Ded Reckoning

by William F Lee

  Dee arrives at Heathrow Airport in London. With only carry-on luggage, she is off and through customs in short-order. Regardless of traveling First Class on both flights, and in spite of the reasonable comfort of the First Class Lounge at JFK airport, she is tired. The first class seats were spacious. The food good, and the drinks comforting. But, hour upon hour, for all practical purposes a full day of traveling is tiring.

  Outside the terminal Dee does as instructed. Takes a cab from Heathrow to Grosvenor's Square. Gets out and walks a short distance and then takes another cab to the hotel. Once there, she carries her own bags into the lobby. Sits at a table in the lounge area and has a cup of tea. After about forty minutes, and finished with the tea, she registers. As far as she can tell, no one followed her and no one here is showing any interest nor is acting suspicious.

  Once in the room, she hangs up her few outfits, takes out necessary items from the briefcase and places them in the loo, freshens up and comes out into the suite. Opens the drapes and looks down on Piccadilly. Nice. Never been here. Still alive at this hour.

  She goes to the phone sitting on an antique maple table in the drawing room of the suite. Dials a number from memory and waits. Two rings.

  The voice on the other end says, "Hello."

  Dee responds, "It's me. I'm here."

  "Okay, good. The plan has changed a bit. It's a little more complicated. The good Mister O'Rourke has escaped, been kidnapped, or assisted. He's not been located. But he will be soon. The belief around here is that he was assisted by two of his comrades at arms. That of course is not true. His comrades in arms back home will get a little feisty. As a result, be alert. Nonetheless, your role hasn't changed."

  "Understand."

  "Has the subject tumbled for any of your wily ways?"

  "No. To the contrary. He's rejected everything. Mind is focused."

  "Well, after this afternoon he will be depressed and vulnerable. I suggest you be more demur. He might submit, so be careful. Although that might make everything easier, it would not make me feel good at all. I want you to know that."

  Dee pauses, says, "Don't worry. Anything else for now?"

  "No. It is what it is. Be careful. Call in."

  "Are we still on our path?"

  "Without a doubt. The time is close. I am about to be free. Days away. Week at the most."

  "You know it's been a long time."

  There is a pause for just a moment, then a sigh, "I know. As for me. We wasted precious time. But, we'll make it up. We're nearly there."

  Dee clutches herself with her one free arm, then sighs, "I just will never understand."

  "Understand what?"

  "How we got ourselves in this position, and how you managed the Angelo situation."

  "It wasn't easy. But, let's not think about all that now. Darling, hang on. One week. Tops. Then we'll not only be together again, but away. Far away." There is a pause. Then, "We need to hang up. Bye." Click.

  Dee stares at the phone, hangs it up, then pulls her other arm around her thus she is sitting, clutching herself with both arms, and shivering slightly in August, and the air is not on.

  CHAPTER 14

  "If you are going to go through hell,

  keep going."

  Winston Churchill

  Pisces stands on his veranda gazing out over this quaint old town he's chosen for his final home and the glistening blue of the sea beyond. He sips a Nero d'Avola red wine, a Sicilian product. It's popular with the locals but not to his liking. He prefers the Chiantis he orders direct from his favorite winery in Tuscany. Along with the apricot brandy. And of course, the cigars from his long time trusted friend at their source. He looks at Gina at his side. Places his arm around her waist and pulls her close. "Gina, what of your family? Where are they? What do they do? I should know these things, but I don't." He gives her a squeeze, a kiss on the top of her head, nuzzling his face into her thick, dark hair. He takes another sip of wine. Ponders, "Gina Pappalardo? An old Sicilian name. Right?"

  Gina looks up, gives him a kiss on the cheek, smiles and responds, "No worry, Roberto. You cannot know everything. It is true I have a Sicilian name. But, my mother died years ago, and my father left. I don't know where. I have no family here other than you, Roberto. I have been working ever since I was a little girl. At times living in the streets. Bruno found me serving tables in that cafe at the bottom of the hill when he brought me here to work as a housemaid."

  "No one? No relatives? Friends? No person to miss you?"

  "No."

  "That's not right. Not good in life."

  "I have you, Roberto. And that's good. That's life. And now I just want to keep you happy. Are you pleased with me, Roberto?"

  Pisces pulls her close, nuzzles her hair again and whispers, "More than you know." He pauses. "But, I have something to do now," his tone different, detached, coarse. "Have Rosa fix us some dinner. Some Cannoli with ricotta cheese. And not too sweet. Later we will sneak away for some private time on the boat. Just the two of us. Yes?"

  "Yes," and wraps her arms around him, kissing Pisces full on the lips. She pulls back and says, "Tomorrow, can I go shopping in town?"

  "Of course. Yes. That's a good idea. Tomorrow."

  In his study, Pisces waits for Rocco to call at the prescribed time. His fingers drumming on the desk top. Stopping. Then starts again. Stops. He sips the Nero d'Avola. Puts it down and shouts, "Rosa, come here and bring me my Chianti ."

  Minutes later Rosa appears. A bottle of Chianti in hand with a fresh glass. He nods and gives a sweeping motion toward the other. She takes the glass away, nods, and scurries from the room. Pisces waits a few seconds and then bellows, "Rosa. Rosa."

  Again she bustles into the room, flushed and slightly bent. Pisces stares at her, points to the bottle of Chianti and his glass. Shrugs his shoulders, hands and arms out to the side. Eyebrows raised, his head juts forward.

  In a mixture of Italian and English, Rosa, whines, "Sorry, Signore. I forget. Sorry." She pours a glass, leaves the cork out letting the wine breathe. She's not sure of this, but her husband Carmen told her of this. What he didn't tell her was that Roberto Catalano is an impatient man. Also not likable at times. And she, as well as Carmen, were expecting him to be gone when they arrived. That is what Rocco told them.

  Pisces nods, and flicks his hand dismissing her. As he does, the phone rings and he snatches it from its cradle. "Yes."

  The voice on the other end says, "Signore Catalano, it is Rocco. Checking in as you asked."

  "Yes, Rocco. Are you still in Rapallo?"

  "Yessa, sir. Planning on ..."

  "Well, the new help has arrived already. You didn't school them well. Make sure that gets done before I return next time. Speaking of that, you must leave Rapallo soon and get on with your business in Pisa. But before you do, make some calls. I met a woman of interest in town yesterday. Stunning. Intelligent. And she has the most delectable ... never mind. I want you to find out more about her. I believe she is a widow. If not, she should be or will be. Her name is Russo. Chiarina Romero Russo. Owns some shops. As I say, bright, perhaps wealthy. Dazzling."

  Rocco asks where she is from. Pisces tells him along with some additional information of what he knows of the Russo name. Then he says, "Besides being beautiful, she is interested in painting. She saw one of my pieces in town and likes it. And me, I think."

  Rocco replies, "What is there not to like of you, boss? I will do this right away and tend to the other matter in a few days. Will that be satisfactory?"

  "Yes. And disregard my angry tone. Have a good time with your woman. But get me some information and get rid of Rizzo. I will be gone for several days. Leaving tonight."

  "Where to?"

  "Taking the Sorridenta. Call me tonight before I go. This is important to me."

  "Yes, sir, bossa. Will you ..."

  Rocco hears the click before he can complete his comment. As always, conversations with Pisces end when Pisces is finished. On the
phone, it's a click and dial tone. In person, it's his back as he leaves, or the hand dismissing everyone and everything. The words, and the person. And every so often a pistol shot is the dismissal. Or an ice pick. Whatever, it's a dismissal.

  Rocco places the phone in its cradle. Immediately makes a call to the lady's town and makes the request for the information, followed with gruff orders including the time table. This time it is his click. Then he ambles into the bedroom. Adrianna is sprawled on the bed, naked. Laying on her side with her head propped up on her hand, supported by her elbow resting on the bed. Rocco groans, "Adrianna, love. You are gonna kill me."

  "I hopea not, Rocco, but one time before we go for a stroll. It will be gooda for your heart and your appetite." She rolls onto her back, thrusting her arms up and forward toward him. "Rocco, facciamo l'amore."

  He drifts toward her, disrobing as quickly as possible. "Sei bellissema. Incredibile."

  Hunter grabs a taxi from London's Heathrow Airport. He changes cabs three times before finally stopping at the Cavendish Hotel in the Mayfair district of the city. A hotel over 150 years old and steeped in tradition and legends such as Rosa Lewis, considered the Duchess of Duke Street that ran the hotel in the 1800's. It was rebuilt, modernized in 1966. Hunter waits to register, sitting in the ornate and luxurious lobby of this hotel with over two hundred rooms. However, it is not the hotel where Dee is registered and waiting.

  When reasonably satisfied he has not been followed and is not being watched, Hunter registers, goes to his room and hangs up his clothing bag. He's had plenty of time to mull over Maria's late night visit to the DeLuca's guest cottage where he stayed his one evening in Napa Valley. He ran her comments through his mind during both flights. From San Francisco to Washington, and from the Capitol to London.

  His thoughts return to that tryst. She is truly an attractive woman. Like her sister, Dee, Maria has black hair, dark eyes, well proportioned and an inch or two taller. Same dark complexion and same overt sexual aggressiveness, only sincere. However, although she ensured I was fully aware of her interest in me, it was not the purpose of her visit. She sat me down, and sat directly across from me on the edge of a chair she pulled up. Her hands folded in her lap, calmly, yet her fingers were twitching and entwining. Not only nervous, but scared. Spoke for an uncomfortable hour or so, information pouring out. Then when finished with her story and answers to my questions, she got up to leave. Hesitated, and then seeing no other type of interest on my part, shook the hand I offered to her and opened the door to leave. Stopped, and with her eyes welling with tears, said, "Please be careful, exceedingly careful."

  She smiled and lamely pulled the door closed, quietly, only the muted sound of the click. Then she reopened it several inches and whispered, "I am single. I do make apricot brandy. And I'm going to come after you Hunter Kerrigan, before or after this, whatever it is, is over. Night. Bye." And pulled the door closed once more. For the evening.

  After mulling over Maria's conversation again, Hunter leaves his room and the hotel. He strides the several blocks to the Pisces flat, or flats, on Cork Street. There he watches the building for fifteen minutes, then satisfied that he is still not being followed or watched, and that the Pisces flat is empty, he enters the building looking back, checking for intent eyes. Then turns to his task, picks the lock to the flat and enters by sliding sideways through the door.

  There is another flat in the building, owned by Pisces, and it’s leased. The occupant appears not to be home at the moment. Nonetheless Hunter closes the door quietly and walks on the balls of his feet on the carpeting or rugs as much as possible and off the wood floors. He searches the two-bedroom, two-bath flat painstakingly. Every closet, every cabinet, and every drawer in this fully furnished, spit-polished clean flat. Not a bit of dust to be found. A barracks ready for the Inspector General. Not even a scuff mark on the hardwood flooring.

  There are two features especially noticeable. One is that there is no security system. The other, oddly enough since all else is meticulously clean, is the odor of cigar smoke. It's in the drapes, curtains, rugs and furniture, and especially strong in the living room which has a dark stained oak Victorian-style settee and four matching chairs. The settee is not antique but for sure of superb quality and expensive looking. There is a matching time and foot-worn cushioned stool that fronts it. Dark stained oak end tables with lamps are at the side of each chair and at each end of the settee. Each table has an ashtray. On one table next to the settee there is a well-used, large ceramic ashtray.

  Hunter stands in the room. Shakes his head in disappointment. Same location as the dream. Thank God, no reception committee and not the same inside. He audibly exhales. Nothing. Not a single scrap of paper. He mumbles softly, "Even the blotter on the desk by the door is new. Nothing here." He gazes around the room in disbelief. He sits on the settee. Not that comfortable, but classy. There is a TV. Doesn't match anything in here. He stares at it for several minutes, and the fireplace off to its side. Sat in here, watching TV and smoking cigars without a care in the world.

  He sits for several more seconds. Puts his hands on his knees and pushes himself up, mumbling, "And leavin' bodies strewn all over the damn town, the world."

  Including my mom and dad.

  He glances around the room again, then as if his thoughts and eyes mesh at exactly the same moment, his gaze settles on the hearth. Something in the far back darkened corner of the fireplace catches his eye. A glint.

  Hunter steps forward carefully, crouches down on his haunches, reaches in and picks the object out of the shadowy crevice. A tiny, infinitesimal gold ball. He warily loosens the tight wad with care, unraveling it deftly. A stunning wrapper. His eyebrows arch. It's a cigar band. Intact. He reads the label aloud. "Joya De Nicaragua."

  I've heard of these. Expensive. Big time.

  Then mumbles, "Okay, Joe. Goin' to give you a chance to do your stuff." And he leaves the flat as unobtrusively as he hoped he had arrived and entered. At the front door he checks the street. Left and right. Twice. Strolls back towards the hotel.

  Two pairs of eyes watch from inside a shop. One whispers to the other as if the man they are watching could hear. "That's him. Has to be. I'd bet on it."

  The other acknowledges in the same tone. "We are. Let's go. Be careful. He's good for someone new."

  Back in his hotel room, Hunter calls Joe. After several preliminary exchanges about the trip to the flat and cigars, Hunter says, "Find out from this firm if they ship to customers in London or somewhere in Italy. My guess a Roberto something or other. Same name, two or more addresses, and perhaps a recent change. Or a name like that, with a recent change of address or addresses and cancellation of the others ... like this one, and the one outside of Pisa. And Joe, I'd bet he has a personal contact there. Like the owner or general manager."

  Joe responds, "Will go one better. I have a man in Nicaragua now. I'll have him make an official call. No, by God, it'll be personal, influential ... and persuasive. And I'll get back to you, pronto."

  Hunter acknowledges the response and tells Zachary where he is staying for the moment, reminding him it is different than the plan. .

  Hunter then calls Dee. She picks up after one ring. Says, "Hello."

  "Dee. Hunter. Listen carefully ..."

  "Where the devil are you? I've been worried sick. Have you seen the papers or the TV? My God, even here you've made the news. That guy ..."

  "Calm down. Yes, I have. Now listen. Check out of the hotel immediately and go find a clothing shop. Buy a couple of British looking outfits. Keep checking your six. Take a taxi, in fact take two or three, to the Cavendish Hotel. It's in Mayfair, 81 Jermyn Street. Corner of Duke and Jermyn. I'm already checked in using our Bravo ID. Go to the desk and ask them to ring your husband and have him come to the lobby to meet you. Or, if they'll give you a key, come up. But we want the desk folks to know and remember Ian and Sally Hansford. And while at the desk have them make dinner reservations for us at their rest
aurant. It's the Petrichor or something like that. Okay?"

  "Got it. I suppose I understand all this mystery. How long have you been in town?"

  "Got here on time. Thought I was being tailed." He fabricates his reactions. "Went through four cabs, two tube rides, one going and one coming back, and a bus and a short walk. Wasn't anything that I could spot. Had a feeling. Keep sensing eyes on me." The latter two comments not part of his fabrication, but an affirmation of real sensory input. "We're probably okay, but we, or I, now have some problems. Get a move on. We'll talk about the changes when you get here."

  "Okay. See you shortly. Glad you're okay. God, I was scared to death."

  "Not to worry. Now, move it."

  "Anything in particular?"

  Hunter pauses, then says, "You're still at it. Knock it off." He hangs up, and calls the hotel's Concierge obtaining a list of the best, the most prestigious cigar shops in the Regents Park, Mayfair area of town. Memorizes them as he does everything. Hangs up and waits for Dee to show up and for her to make a show of that.

  Mary Kate sobs uncontrollably as she and Sean listen to her Uncle Mike tell them the bad news. Her father is missing. Reported kidnapped although Muldoon thinks something is astir or afoul. And that Patrick Shanahan was killed, no accident. Perhaps by the police but most likely by a man named Hunter Kerrigan who was a friend of the girl targeted. Sean holds Mary Kate firmly, consoling her while gritting his teeth and suppressing his own emotions. Tears, both of sorrow and anger, hate.