially roses.”
“This Dog calls all of his sharp teeth by the names of flowers, or, in this case, he takes a wee license with an aromatic shrub,” Hawke said. “Quite the romantic, our homicidal assassin. Please tell me, Ambrose, the late unlamented, what were her final words?”
“She addressed us as ‘infidel swine,’ ” Ambrose said, staring down at the dead assassin, and shaking his head. “And then informed us that ‘I go to Paradise knowing my worthy successor will succeed where I have failed.’ ”
“Let’s keep a weather eye out for her successor, shall we, Ambrose?” Hawke said.
“The supply would seem endless,” Congreve said, and sipped his wine.
Chapter Thirty-Three
London
BODY OF LIES WAS THE HOTTEST TICKET IN LONDON. IF YOU could even get your hands on one, that is. The tabloids joked that the sizzling waiting list for tomorrow night’s gala premiere was so long some members of the Royal Family were embarrassingly midlist. Adverts for the latest epic spy flic were everywhere. Marketing declared war on every square inch of London. Space not plastered with Nick Hitchcock’s picture was space wasted. Airtime, radio or television without a mention of the “Sexiest Spy Alive” was precious time lost forever.
Marketing had spoken. Cry havoc, and let slip the hounds of publicity, they said. Legions went forth, and it seemed every corne
r of the capital was plastered with Ian Flynn’s cruelly handsome visage.
Looming above a rain-soaked Piccadilly Circus, a giant billboard cutout of a smirking Nick Hitchcock dominated the skyline. There was the prerequisite luscious babe on his left arm and a lethal-looking black automatic in his right hand. Every ten seconds, his gun emitted a loud pop, and a perfect round smoke ring wafted from the gun’s muzzle to be borne aloft high above the hurry of swirling umbrellas, the glistening red buses and gleaming black taxis. The sound effect of Nick’s gun, the Lies marketing gurus soon learned to their chagrin, unfortunately could be heard only in the quiet of the wee small hours, when the hooting armies of the night had tented down.
Francesca, emerging from a Soho theatre into a surging sea of paparazzi shouting her name, glanced up at her giant cardboard costar just as Nick’s gun went off. “Firing blanks,” she said to Lily and her director, Vittorio de Pinta.
Vittorio, who clearly had a lot more riding on this picture than she did, mainly his future, draped an arm around his star’s bare shoulders.
“Mi amore,” the handsome Italian said, smiling broadly for the flashing cameras, “Please do not behave this way. Be a good girl. Smile for the cameras.”
“What’s my motivation?” Francesca said.
“Money, darling.”
“She’s got a lot on her mind,” Lily said, casting a sidewise glance at Francesca.
Lily, for a time known as Monique Delacroix and formerly personal assistant to the late American ambassador Duke Merriman, had arrived from Paris earlier that week. With a variety of make-up, wigs, and sunglasses, she managed to make herself unrecognizable. Francesca had spent two days bringing her beautiful young protégée up to speed on the plot to kidnap an American ambassador. Francesca, along with Mustapha Ahmed al-Fazad, the mastermind behind many of the Emir’s most deadly attacks in Europe, the Philippines, and the Far East, had spent the last weeks in intense planning sessions in Francesca’s suite overlooking Hyde Park. The plans were now complete.
But it was Francesca and Lily who would ultimately be responsible for the success or failure of this most audacious action.
