“Thanks, Dad.” And he remembered all the times his father had taken him over the jumps as a young boy to teach him the joy, the inexpressible sensation of soaring through the air.
“But we're going to beat them next time, aren't we, Bernie?” Lucy emphatically declared, patting Bernadotte's favorite mount Daxon on the neck.
Bernie? Carey speculated in astonishment. His father had never allowed that diminutive.
“We have to,” Bernadotte casually replied, as though little girls had called him Bernie all his life. “How else can we keep the racing interesting?”
“Mom, Mom, did you see us?” Carrie shouted, loosening her grip on her father and searching out her mother.
Molly's heart was still caught in her throat. She was having trouble finding her voice, but she nodded at her daughter's bright-eyed face and tried a shaky smile of her own. Despite her own terrifying fright, her daughter was perfectly comfortable on that huge beast, leaning back against her father who was equally relaxed and at ease. Carrie would ride like that someday, she thought, under the Fersten tutelage. She was both fascinated and petrified by the awesome size of their mounts; they were so powerful she couldn't imagine her small daughter controlling them, not to mention jumping them over fences higher than her head.
“You've got to try it, Mom!”
Right after brain surgery, she thought, but she said instead, “It looks like fun.”
Carey had walked Tarrytown closer to the fence. “I hope you don't mind,” he said, his exhilaration restrained now under his cool courtesy. “She wanted to try the fences.”
“I don't mind,” Molly replied. “What a beautiful horse.” And she gingerly patted Tarrytown's nose.
The big bay twitched his head away as if he recognized hypocrisy, but Carey gently forced him back and made him stand politely under Molly's stroking palm.
She envied Carey his confident skill and effortless rapport with horse and child alike. But most of all, she appreciated his loving attachment to Carrie. Even if she couldn't always understand the complexity of their relationship, he was sincerely devoted to his daughter. And she was grateful. “Carrie's really enjoying herself,” she said.
His eyes held hers for a moment over the head of their daughter. He wanted to kiss Molly and tell her how much he loved her, but then the old arguments would begin again about how much love was love. “So am I,” he replied, silently promising himself to heal the hurt in her eyes once he came back. And he hoped with all his heart he'd be coming back.
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 impregna
ble.”
“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.”
CHAPTER 40
W ith his Brazilian buyer anxiously awaiting delivery of the prototypes, Rifat was setting his alternate plan in action. He'd recently received verification that Sylvie remained at her brother's bedside in Miami. If he died, she would no doubt return with the body to Germany. But while Egon lived, Sylvie was fixed in Miami, He would need a few days to put together another team.
Timur had flown Ceci home. He was recuperating now in his suite on the second floor of Rifat's villa, feeling remorseful and depressed.
Shakin Rifat, much older than Ceci, was less daunted by failure. Had he been, he never would have survived the coup which ousted him from power and made him an exile from his country.
“Regroup, my boy,” Rifat had explained to Ceci, his fondness for the young officer genuine. “If every general gave up after being outflanked, the map of the world would be considerably altered. Simply attack again, immediately, while the jubilant cheering is still echoing in the enemy camp. We'll merely take the Countess von Mansfeld in Egon's stead. And you may entertain her in her detention.” Rifat's background relegated women to a limited number of functions, the majority of which pertained to service to men. He would offer Sylvie to Ceci as a present. “How is your arm healing?”
The bulletproof vest had saved his life, but Ceci looked very unhappy, his pride buffeted by his failure. Dressed in a silk robe of deep forest green, he lounged on an oversized Renaissance sofa, his left arm bandaged and in a sling. “Well enough, sir,” he replied, unable in the depths of his depression to appreciate the surgeon's skill which had repaired damage so severe, a lesser expertise would have meant the loss of his arm.
“Good. Now, enough self-reproach. I expect you to be fit enough by the end of the week to welcome the countess.”
They landed in Rome near midnight, a day later. Jess had piloted and they unloaded the boxes of tack and saddles themselves. Customs officials barely glanced at the equipment, since Carey was known by reputation and had been coming over for competitions since he was a boy.
He was playing in a polo match, too, he told them, which accounted for his extra gear. His jumpers and polo ponies would be flown over in a few days.
Ant remarked to Luger as they entered the limousine waiting for them: “Don't get too used to this preferential treatment they give counts, Luger. When you get back to Taylorsville, you're going to have to take out the garbage, same as ever.”
“They like horses,” Carey noted. “Every time I come over to compete, they remember my last win.”
“What happens when the horses don't come over?”
“Plans change. A horse isn't sound enough for a race. You cancel out. They understand. Hell, with this ungodly hot weather, I'd decide not to bring my horses over, anyway.” A sultry blanket of heat lay over Rome, even at two in the morning.
When they arrived at the apartment Carey had rented, they quietly unloaded the heavy boxes and carr
ied them up to the second-floor sitting room. After parking the car in the courtyard, Jess joined them at the table where they all sat studying a map of the city.
Ant was to reconnoiter the area immediately adjacent to Rifat's villa, while Luger explored the environs of Rifat's office building. Neither man was familiar to Rifat, and with tourists at their peak, two more men with guidebooks and cameras shouldn't attract notice. Jess and Carey worked on a timetable of escape routes back to the airport, in the event heavy weapons were required. Explosions of that magnitude would attract attention… and the carabinieri. They would have to exit the area swiftly.
When Ant and Luger returned with the details of the buildings, grounds, access points, and security system, they drew up floor plans and argued about methods of attack.
Luger favored his TOW missile fired from the back of a truck parked a block away from Rifat's office. “There's enough heavy traffic near the square so a truck wouldn't be conspicuous. If I can get the angle right, I can blow Rifat and his car to hell.”
“What about the risks to innocent pedestrians?” Carey remarked. “His office is on a busy square, and I'm not out to get anyone but Rifat.”
They discussed the possibility of planting a C-4 bomb in the office, but decided there was no guarantee it would kill only Rifat. Again, innocent people would be endangered.
Everyone knew almost at the onset what would be required, but first they methodically eliminated the less risky procedures. Even if they could plant a bomb on his car, they'd have to wait for a day he was alone to detonate it, increasing the risk of its discovery. In any event, Carey didn't want to wait.
Carey subscribed to Rifat's methodology of attack. He believed in a rapid offensive, for personal as well as logistical reasons. He wanted Rifat dead, and he didn't want time to dwell on the danger to himself and his friends. He particularly didn't want to have time to think about all he had to lose; he couldn't afford to hesitate. He needed his mind unobstructed for action.
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