Hot Streak

by Susan Johnson

  They finally decided to go into Rifat's villa the following night from the rooftop across the street, and Ant volunteered to see if he could get inside for a glimpse of Rifat's protection.

  Posing as a Mexican reporter, Ant appeared at the villa and tried to get an interview with Rifat. He was ultimately refused as he'd anticipated, but returned with a pleased smile on his face.

  “When they heard I was a Mexican reporter, the butler wasn't sure what to do. While I was standing in the entrance hall waiting for Rifat's secretary to be wakened, I had a look at the cameras and surveillance. A guard was monitoring a bank of TV screens in a room off the hall, and since he'd just been delivered his breakfast, the door was open. I gave him a cheerful, ‘good morning, nice weather' kind of greeting. It's about all I know in Italian. He shook his head and slammed the door in my face. But I caught a glimpse of the screens before the door shut, and evidently Rifat doesn't allow cameras in his private rooms.

  “And as far as the detection devices at the front door and hall windows, I just happen to have a laser which keeps the beam intact even when it's broken. That alarm won't be set off when we enter the house.”

  “Something new?” Carey looked at him intently across the remains of breakfast al fresco. Being able to enter the villa undetected was worth a great number of points for their side.

  “Yeah.” Ant smiled. “My retirement fund. Evidently Rifat might have something going in our hemisphere to the south because his secretary was actually polite when he told me, ‘No interview.'”

  “We're set, then.” There was a new energy in Carey's voice.

  “Everything on track, except…”

  “Except?” Carey probed.

  “If Rifat doesn't feel the need for camera surveillance in his private apartments, he may have some other defense.”

  “We'll find out.”

  They napped that afternoon, ate lightly, then geared up while Jess packed the car with all the necessary equipment. The saddles and tack were carefully resettled atop the mortars and assault weapons, the detonators and missile sights hidden beneath one level of the carefully constructed wooden crates.

  Jess was to wait for them at a prearranged site, down the hill from Rifat's villa. He would be inconspicuous even if the house exploded in a ball of fire.

  “Heaven forbid,” Ant said with a wide smile.

  “I haven't fired a baby TOW in a long time,” Luger commented, longing evident in his voice. But at the warning light in Carey's eyes, he quickly added, “Relax… I'm under control.”

  Carey didn't relax completely, however. Handing Luger a firing mechanism was a bit like putting a woman in a jewelry shop and saying, “Don't touch.”

  Shortly after ten they walked into the area in timed intervals. Dressed in dark cotton shirts and slacks, wearing sneakers and carrying canvas bags, the men resembled tourists out for an evening stroll. Slipping into the building across the street from Rifat's through the back door of an antique shop, they carefully moved up the stairs past two levels of apartments and climbed up onto the roof through a wooden trapdoor at the back of the third-floor hall.

  Since there were still sounds of activity in the apartments below they maintained complete silence when they assembled on the roof and waited for darkness to descend. They spent their time preparing their weapons and rappelling equipment. Their rappelling gear was a lightweight aluminum rope with a grappling hook on the end to which special harnesses were attached both for men and weapons.

  Shortly after eleven, when a cloud temporarily covered the small quarter moon, Ant threw the grappling hook and caught the roof parapet the first time. Carey led the team across in a smooth routine, without noise or problems.

  The roof was a shallow pitch tile. After silently pointing out the beam of light protecting the perimeter, Ant adjusted his laser device to jam the beam to a continuous on position, and they dropped over it onto the tile. They unstrapped their MP5s from their backslings, clipped the explosive packs to their belts, and crept slowly toward the peak.

  Typical of many Renaissance villas, Rifat's was built around a central courtyard, quiet and shadowed now under the thin moon, but patrolled by two armed guards. Lying flat on their bellies, Carey's crew peered over the peak searching for Rifat's suite, the private rooms facing on the courtyard.

  The second- and third-floor balconies rimming the courtyard shadowed the windows of the villa, partially obscuring the numerous windows. Silently the three men perused the portion of the villa opposite them, searching for some clue to Rifat's rooms. Figures passed by windows occasionally but they were armed guards dressed in fatigues. The guards at least explained the reason Rifat's rooms weren't surveyed by monitor screens. Apparently, he preferred the privacy accorded by hall guards.

  They all counted as they lay on the rooftop. The sultry summer night was more appropriate for lovers than assassination, the perfumed scent of the courtyard flowers heightened the incongruity of their mission. Luger indicated by sign the number of guards, pointed out their positions, and without speaking asked verification of his total. Ant and Carey both agreed, and all three realized they were moving into an armed camp. Although no direct sign of Rifat had been seen, the concentration of guards on the east wing of the second floor strongly suggested the location of his suite of rooms.

  They entered the villa through a narrow attic dormer. The process of slowly easing it open in full sight of the courtyard below was a slow, nerve-racking procedure. Especially when a nest of sparrows disturbed by their manipulation erupted into a brief agitated squawking. For the next few minutes the men lay flattened against the roof tiles, still warm from the sun.

  Instantly the guards looked up, contemplating the half-dozen circling sparrows silhouetted against the nebulous gleam of the moon. After what seemed endless minutes, they went back to their gossip and cigarettes.

  I'm getting too old for this, Carey thought, sweat beading on his brow. His cheek was jammed tightly to the smooth clay tile, his heart pounded. But when he glanced over and caught Ant's wink and smile, he remembered his heart had pounded as violently at eighteen. And the sight of Luger's cheerful face, slightly blackened, convinced him some things never change. Luger was enjoying himself. Luger had always been the nerveless one, while Carey and Ant and Mac had sky-rocketed through a mission high on adrenaline.

  Right now Carey had enough adrenaline pumping into his body to keep him awake for a month. He signaled he'd go through the dormer window first. Servants had slept under the dusty eaves in past decades, but the attic was empty now, except for the distinctive pink beam of light crossing the large space six inches above the floor. Ant's smile was smug as they stepped over the colored line of protection without marring its perfect symmetry.

  The floor immediately below the attic contained small rooms. They paused, listening carefully, and realized from the unmistakable sounds of snoring that the rooms contained sleeping men. Rifat had at least two platoons of guards in residence. They moved on with great care, each covering a door with his weapon as they went down the carpeted hall to the stairway.

  They paused at the top of the stairwell, weapons poised up and down the staircase, knowing when they descended to the second floor they would be on the level of active guard operation. They also had to pass the living area before reaching Rifat. If that wasn't daunting enough, even if their mission was successful, they would have to return the entire distance they'd traveled in order to escape back across on their wire. Rifat had chosen his villa well. Solid walls buttressed him on two sides, while the third side overlooked a steep drop into a Roman temple complex: The only point of access was the street side, which they'd used for entry.

  Carey led the way down the stairs, one cautious step at a time. At the bottom, he eased his head around the corner of the wall just enough to survey the second floor hall. The lengthy corridor was elegantly appointed with Kazak carpets loomed to order, their distinctive red-dye weft enhanced by the bold dragon pattern popular in that r
egion. The original beechwood paneling had darkened over the last four hundred years to a sepia shade brightened by the addition of several large, gilded mirrors.

  Although the hall was luxuriously appointed, the interior space was spare and uncluttered. By design, Carey presumed. Rifat chose not to impair his line of fire with large potted plants or console tables that would divert his guards from their target.

  As if on cue, a guard walked into the apex of the juncture where the north-south corridor met the east-west length. Carey watched the man turn in a loose military rotation, then disappear out of sight.

  Okay. They had to get by him and whomever else was patrolling that wing. And there was nothing to do but move forward and see what they found when they got there. Silently, Carey signaled the position of the guard, took a deep breath, then stepped out onto the carpet. There was no point in moving slowly in the wide open spaces of the corridor; there was more safety in speed. Carey sprinted down the muted softness of the dragon-patterned rug. Ant and Luger were right behind him, their weapons poised to fire.

  The view of the next corridor reminded Carey of a military base. A guard station was situated halfway down the hall, two armed guards were seated at a table adjacent to a solid steel door, no doubt the entrance to Rifat's private quarters. It explained the relative laxness of security in other portions of the mansion. The outer perimeter was protected by an electronic surveillance beam, and guards patrolled the street entrance and courtyard. Rifat lived behind a coded entry door defended by two armed men. Four, Carey corrected himself, as two more appeared from what must have been a guard room to the left. Shit. Maybe there were ten more in there.

  Measuring the distance to the door with his eyes, he turned back to Ant and Luger. Speaking for the first time since they'd reached their rendezvous, he murmured, “There's four I can see. I'm going to try and draw some of them down this way. You two target the ones at the desk. Wish me luck. I know about twenty words in Turkish.” And unfortunately, he thought, most of them were only appropriate in the boudoir.

  Raising his voice sufficiently to reach the guards but not carry to the floor above, Carey delivered rapid fire guttural phrases having to do with one's heritage.

  Without hesitation two guards ran toward him, their weapons raised. Stepping out into the corridor, Carey fired at them with two well-placed controlled bursts. Even before they began falling, Ant and Luger had squeezed off their own rounds. The two men at the desk lifted slightly from their chairs before their bodies were thrown into the wall. Even though the men were shot with silenced weapons, it didn't mean noise was eliminated. The impact sent the guards flying backwards as if they were rag dolls.

  The distinctive muffled sound of the rounds hitting home was followed by a noisy disturbance as the two guards in the corridor fell heavily to the floor, and the men at the desk collapsed with a tumbling clatter of chairs. They knew the sounds would be heard by whomever was behind the steel door, so they raced forward to drag the bodies out of sight. In seconds the four guards had been unceremoniously dumped in the small alcove that had apparently served as a locker room. Then they waited.

  The wait wasn't long.

  The steel door opened, and two men stepped through it, their weapons drawn. One man turned to glance into the alcove only inches from Carey, who was crouched behind the door. The other guard stood in the open doorway, holding the heavy plated steel with one hand and his weapon with the other.

  As the first man walked into Carey's range, he seized the man's collar and twisting hard, pulled him down. The swift hauling motion dragged his throat onto Carey's knife. The second man never had time to digest what was happening, because Ant came up off the floor under the table and finished him just as neatly.

  Carey was on the wrong side of the door to see what was happening but he observed Luger's signal, “One coming.” He'd take him. And although the man came out in crisp military style with his weapon aimed and someone behind him for backup, Luger shot them both before they were over the threshold.

  Now was the time to attack.

  Ant went in first because he was closest, followed swiftly by Carey and Luger, and the thirty-round magazines of their guns rippled across the chests of the two guards reaching for the phone on the table in front of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Carey caught a glimpse of movement and, swiveling, shot the last guard with a burst between the eyes.

  It took only an exchange of glances for each man to know what to do. They cleared away the bodies, stacking them in the alcove and closing the steel door in the event it was timed to an alarm, they reloaded and proceeded to their next barrier.

  They knew they had only minutes at their disposal. Ant began setting his plastique on the lock of the second steel door to Rifat's inner sanctum. The explosion was a muffled sound, the lock disintegrated. They rushed through the door into a plush foyer carpeted in an unusual yellow ground kilim and walled in a glittering succession of mirrors.

  Absolute silence greeted them.

  They fanned out in a choreography from the past, rehearsed to perfection in another killing field long years ago. Each moved forward carefully, every reflex on alert, nerves taut.

  They found him two rooms away, seated behind his desk. When Carey suddenly stepped into the room, his assault weapon trained on Rifat's chest, he greeted them without surprise, with unusual calm. Unknown to them, the explosive charge had set off his warning system, and the villa was on full alert.

  “Count Fersten, I thought you and I might meet again.” And he crossed his hands on the leather-covered desktop as though a submachine gun wasn't pointed at him. As though he wasn't responsible for half the terrorist attacks last year. As though all the people dead because of him were numbers in a ledger of profit and not human beings with families who perhaps couldn't even begin to understand the reason for their deaths.

  “You were harder to find this time,” Carey said, remembering the last time they'd met in Cannes with sycophants and starlets surrounding him, not steel security doors and armed guards.

  At Rifat's casual words, Ant had moved over to the windows facing the courtyard. Easing the drapery aside a scant inch, he surveyed the scene below. It was full-scale mobilization with armed men racing toward Rifat's wing, and every light in the villa illuminated. “The troops are out, Carey. Time to go.”

  “In a minute.” He wanted that minute. He wanted Rifat to suffer a brief moment for what he'd done to Egon. For what he'd done to countless, nameless people in his rise to power. There was a rumor he collected ears and brought them out at dinner parties for effect. It almost made one consider torture in return as biblical justice.

  “You'll never get out alive,” Rifat said, his voice moderate, the burgundy silk of his dressing gown, a vivid splash of crimson in the glow of the desk lamp. “I've sixty men garrisoned here.” His smile held no geniality.

  “A few less,” Ant said, his gaze still fixed on the courtyard below, “on the other side of those steel doors.”

  “My commendations on your skill.” Rifat's smile thinned. “No one's ever gotten this far.”

  Luger was guarding the doorway. “Let's go,” he muttered.

  And when Carey rotated the half-turn to interpret the intensity of his voice, Rifat's hand moved a scant few inches toward the silver inkwell in the shape of a small cannon lying directly in front of his clasped hands. The flash of red caught as a periphery image warned him, and Carey fired without aiming. The impact blew Rifat back, but he recovered a moment later to his smiling, upright self.

  A bulletproof vest, Carey thought just as Ant said, “We're outta here.”

  “One second.”

  “A half a second, that's it.”

  “My dear count,” Rifat said, his voice grating with animosity at the first serious threat to his life in years, “you don't have a half-second.” He drew from his pocket a small automatic handgun, firing it before his hand had lifted. And if Carey hadn't automatically moved in practiced reaction to a pointe
d gun, he would have been gut shot… or lower. Instinctively he aimed for Rifat's head and fired-one close-patterned burst that no one could survive.

  Luger slammed the bedroom door shut behind him just as the sound of shattering glass echoed through the shadowy room.

  “That's for Egon,” Carey said as Rifat's body fell heavily to the floor, his head splashed in bloody pieces across the torn drapery and broken glass of the window behind him.

  “No way we're going back the way we came,” Luger said, shoving a large dresser in front of the door. “They're halfway down the hall already.”

  “They haven't climbed the balcony yet,” Ant declared with a tight smile. “Let's try a little Tarzan shit.” He was already uncoiling the nylon rope hooked to his belt harness. “Hey, Carey, are you fucking back in this world yet?”

  But Carey didn't hear him, transfixed, not by the sight of Rifat's remains, but by a memo sheet on Rifat's desk with Sylvie's name, the name of the Miami hospital, and Egon's room number scratched across it in bold script.

  “We've got to get out of here,” Carey said aware of Rifat's auxiliary plan now that Egon was beyond kidnapping.

  “No shit,” Ant muttered, exchanging an ironic lift of his brows with Luger.

  The sound of running feet was audible now, much too close for comfort. The next sound they'd hear would be splintering wood as the door was shot open.

  “I'm going up and out of here,” Ant said. “You two cover my ass while I find something to anchor this rope to.” And following Ant, they stepped out onto the balcony through the smashed window. After looking in both directions they opted for the more dimly lit area to the left. Undetected, they raced down the length of the veranda, away from the commotion concentrated in the area around Rifat's suite.

  At the corner they stopped, assessing where best to gain access to the roof. The balcony supports were smooth marble columns unsuitable for climbing, and the balcony eaves were without decorative detail. “Christ,” Ant swore. There was nowhere to secure a rope, and even a grappling hook would never catch on the polished handrails. “I'm going to see if I can slip this rope through the third floor balcony railing. Hang on to me, 'cuz I'm going to have to lean out.” It went without saying the third man would cover them against attack. Down below them the courtyard was a hive of activity with soldiers running, orders being shouted, and sounds of frantic movement, but no one had seen them yet, concentrating as they were on racing to Rifat's quarters. “Shit,” Ant swore, the eave on the balcony obstructing his view, “we could use Mac's long arms right now.”