The boomslang venom should work in less than five minutes, he thought happily. And then farewell to the Chessmaster. A silly business, this flagellation. Self- defeating, just like all self-abuse.
He laid the scourge on the table and turned to the chessboard. There was no reason not to purchase a little insurance. Once again he dug under the robe, this time coming up with the carrying case containing the loaded chessmen. He studied the problem on the board, working out the most likely move that the white side would make next. In the end, he abandoned elegance and did the job wholesale, replacing the white queen, a rook, a knight, and a bishop with the loaded pieces. Again, he stood back to admire his handiwork happily. He was so taken up with the complex beauty of the scheme that he did not hear the footsteps behind him. He was still lost in admiration when he felt the prick of the knife in the small of his back.
"Stand very still," said the voice of Joseph Wolfe. "Carlos has a nervous hand. He'll kill you if you move."
Four minutes, Vasily thought. I was wrong. I must be getting old. "You're back early from your meal," he said pleasantly. "Too much salt in the gruel?"
Wolfe and one of the Spaniards came around from in back to face him across the table. They both wore the coarse brown robes of the order. The point of the knife remained steady on his spine. Wolfe reached across the table to flick back his cowl. The two men stared at each other.
Wolfe said slowly, "Table number twelve at the club this afternoon. You used the Queen's Indian defense."
"I thought you might like to continue the game."
Wolfe made an impatient gesture, and the knife point pressed harder into Vasily's back.
"Tell your man to go easy," Vasily said. "There's only one way that blood can be drawn within these walls."
"You know a lot about our order," Wolfe said with a grunt. "Those are the rules, but I'd be willing to make an exception in your case. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
"Who I am isn't important, but what I'm doing is. I've come here to kill you."
"Others have tried, but I'm still alive," Wolfe said, unimpressed. His cold eyes swept over the table before him. "You've been busy. What would have happened if I had used this scourge?"
"A painful death from the venom of a boomslang snake."
"And these?" Wolfe made a motion toward the chessboard, then drew his hand away quickly.
"An apparent but unquestionably fatal heart attack. They're loaded with pure nitrobenzine."
"I take it that you intended using them this afternoon?"
"I never got the chance."
"Amazing." Wolfe looked up, his usually impassive face animated for the moment with interest. "Then you must be Vasily Borgneff."
Vasily inclined his head a fraction.
"Which means that you're working for Emerson now. How much did he pay you to do this to me?"
Vasily ignored the pressure of the knife at his back. "I'm not working for money on this job. I have my own reasons for wanting you dead."
"Indeed? And what might they be?"
"Martin Carillo. Josefina Carillo."
"That was a long time ago." Wolfe seemed truly surprised. "You knew these people?"
"I knew them well. I remember them well. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll remember them, too."
Wolfe suddenly smiled. His face was not meant for smiling, and the effect was not a happy one. "You're quite an optimist as well as a murdering son of a bitch. We'll see who remembers what."
Through the open window came the pinging sound of the small bell that signaled the end of the evening meal, and across the cloister the first of the monks issued forth from the refectory. The sound of the bell moved Wolfe to action. He turned to the man beside him.
"Barto, put the scourge and the chessmen into that pitcher of water," he instructed. "That should keep them from doing any damage. You heard what this man said, so handle them carefully if you cherish your life."
He watched while Barto did it, working gingerly. Then he turned back to Vasily. "With the brothers wandering about, we'll need a less public place to continue this conversation. The wine cellar will do. Just out that door and down the stairs, if you please. Carlos will be right behind you."
"We have nothing to talk about."
Wolfe tried the smile again. It still didn't work. "You're quite right; we have little to say to each other. But I promise you, it won't be a long conversation."
It was almost like going home, home to the childhood of forty years before. There was the familiar tickle of straw beneath his back and neck, and the honest smell of horses, long forgotten but remembered now: horse sweat and the ammonia odor of horse piss on straw, the mustiness of moldering leather and the penny-bright taste of metal in his mouth. Horses and straw, earth odors rising up from the barn below, and close to his face the sweetness of the hay in the loft. He remembered all that from childhood, and then there were the music and the murmurs of the people down below. That was part of childhood, too, the memories of music in the barn and people dancing there on feast days. It would have been so pleasant just to smell the hay and listen to the music, if it had not been for the pain.
In the beginning the pain in his hand had seemed almost bearable, like the pain of an aching tooth. It was intense pain, and piercing, but localized. Bearable. Just tough it out and hang in there, and after a while it will go away. For a while it was that kind of pain, and then suddenly it was like no pain he had ever believed could exist. It was terrifying in its intensity, every nerve end screaming. He became pain, he breathed in pain and sweated pain out through his pores as Spiro probed delicately with a long, thin knife at the complex of nerves under first one fingernail and then the next. He tried to scream, but his mouth was gagged. He tried to kick, but his feet were bound. One hand was tied to a wooden post, and the other hand belonged to Spiro.
"Mr. Emerson, all you have to do is nod," said Andriakis. "Then Spiro will put his knife away, and we'll take out the gag and talk sensibly. Sensibly and quietly. We don't want to disturb our friends downstairs."
Emerson closed his eyes. He did not want to see Andriakis' cool, inquiring eyes. He did not want to see Spiro's sweaty face intent upon his work. He did not want to see his left hand. It wasn't much of a hand anymore. With his eyes closed he did not want to see the look that Andriakis gave to Spiro, but a fresh wave of pain rolled over him and he tried to scream again.
"Two names, that's all I want from you," said Andriakis. "Then we can stop this primitive butchery."
Emerson kept his eyes closed. He was trying to listen to the music through the pain.
"We know that Mancuso went after Swan, and we know that you came after me. That leaves two of my associates unaccounted for, and I have to know whom you've sent after them. You can see that, can't you? I simply have to know."
The music was familiar, the sharp plinking of the bouzouki. The pain in his hand throbbed to its rhythm.
"You see, Emerson, this is just the beginning. Spiro can keep this up all night. When he starts on some of the other parts of your body, you'll think this first sequence was like your mother's kiss. So there's absolutely no sense in trying to be a hero."
Which song were they playing? Did he hear it last night at the tavern in Pyrgi?
"He's right, mister," said Spiro, leaning forward intently. "Most people got the wrong idea about things like this. Nobody ever holds out - everybody talks. So why don't you make it easy on yourself?"
Listen to the music, he thought. That's the only way.
Concentrate on the music and don't think about anything else. Don't think about Ginger, don't think about Eddie and what must have gone wrong with Swan. Just listen to the music.
He tried to remember why there was music. Something about a wedding. In Albania. He knew that much. He remembered coming to on the deck of the sloop, dizzy with pain from the blow on the head, and he remembered the secluded cove where they had moored the boat. He remembered the overland hike, stumbling along a
narrow, rocky pathway with Andriakis leading and Spiro at his back. He remembered the farmhouse and the surprised look on the face of the man who had greeted them . Peter, so you came after all!... a look of surprised pleasure that had turned quickly to dismay when he saw Emerson. He remembered all that, and he remembered the hurried, whispered conference at the back door and behind the man a kitchen filled with bustling women and the fragrances of roasting meats. Peter, it's impossible, not now, not here, and then they had hustled him into the barn and up into the loft by an outside ladder, and there he lay while down below there was music and a wedding.
"Peter, how much longer is this going to take?"
"I have no idea, Lex. Mr. Emerson is being particularly stubborn." 1
"Very foolish of him; just causes more pain."
"I've been trying to convince him of that. All I need are the other two names and then he can rest."
"Melina was asking for you downstairs. She knows you're here. Come and congratulate her."
"I'm sorry, old friend. This has to be done. I'll come down as soon as I can."
Even through the pain Emerson sensed the weird incongruity of the conversation: social apologies while a man was being tortured. But he was that man. He opened his eyes. Andriakis stood near the door to the hayloft. In the doorway was the one he called Lex. Spiro crouched nearby, one hand still grasping Emerson's wrist, the other ready to go back to work with the slender piece of steel. Lex looked at the scene distastefully.
"Is this really necessary?" he asked.
As if to provide an answer, Andriakis looked around for Emerson's knapsack and found it on a pile of straw. He turned it upside down. Out tumbled the PPK Walther, the box of ammunition, the wadded handkerchiefs, the homemade plate, and all the other odds and ends. Emerson's eyes widened when he saw the plate, but Andriakis was interested only in the pistol. He picked it up and showed it to Lex.
"A nice little toy," said the Albanian, inspecting the piece. "I don't suppose he was going to shoot rabbits with it."
"No, he was after bigger game. Me. So you see, it's really necessary."
"I see. But leave it for a while, Peter. Come downstairs, have a glass of wine. Kiss the bride." He looked at Andriakis shrewdly. "Give the man time to think for a while. Let him think about pain. Maybe he'll come to his senses."
Andriakis nodded in understanding. "It might work."
"It often does with these tough cases." He put his arm around Andriakis' shoulder. "Come, let's go down. Melina will be delighted."
"All right." As they turned toward the hayloft door, Andriakis said to Spiro, "Stay here while I'm gone. Don't touch him, you understand? I want him to think a while."
"Yeah, sure."
When they were gone, Emerson closed his eyes again. There was nothing to think about. Andriakis would kill him, and all that there was left for him to do in life was to keep from involving Ginger. He wondered if he would be strong enough for that and knew that he had to be.
Listen to the music, he instructed himself. No matter what they do to you, just listen to the music and keep your mind blank.
It was then that he realized that Spiro was still gripping his hand. He opened his eyes again. Spiro grinned down.
"The boss says you should think," said the Greek, "but the boss don't know everything. I think you're gonna talk for Spiro. You gonna do that for me? Sure you are. You're gonna talk for me right now and make the boss happy."
Emerson saw the steel blade come closer. He closed his eyes and screamed into the gag as he felt the first shock of pain. Then he felt nothing at all as he passed out.
He came back to consciousness hearing the music, swimming up from the depths with strokes that were timed to the beat of the bouzouki, the sound of revelry from the floor below, the clapping of hands, the stamping of feet, the cries of joy that came from straining throats: "Ee-la! Ee-la/"
He lay on the floor breathing shallowly through his nose, the taste of the gag sour in his mouth. He opened his eyes slowly, expecting to find Spiro crouched over him, but the Greek was gone. He looked down at his left hand. The end of each finger was a pulped ruin. He tried to move the fingers and almost fainted again from the pain.
"Ee-la!"
This time the shout of joy came from closer by. He shifted his eyes and saw Spiro standing at the hayloft doorway, looking down at the scene on the barn floor. In the sharpness of pain his mind registered details. The Greek was drinking, so someone had brought him a glass of wine. He had been fed as well, for at his feet was a greasy plate. His face was shiny with sweat, and he slapped one hand against his thigh in time to the music.
"EE-LA!"
Emerson recognized the music now, the choppy rhythm of the zeimbekikos, the dance for men alone that he had seen Andriakis do the night before in Pyrgi. He remembered how the other men on the floor had dropped away to give him room, and how he had danced on alone, indifferent to the cries of praise that came from the onlookers.
Spiro called loudly, "That's the way, boss! You show 'em how!"
So Andriakis was dancing again. The music grew faster and wilder as the climax approached, and Emerson thought bitterly of how his plans had been twisted out of shape. Just about now, with the music flaring, was the time he had intended for the destruction of the man who had helped to order his death, and instead he now lay helpless, forced to listen to that same music while the same man danced on. They were cheering now down below, these Albanian
Greeks as much in awe of the dancing Andriakis as the Corfiotes has been, and there, yes, there came the first of the glasses thrown to burst in a tinkle of admiration. The sound of another glass breaking, and another, and still another as Spiro hurled his wineglass in glee, straight down twenty feet to the barn floor.
"Ee-la. Ee-la," came the happy chant, and now they were throwing the dishes as well, heavier thumps as the crockery crashed on the hard-packed earthen floor.
"Ee-la, Andriakis," shouted Spiro. He picked up his greasy dinner plate and threw it.
The noise of the clapping and the stamping was deafening now, the yipping cries of joy continuous. Spiro turned away from the door, a rapturous look on his face, his eyes alight as he searched for something else to throw. Those eyes passed over Emerson, unseeing, and fastened on the homemade plate lying next to the knapsack on the straw. He pounced and grabbed it, ran back to the door. He raised his arm as Emerson watched in disbelief, fear welling up within him.
"Ee-la, Andriakis," Spiro screamed, and hurled the plate at the feet of his idol.
Emerson closed his eyes as the barn heaved up under him.
Eddie crouched low against the wall of the corridor deep in the recesses of the Fun House. At the far end of the corridor, about fifty feet away, was the third checkpoint, but unlike the first two there were no guards in sight. There was only a massive metal door and, beside it on the wall, a loudspeaker and a microphone, both mounted on brackets. Breathing deeply, he collected himself, reviewing in his mind what Vasily had told him.
"Assuming that anybody got that far, the third checkpoint is unbeatable. It's got a door on it like a bloody great bank vault, and that door opens only in response to a computer- coded voice identifier. If the voice doesn 't check out, the people inside don't open the door. Nobodv can heat that kind of a set-up."
"Whv can't the door be blown?" Eddie had asked.
"It can be. Any door can be blown. The problem is with the voice-identifier. The people inside request a verbal statement in order to check the voice pattern. They make the request three times. Unless there's an answer after the third request, and unless the voice checks out, some very unpleasant things begin to happen."
"Oh."
"Exactly. There's no way in the world of blowing a door like that in thirty seconds, unless you can figure out how to bring a cannon down into the basement of the Fun House."
"One other thing. Do the people inside hear the response through earphones or over an open speaker?"
"A speaker, but what
the hell difference does it make?"
"Plenty."
Crouched against the wall, Eddie measured the distance to the door with his eyes. Call it fifty feet - six seconds to get there from a standing start. Figure that whatever sensors there were in the walls would pick up his presence about halfway down the corridor. Three seconds, plus one second for the sensor to react . . . another second for the relay made five, and then thirty seconds for the question to be asked three times. Thirty-five, total.
From his left pocket he took a pencil-shaped, battery- operated electronic oscillator with a quartz crystal hooked into the feedback loop. From the same pocket he took a tiny screwdriver and a roll of sticky black tape. He tore off two strips of tape and attached them to each end of the oscillator. Gripping the screwdriver between his teeth, from his right pocket he took an ordinary kitchen sandwich bag filled with plastic RDX explosive. It looked like a ball of gray putty. The oscillator in his left hand, the RDX in his right, the screwdriver clenched between his teeth, he crouched like a runner under the gun.
He checked the second hand of his watch and took off.
He raced down the hallway to the speaker-microphone complex, dropped the bag of RDX at his feet, took the screwdriver from between his teeth, and went to work unscrewing the shell of the microphone.
Above his head the loudspeaker spat static, and then a quiet voice said: "This is an electronic check of your voice pattern. Please use the microphone and speak a complete sentence of not less than ten words."
Eleven seconds gone, twenty-four to go. Damn, the screws were tiny and they were tight. He wrestled with the last one.
"This is the second request for voice identification. It is essential, for your own physical safety, that you make your statement into the microphone."
Last screw off, he stripped away the outer shell of the microphone, discarded it, and inserted the oscillator next to the diaphragm. Two quick twists of the tape secured it there.
Twelve seconds to go.
The Sleeping Spy Page 28
