“You may have heard,” I told him, “that Didier Sabarly was expecting a shipment of pure heroin that got hijacked somewhere en route.”
Gojon gave me his bored expression. “Is there anyone in Paris who has not heard of that by now?”
“Three million dollars’ worth,” I said.
“I heard four,” Gojon told me.
I shrugged. “Give or take—it depends on how many ways they cut it before putting it out for sale on the streets.”
“True. So?”
“So, I’m prepared to make you a present of that shipment Sabarly failed to get. All of it. Or almost all. Minus about a thousand dollars’ worth.”
Gojon scowled at me suspiciously. “You are.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I didn’t. You found it. You can make up any story you want about where and how you managed to grab it before it could be delivered to Sabarly—as long as you leave me out of your story. It would be quite a feather in your cap.”
“What?”
“An American expression. Means your superiors will be impressed with you.”
“I’m not that interested in impressing my superiors,” Gojon said stiffly. That, we both knew, was a lie. He smiled a little. “However, I would enjoy seeing the expression on the faces of certain Stups I know.”
Les stups are narcotics officers of the Brigade des Stupéfiants. Since they are the cops who are supposed to snatch big drug shipments out from under the noses of gangsters, they wouldn’t enjoy Gojon’s having beaten them at their own specialty.
“And what,” Gojon asked me softy, “do you want in exchange?”
“Two things,” I told him. “First, what I said: Keep me out of it. I don’t want anybody asking me questions about where I got all that junk. Second, I want you to spread the word. Far and wide, as they say. That this is the shipment Sabarly was waiting for that you’ve hauled in. All of it. I want everyone to hear it. Especially Sabarly.”
That would remove one pressure from Odile. Once Sabarly knew the police had that shipment, his people would stop hunting for it.
The pushers he supplied would have to go without a little longer. Not much longer, probably. If Fulvio Callega didn’t have another shipment on its way, some other supplier would.
Didier Sabarly wouldn’t have paid for the lost shipment, since it hadn’t been delivered to him. And the financial loss that represented for Fulvio Callega was now the least of what he had against Mulhausser’s daughter.
“A deal?” I asked Gojon.
He nodded. “Where is it?”
I reached under our table for the knapsack and dumped it in his lap.
“Here.”
After that I went and had a talk with Fritz Donhoff. He began putting out feelers throughout the milieu. I flew back down to the Riviera and put out feelers of my own.
Five days later the word reached us. My worst fear was confirmed.
Fulvio Callega had put out a “forever contract” on Mulhausser’s daughter.
Chapter 33
After four days of detailed investigation and preparation I drove across the border to see Fulvio Callega.
Dolceacqua is an old Italian village straddling the Nervia River. Half an hour from the French frontier. Fifteen minutes from the Ligurian seacoast. Twenty minutes from Fulvio Callega’s villa outside Ospedaletti.
Below Dolceacqua, above the left bank of the narrow river, was a small, rustic restaurant called the Imperia. It was noted for the quality of its fish, and its prices were high. Behind the restaurant was a terrace for outdoor dining and an artificial freshwater pond stocked with trout. On warm, sunny days like this one, when Fulvio Callega was using his Ligurian villa, he liked to have his lunch out there.
His favorite midday meal was grilled trout, along with pasta, a mixed green salad lightly flavored with lemon and olive oil, and one bottle of Tuborg beer.
Fulvio Callega had accomplished much in his forty-five years by devoting a full day of attention to his business affairs every day. He was accustomed to rising shortly after dawn to do so. When dining alone he usually took an earlier lunchtime than most people.
A phone call to the Imperia would reserve a terrace table for him at precisely eleven A.M. On these occasions the restaurant never served anyone else out there until after he had departed.
At a quarter past eleven on this particular morning a brown two-door Opel pulled into the gravel parking area in front of the Imperia. Fulvio Callega’s Lincoln Continental was already parked there. Its armed chauffeur leaned against its side, smoking a short, thin cigar. Fulvio Callega’s two personal bodyguards had gone inside the restaurant with him just over ten minutes earlier.
The chauffeur flicked his cigar to the gravel and straightened up as the two men in the Opel climbed out. His experienced eyes surveyed them and found nothing to worry him.
The Opel’s driver was a tall man wearing thick eyeglasses and a shabby open raincoat. He brought out a cloth and busied himself cleaning dust from his car windows. His passenger was a distinguished elderly gentleman with baggy eyes and silver hair, wearing a velvet suit the color of dark wine that was cut in a fashion long out of style. He nodded politely to the chauffeur and trudged into the restaurant.
The man in the shabby raincoat continued to polish his car windows. The chauffeur lit another cigar.
Three minutes later I drove my Peugeot into the Imperial parking lot. The chauffeur regarded me thoughtfully as I strolled by him to the restaurant entrance, but he didn’t stop smoking.
The interior of the Imperia was one large room furnished with wooden tables and chairs and a short, zinc-topped bar. One of Fulvio Callega’s bodyguards stood with his back to the bar, his elbows resting on it. The elderly gentleman was seated at an inside table, leaning back sleepily in his chair, his hands resting on his lap. The restaurant’s owner, a stubby man who was also its chief cook, was behind the bar pouring the glass of wine the elderly gentleman had asked for.
Through an open rear door I could see the back terrace. Fulvio Callega was out there having his lunch at a circular table beside the fish pond. The table was large enough to serve six, but he had it to himself, as was his custom. His other bodyguard sat at a separate smaller table.
I walked through the room toward the doorway to the terrace. The inside bodyguard’s growl brought me to a stop. My Italian was sufficient to understand his command—and the restaurant owner’s polite explanation that the terrace was not available until after noon.
The chauffeur walked in the front door, not looking happy about it. Jean-Marie Reju was walking close behind him. The chauffeur put his hands down on top of the bar. Reju rested one fist on the bar, pointing his big Colt. 45 down its length.
Fritz Donhoff raised a hand from his lap, holding his Beretta 92SB pistol. He instructed the inside bodyguard and the restaurant owner in quiet, excellent Italian: “Please put your hands on the bar and then remain that way until we leave.”
The restaurant owner obeyed immediately. The bodyguard was slower, but he finally forced himself to turn and face the bar, placing his hands down flat on it. Reju remained in position, his .45 covering the three men now standing with their hands on the bar. Out on the terrace Fulvio Callega and his other bodyguard continued to sit at their tables, unaware of what had just occurred inside.
I walked out onto the terrace.
* * * *
It took up the rest of a small hilltop occupied by the restaurant. Beyond it the land dropped into a wide, empty ravine that rose on the other side to a forested hill seven hundred yards away.
Fulvio Callega looked up at me in mild surprise. His outside bodyguard came to his feet as I started past him, his hand sliding inside his jacket toward his gun.
Fritz Donhoff stepped outside and aimed his Beretta at the side of the bodyguar
d’s face, freezing him with his hand still out of sight under his jacket.
I spoke to Fulvio Callega in English: “Advise your man to bring his hand out in the open, empty, and sit down with both hands on the table. That old man with the pistol assassinated more Nazis during the war than any other Resistance fighter in Paris. Of course, he is very old now—which might tempt your man to try a fast move. It wouldn’t be a good idea. For him or you.”
Fulvio Callega gave his bodyguard a quiet command. The man sat down, scowling, and put his empty hands on the table.
I walked on to Fulvio Callega’s big table. “My name’s Sawyer,” I told him. “I’m only here for a short private talk. Nothing else.”
I sat down facing him. He was short and blocky in a dark, striped three-piece banker’s suit, with an old-fashioned gold watch chain across its buttoned vest. In contrast with his body his face was long, with a bulging brow, a heavy chin, and a thin, taut mouth. His dark eyes held less expression than a couple of pebbles on a block of cement.
“My Italian is lousy,” I said, “so let’s speak English to make sure we understand each other. I hear you speak it perfectly.”
Fulvio Callega nodded impassively. “I lived in the States for some years.”
“And in Hong Kong for two,” I added.
The dark eyes narrowed very slightly. “Not many know that.”
“No,” I agreed. “But I do.”
“I know a bit about you, too, Mr. Sawyer. For instance, I know that somebody I once did business with has always been fond of you. Marcel Alfani.”
Alfani’s feeling for me usually irritated me. But there’d been times when it had been of help. I said, “That’s true.”
“Unfortunately, Marcel has just recently undergone a serious operation in London. And will no longer be able to give you any protection. If you needed any.”
“He’s recovering nicely,” I said. “I spoke to his daughter about that yesterday, after she returned from London. He should be coming home in a couple of weeks.”
“But unlikely ever to be in a condition to come out of his retirement,” Fulvio Callega said. “However, you don’t need his protection. Not from me, if that’s what you came to talk about. According to Boyan Traikov, you had no part in the murder of my brother. He gave me a full account of that.”
“I figured he would.”
“Traikov seems to have developed an odd fondness for you, too. He says you could have killed him but didn’t.”
“An error of judgment,” I said. “For which I don’t forgive myself.”
“Yes…it appears you are a man of heart. But a heart that does not always rule your head, apparently. Two other men who were after you have not been seen since.”
“I came to talk to you about Odile Garnier,” I said. “I don’t want anyone to hurt her—any more than she’s already been hurt.”
“There is nothing you can do for the girl,” Fulvio Callega told me flatly. “She killed my brother.”
“That was a crazy thing for her to do. But Tony’s the one who drove her that crazy. He turned her into an addict when she was only a kid of seventeen. Not for money or any other business reason. Just for the fun of it. He got her helplessly hooked and then tortured her with it. As a way of amusing himself.”
“Tony did not always act too intelligently,” Fulvio Callega admitted. “But he was my brother.”
“He was a piece of dirt,” I told him. “You never got along with him. That’s one reason you had him settle in France. So he wouldn’t be around to annoy you.”
“In a family,” Fulvio Callega said, “the blood tie is more important than any lack of affection. That girl is going to die, Mr. Sawyer. Sooner or later, someone will kill her for me. Nothing will change that—even if you have the gunmen you brought with you shoot me now. I assume you have more inside.”
“I didn’t bring them to shoot you, Callega. I brought them so you’ll understand what kind of friends I have. I’ve got a lot of them, all over the world. People who can do anything that has to be done. It’s important for you to understand that.”
I reached across the table and picked up his beer bottle. “For example,” I said, “it’s not safe for this to be so close to you.” I set it down in the middle of the table and leaned back in my chair.
A second later the bottle shattered. The sound from the forested hilltop seven hundred yards away reached us a fraction later. A faint snap, like a dry stick being cracked.
A single shot from a .303 Lee Enfield rifle fitted with a scope sight. One of the most effective long-range sniper’s weapons there is, in the hands of an expert like Crow.
Fulvio Callega jumped slightly. He couldn’t help doing that. But when he raised his eyes from the shards of splintered glass to my face again, his expression was back to impassive.
“Impressive shooting,” he said calmly.
“That’s what it was for,” I said. “To impress you. With the fact that each of my friends has special talents. Some extremely rare.”
“But it doesn’t change a thing. The contract I put out on the girl is a forever contract.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“The money for it has already been put aside. It will be paid to whoever kills her—even if I’m dead by then. So this impressive demonstration was pointless.”
“It was merely an introduction,” I told him, “to what I have to say next. So you’ll take it very seriously. I’ve put out a forever contract, too.”
Fulvio Callega shrugged. “I’ve never been afraid of death.”
“The contract isn’t on you,” I said. “It’s on your son.”
For the first time there was a break in his composure, quickly masked. “I have no son,” he said.
“There was a woman, during your two years in Hong Kong. She bore you a son. Thirteen years ago. Your only child. You named him Francesco, after your father. Francesco Callega. That’s his real name. But you’ve had his mother raise him as Frank Nelstrom. Her last name. Few people know he’s yours. You’ve always been afraid someone with reason to hate you might retaliate against the boy.”
“Who told you this?” Fulvio Callega was no longer impassive.
“One of the friends I told you about. You had the boy’s mother move to Switzerland with him, where you go to see him now and then. As a friend of his mother, with a friend’s natural interest in the boy. You send her regular amounts of money to take care of all their needs. Your son is presently attending a private boy’s school outside Geneva.”
I pointed to the remains of the shattered bottle on the table. “If Odile Garnier is killed, now or in the future, certain of my friends will execute my contract. On your son. Even if I’m dead by then.”
He studied me intently for almost half a minute. Then he shook his head from side to side. “No. You don’t have that in you. You’d never have an innocent boy murdered.”
I looked at my watch. “In a few minutes your son will come in from the school’s soccer field to wash and change before having lunch in the dining room. There’s something hanging on the back of the door in his room. It will be disturbed when he opens the door.”
Fulvio Callega was on his feet, moving fast to the interior of the restaurant. He went past Fritz and the seated bodyguard, paying no attention at all to the gun in Fritz’s hand.
I got up and walked inside after him. He turned immediately on entering and hurried through a short corridor to a phone at the end of it. I paused to scan the restaurant’s interior.
Jean-Marie Reju was exactly where I’d left him, holding his .45. The other three men still stood with their hands on top of the bar. I looked down the corridor. Fulvio Callega had just finished dialing a long-distance number. No question about where: to the boy’s school outside Geneva.
The connection came through, and he began speaking rapidly—in Italian. As I
approached him through the corridor he stopped talking and listened. The next two words he blurted I understood: “Yes! Hurry!”
Then he waited, clutching the phone to his ear, and turned to stare at me with eyes gone wild.
“My son…he’s already gone up to his room!”
His terror was too strong to leave any room for fury in his stare.
I stared back at him. Beads of sweat were popping out on his face. His breathing was audible and spasmodic. His heart must have been pounding. I hoped he wasn’t about to keel over and die on me. That would render everything I’d done here useless.
A voice sounded on the line. He twisted away from me to listen, pressing one hand against the wall and leaning on it to support himself. Then he said, “Thank you”—and he hung up.
He stayed that way for a time, one hand against the wall, the other still on the phone, his back to me, waiting until his heart and lungs settled down a bit. When he turned to look at me his face was impassive again. But his voice was not quite steady yet.
“The box on the back of his door…a box of chocolates.”
“He can eat them,” I said. “They’re not poisoned. But the next time, anything he eats could be. Or the box hanging on his door could be a bomb. There are so many ways, Callega. I hope you take my point. Your son is totally vulnerable, and he always will be. When he’s sixteen…or thirty. Or your age. Any time. If Odile Garnier is killed, your son dies.”
Fulvio Callega said flatly, “You are bluffing.”
“I could be. You ready to wager the life of your only child on it?”
He fell silent, studying me again—and thinking of the terrifying minutes he’d just been through.
“Take the contract off her,” I told him. “It’s the only way you can be sure your son will get to live his life.”
I turned away from him, walked back to the main room of the restaurant, and called to Fritz. The bodyguard out there walked in first, Fritz following him with the Beretta.
Fulvio Callega came out of the corridor. I looked at him and then signaled to Fritz and Reju. They glanced at each other uncertainly. “Go ahead,” I told them.
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