Embarrassed, she quickly looked for a way off the beach, realizing that her only options were to go back the way she had come or to continue on, past the man. She turned around to go.
“Alvarez!”
Valerie winced when she heard her name called out, freezing with indecision as to whether or not to answer or hurry off the beach.
“Alvarez!”
The voice was closer now, coming toward her. Reluctantly she forced up a nonfrown and turned to face the brother of the boy she’d betrayed.
“Franco.”
He came up to her, his face an angry blank. “It is dangerous for you to walk alone.”
She shrugged. “I need alone.”
He seemed to study her closely. “Me also.” He turned away from her, again looking out at the water, beyond the water.
“Are the, uh, negotiations going well?” She felt she had to ask.
He raised his eyebrows in an expression of both doubt and I don’t really give a damn. “Everything with the Cinesi is time. They analyze, dissect, repeat, and probe. Then they ask for clarifications.”
“But at least they’re talking, right?” Her voice was strained as she longed to be gone, to not be so physically close to the man she’d so soul-wounded.
The man she had so much in common with.
Franco never looked away from the blue water that reflected the reds and oranges of the sunset as if it were on fire.
“We all die.”
“What?”
He took a deep breath, exhaled it even more deeply, then pointed out at the water. “Moriamo tutti. It is an old Corsican belief.”
Valerie felt sick to her stomach. “I, uh, I promised Dr. Jacmil that I would …”
“What it means,” Franco said, ignoring the clearly distraught woman, “is that death is inevitable. We will all, at length, return to the sea that gave us life. It’s comforting somehow. Don’t you think?”
A chill raced through Valerie. An unclean hand clenching her soul to the brink of extinction. Slowly, almost against her will, she moved closer to the Corsican strongman.
“You’ve heard something. A statement,” not a question. “My children…”
Franco shook his head. “No.” I’ve heard nothing. He laughed bitterly. “But then it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Valerie had looked down, saying a private prayer of thanks, but she snapped her head up at that. “What! What did you say?”
Franco just looked at her blankly.
“You bastard,” she whispered. “You unfeeling sonofabitch!” Her anger found its voice and exploded over the man. “It amuses you to play head games with me? To tell me that it doesn’t matter if my babies are dead! That it’s inevitable?”
She reached up and slapped his expressionless face. “Boca de gusano! We all die? You heartless bastard, what the Hell do you know about it?”
She swung on him again. This time he easily caught her blow, then the one from the other hand. She began to struggle, spitting at him, cursing him, kicking; using him as the effigy for all the men, all the users and killers and brutes, who had turned her into what she’d become.
A mother who had killed her own children.
Her fury grew, anger becoming rage becoming an unquenchable fire. She screamed, tore at him, tried to hurt, disfigure him as harshly and painfully as possible.
Finally, his eyes still reflecting nothing but a quiet calm, he hugged her arms to her sides, lifted her off her feet, and threw her into the retreating surf.
“Bast—” she cried out, then froze as he stood over her menacingly.
“Do not ever think,” Franco began slowly, “that I have forgotten what you did to me. Huh? How you destroyed me when you betrayed my sainted brother.”
His face reddened, his breathing became raspy. “If it were not for a promise I have made to Dureté, I would have wrung the life from your body days ago.”
He stood with the water washing around his calves, looking down at the woman who lay half covered by the warm tide.
“Your children are your life? My brother was mine. Now I must go to our mother and tell her that her baby is dead, buried somewhere we can’t find, without the sacraments or the witness of those that loved him.” He paused. “I would gladly trade the lives of your precious children to avoid looking into my mother’s eyes at that moment.”
Valerie tried to get up, but he pushed her back into the water with his foot.
“Listen to me carefully. I believe that your children live. I want your children to be alive. Because if they are, then it is more likely the Cinesi will negotiate in good faith, as far as they ever do. And it is more likely I will get a chance to avenge my brother’s death.”
He grew quiet, still, turning back to the water and the deepening bloodreds reflected there. “It is my only reason for not blowing my brains out. And yours.”
Valerie—stunned, confused—sat up. “I’m so sorry,” was all she could think to say.
“Moriamo tutti.”
“We all die,” she repeated.
Franco nodded as he started off, down the beach.
For a long moment Valerie watched him go slowly off, understanding, for the first time, that in his grief Franco had dedicated himself to living—albeit for his revenge— rather than dying in his mourning for a soul he could not return to this plain.
Ten minutes later—in a secluded, sandy cove—all memories, pain, recriminations, guilt, and doubts were washed away (for the moment) by the mutually violent sex.
As Franco violently expelled his anger and his fury at Valerie’s equally rough, savage, mountingly alive frenzy, the two found something within each other. A commonality of the most primitive level of existence.
As the Corsican’s thrusts threatened to split her apart, as her kicks and scratching bruised and gashed the man, as their blood spilled into the raging surf, was thrown up into their faces, something inside her died.
Was reborn.
“Moriamo tutti!” she called out at the height of the violent tenderness.
And she began to live… not for ambition or self-improvement; not to provide her children a perfect world; not to gain power, ascendancy, or control.
But simply, and completely, for revenge.
The Champ-de-Mars is about as far removed from the quiet beauty of the French Mediterranean coast as possible. It is pageant and poetry, neon and subtlety, a tribute to Paris’s elegant past and its cacophonous present. Running almost the length of the city, it is the magnet that draws almost all visitors and residents of the glorious metropolis, if only for a moment, if only to say, “I was there.”
But Herb Stone wasn’t interested in tourism or history. The crowds of passersby he found both comforting and frightening. Coloration and threat. But even this he largely ignored as he wandered through the music-churning, flashing-lights experience. His eyes remaining locked on the statue about a half-block ahead.
With the Eiffel Tower behind it, the statue of Mars Ascending seemed somehow out of place, its smooth pale pink marble contrasting against the copper giant. But there was also something very right about the placement— the god of war and destruction serenely looking up at a monument to peace and prosperity.
“Only in France,” he said aloud as he stopped at the foot of the statue.
“You have no appreciation of art, Mr. Stone?”
Herb didn’t turn to acknowledge Avidol Goldman. “Well, this one piece perhaps.” He gestured toward the lightning in the angry god’s left hand. “He has purpose, commitment, dedication to mission. I appreciate those qualities, Reb Goldman.”
He turned to face the old man. “I was expecting Ms. Alvarez.”
“We all must learn to live with disappointment,” Avidol said as he studied the man with equal frankness.
“Yes, I know,” Herb said somewhat sadly. “The story of my life, it seems.” He followed Avidol through the crowded park. “Do you know Paris, Reb Goldman?”
The old man nodded. “Ver
y well. When my family came from Greece to the United States, we stopped here for several years.”
“Really?” Herb sounded genuinely interested. “When was that?”
“Oh, just before the war. We lived in the Twenty-third Arrondisement for three years, I think. We left for England, then America, around 1939.”
Herb was impressed. “I would’ve killed to see Paris back then. It must’ve been so … alive!”
Avidol stopped, a dour look crossing his strong face. “Can you hear yourself, Stone? Even in admiration, you mix death and life.”
Herb laughed. “My apologies, sir. We’re not all lifelong pacifists like you.”
Avidol gestured to the right, by a noisy carousel. “I was not always a pacifist, as you put it.”
“No?”
“No. You will please hand me your overcoat and jacket.”
Herb did as he was requested. “Oh, don’t stop. Please.” Avidol sat down on a bench and methodically checked the pockets, patting down and squeezing the lining, the padding, as he’d been shown.
“There is little to tell. I was a boy, full of myself and the world. Convinced that right must triumph over wrong and that I should be the tool of that.”
“Admirable sentiment.”
Avidol shook his head. “A foolish one. There were fascists in Greece even then. Bullies in their black shirts that also believed they were right and instruments for correction.”
Herb studied the old man as he put on his jacket. “You killed one, he said in an astonished tone.”
Avidol sighed. “Three of them attacked a young girl from a neighboring town. I came across the outrage as it was just beginning. He paused,” a tear appearing and working its way down into his full beard. “I stopped it.”
Herb froze as he was shrugging on the overcoat. “You killed all three. It was a statement, not a question, so sure was he of the answer.
Avidol got up, walking around the carousel. Herb followed.
“It was why we had to leave Greece.” It took many years, many prayers, much thoughtful study and soul-searching before I felt my God’s forgiveness for that irredeemable act. He shook his head. “I don’t think my father ever forgave me.”
He gestured at a coffee kiosk in front of them. Herb nodded, took a last look at the old man, then walked over.
Xenos stepped out of the shadows. “Hello, Herb.”
But the spymaster just stood there, staring deeply at, into, the younger man.
“What the Hell you looking at?”
Herb seemed to snap out of it. “Just never noticed how much you resemble your father.”
“Whatever. Xenos began to walk,” Herb following after a moment. “What do you have for me?”
Herb laughed. “Not a damned thing, my boy. I came to see Alvarez.”
“You’ll see me first.”
Herb shook his head. “Do you really think I’m here to harm her?”
“Somebody is.”
“Yeah. They sure as shit are. Which is why I have to talk to her.”
Xenos studied his face, his commitment, then shook his head. “Good-bye, Herb. It’s been fun.”
The older man watched him go. “Trust never was your strong suit, was it, son?” Xenos kept walking. “What do you know about Apple Blossom?” he called out in a black whisper.
Xenos stopped, turned, allowing the old man to come up to him. “Obviously a helluva lot less than you do.”
“Don’t count on it.” He lowered his voice still further. “I have to talk to Alvarez, Jerry. Only her.”
Xenos shook his head. “Me first.”
Herb casually ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Let’s not make this more complicated than it has to be, okay? Just take me to her, or bring her to me.”
“Hey, Herb?”
“Yeah?”
“How many guys you got around us?”
The man froze. “Why’s that?” he said cautiously.
Xenos smiled, an evil smile of teeth and suggestion. “You know me, Herb. You know who I am and how I think. Hell, you helped teach me, right?”
“Right,” he answered as his eyes searched the crowd around them.
Xenos casually placed his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. Herb never flinched, but was surprised that it was so light a touch.
“Look at my shoulder, will you?”
Herb looked at the big man’s right shoulder. Suddenly a small red dot appeared on it.
Then a second.
Then a third.
The dots, as though they were living things, seemed to dance and play as they slowly moved down the length of that powerful arm, onto the smaller man’s shoulder, then finally coming to rest in the middle of his chest.
“It don’t matter how many men you’ve got,” Xenos said conversationally, “how they’re equipped or trained.” One of the dots traveled up to Herb’s cheek, another dropped to his groin. “Cause they’ll never get here in time.”
“You’ll never get out alive,” Herb said perfunctorily. Xenos nodded easily. “That’d be a favor.”
Amazingly the targeted man smiled. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“Apple Blossom, Herb. Remember?”
“You’re so, uh, enlivening, Jerry. I always liked that about you.”
“Apple Blossom.”
“Yes,” the old man said wistfully. “Apple Blossom.” He seemed distracted for a moment. “You heard about the vice president?”
Xenos just watched, listening. A Swiss instrument precisely ticking down to mayhem.
Herb took a deep breath. “Everybody’s hot for a war, son. The factories have gone to golden time, politicians getting their best suits cleaned and pressed, the public crowding round to see the flags and plumes.”
“The President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board has been tasked with selecting economic and strategic targets in Taiwan. Defense is deploying first-strike capabilities. State is being muzzled, and the White House is a limp dick using a corrupt little Spanish fly to get it up one last time.”
Xenos thought about what the man in front of him was not saying. “You know who Apple Blossom is?”
Herb shrugged. “Not so’s I can prove it. And I’ve looked at the smiling little pricks real good too. All three of them.”
“I can imagine.” He thought for a moment. “What about this guy Steingarth?”
“I’ve never liked him,” Herb said casually, “so I’m willing to take the good congresswoman’s word that he’s a rat bastard. It pleases the aesthetic in me.” He smiled. “But he doesn’t fit the role—miscast, you might say. I can see him as the organizer, but his power base is too limited to be the star.”
Xenos looked into the crowd around them. “If Steingarth’s not Apple Blossom, where do you go next?”
Herb frowned. “Me? Not us?” He shook his head. “You’re not abandoning your country again, are you, son?”
The hand moved so quickly, grabbed the old man around the throat so tightly, that it might have happened in an instant. Herb never moved as Xenos pulled him close, slowly squeezing the older man’s throat.
“Don’t you ever call me your son again,” a mythical savage voice growled out at him. “No more.”
Despite being shaken to his core, despite feeling his windpipe being crushed, the amoral man slowly brought his cigar to his mouth, then exhaled a puff of blue smoke in the leviathan’s face.
Deliberately, Xenos released him.
The former Cold Warlord took several deep breaths, then looked back up at his creation/find.
“You’re not getting soft, are you, Jerry?”
Xenos took a deep breath. “You have one last chance to convince me that I should let you anywhere near Alvarez.”
Herb thought for a moment, then nodded at a Gypsy family that was telling fortunes out of a cart on the side of the road.
“Want to know the future? Get a look into my tea leaves?”
Xenos nodded.
“Within two weeks t
here’ll be a massive cruise missile strike on Taiwan. They’ll respond with a shore-to-surface barrage at our vessels in the China Sea. The president’ll order air strikes to suppress the Taiwanese missile capabilities.”
He paused, his eyes disconnecting from the conversation, drifting with the pictures in his mind. His voice became soft, almost disbelieving. But there was iron behind the words.
“Then there’ll be a bright light along the Mainland China shore. Wenzhou maybe. Maybe Xiamen. A military-industrial complex of little strategic importance but a dense population of civilians.”
“The ChiComs—in their righteous indignation at this horrid attack—will launch a massive Silkworm attack on Taiwan. Then, in a coordinated action with U.S. forces, we’ll jointly invade Taiwan, crush its forces, and China will be united once again.” He paused. “Hallelujah.”
He shook his head sadly, as though in mourning for a death that had yet to happen.
“Sometime after, oh—after the parades and speeches are done and a new China/U.S. mutual love pact is passed into law—our beloved president (exhausted from the pressures, from grief over his wife and so many dead Americans in the Great War) will pass away peacefully in his sleep. And a brave new world of Sino-American relations will begin.”
He looked deeply into Xenos’s eyes. “Amen.”
“You have any evidence of any of this?”
Herb smiled back at the man. “Of what? A paranoid old man’s wild fantasies?” He shook his head. “If the first rule is win, then the second is don’t get caught. You know that.” His shrug became a shroud. “No evidence, no plot. You can’t stop what doesn’t exist, can you?”
Xenos heard the truth in the old man’s voice, saw his frustration, felt his anger.
“What are you doing about it?”
“Me? Herb asked innocently.”
“You.”
“Well”—he smiled a secret smile—“I might’ve had a thought or two, but…”
“But?”
“But then”—the older man’s eyes narrowed, his voice became an angry growl—“I don’t fucking have Alvarez!” The face immediately relaxed, the voice returning to its usual calm, peaceful nature. “Do I, son?”
Canvas bounded off the Exec-jet and raced to the waiting jeep. “Go, damn you!”
The 4 Phase Man Page 20
