Hazard

by Gerald A. Browne

  “You can bet your ass I will.”

  “Good.”

  She massaged the back of her neck with her fingers. “He’s not much of a man anyway,” she said, thinking aloud.

  “A tree surgeon,” said Pinchon disdainfully.

  “Remind me, Jean, I owe you fifty some thousand francs.”

  “Why?”

  She told him, replenishing her ego by reducing Hazard to a level of outright deceit. It showed what a user he was, the way he went around victimizing people, she said.

  Pinchon detested that he’d been taken at cards, but he pretended it hadn’t been important. Curious, though, and thinking there might be more to it, he calmly, sympathetically, drew her out.

  Without realizing the serious harm of it—she didn’t know the actual reason Hazard had come to Europe—Catherine eventually revealed who Stevens really was.

  Pinchon registered only mild surprise. He appeared to be more concerned for her. She shouldn’t waste any more emotion on the matter. Why didn’t she soothe herself with a warm bath or a sauna? It was a good day to spend in bed. Not to worry about anything, he would care for her.

  She was already feeling somewhat better. What a dear he was, she said.

  He agreed.

  Moments later he excused himself to attend to what he called a business problem. He thought it out on his way downstairs. Not for a moment did he believe it coincidence that the brother of the late Carl Hazard was now on the scene under an assumed identity. Quite possibly this Hazard was the reason Badr hadn’t come in from London as expected four days previous and now couldn’t be located anywhere. Badr was very reliable, had always been; it was unlikely he’d disappear without a trace. And Saad was missing in New York.

  He summoned Mustafa, Hatum, and Gabil to his study. He told them what he wanted done. They would have no trouble finding Hazard; probably he was at one of the hotels in the vicinity. There might be a girl with him. In that case she would also have to be dealt with.

  No further instructions were necessary. No questions. They were on their way out when Pinchon stopped them with an afterthought. Two of them could manage it easily, he said. Mustafa and Gabil. This would be an opportunity for Gabil to prove himself.

  Hatum stayed behind, feeling a bit slighted.

  Pinchon had something else for him to do. Hatum was to go to Grasse to pick up a flacon of perfume. A fragrance not available elsewhere, one that had been created, blended, balanced, perfected generations ago exclusively for the Pinchons. In two and a quarter centuries only four women had been granted the privilege of wearing it.

  Now, it seemed Catherine would be the fifth.

  16

  AT THAT moment Hazard and Keven were less than five hundred feet away.

  They were in the Peugeot parked off the Boulevard de Gaulle, opposite the private drive that led to and from Pinchon’s villa. The rain handicapped their view to some exterit and the car’s windows were so fogged inside that Hazard had to keep wiping them with the flat of his hand.

  The circumstances, the rain and the car, reminded Hazard of the last time, that miserable long night in London he’d spent waiting for Badr. What made this time better was Keven. She had refused to be left at the hotel, despite Hazard’s reasoning that she’d be safer there, that she’d be merely an additional responsibility if she went along, that it was none of her damn business anyway. She didn’t argue, but he might as well have been talking to himself.

  They’d been parked outside the villa for almost an hour now. Hazard was watching and hoping something advantageous might develop. To help pass the time Keven put his memory through a few calisthenics. Things she’d especially looked up for ammunition.

  “Who holds the record for swinging?”

  He shrugged. “All swingers are liars.”

  “Not that kind. I mean ordinary old back-and-forth swinging, like at a playground.”

  “Oh.” He thought a moment. “Two guys swung for a hundred hours in Seattle on August 1st, 1971. Jim Anderson and Lyle Hendrickson.”

  “Okay, how about the world’s record for spitting?”

  “For what?”

  “Spitting.”

  “Snakes or people?”

  “People.”

  “Altitude or on a line?”

  “Quit stalling,” she said, believing that perhaps at last she had him stumped.

  “On April 1st, 1971, a guy named Don Snyder reared back, snapped his neck, and let fly for a distance of 31 feet, 6 inches. Of course, that was one of his better days.”

  Keven sighed, conceding. As a reward she shoved a shriveled-up, dried, organic apricot into his mouth.

  It was so tough Hazard couldn’t bite through it, almost tasteless, more bitter than anything. Finally it softened enough for him to chew and swallow it.

  “Apricots are loaded with Vitamin A,” she declared.

  “What else have you got in that bag?”

  She’d brought along her Mexican-peasant net bag. It was bulging. “All kinds of goodies,” she said.

  “How about something bad for a change?”

  She brought out a handful of tablets like dark brown M&M chocolate candies. She put a few in her mouth and mmmed as though they were delicious.

  “Give me some,” he said, reaching.

  She decided she’d better not trick him that much. “Desiccated beef liver,” she said.

  Hazard jerked his hand back.

  Time for a kiss, she thought, and took the initiative, quickly dissolving away his distaste with a short and then a much longer one. When they broke he used the hand that had been under her sweater to wipe the windshield.

  Just in time. A dark gray Mercedes sedan was coming out of Pinchon’s drive. Mustafa with Gabil behind the wheel.

  It might have been an opportunity had Mustafa been alone, but Gabil’s presence made it too complicated. No use forcing Gabil into a tight situation, Hazard decided. Watching the Mercedes out of sight, he asked Keven, “Was there anyone in the back seat?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  The possibility that both his targets had been in the Mercedes with Gabil made Hazard decide to give it up for now and come back at night. Maybe Mustafa and Hatum would be working out again, and if so, this time he’d take the chance and to hell with the consequences. He was for returning to the hotel and making better use of the afternoon.

  “Let’s wait a while longer,” Keven said.

  “Why?” He thought perhaps her mood didn’t match his.

  “Give it ten minutes and then if nothing happens—we’ll do what you want.”

  A few minutes later another Mercedes, a black one, came out of the drive and turned north. It was Hatum, and definitely alone.

  Hazard quickly started up the Peugeot and went after him.

  It soon became apparent that Hatum wasn’t bound for the local boulangerie. He drove up the Corniche Moyenne and went east to Nice. He circumvented the more-congested section of that city and got onto the superhighway to Cagnes. There he changed off to a typical French back-country road, black-topped but crumbling along the edges, with no shoulders and allowing only a few inches clearance between cars passing in opposite directions. Traffic was sparse. However, each time a car came from the other way Hazard felt he had no choice but to meet it head-on or run off the side. At ninety kilometers per hour he managed to stay a discreet distance behind the Mercedes. Hatum was driving as though the road were one way, his way, right down the middle, somehow always swerving at the last second to avoid cars coming at him.

  After about five kilometers they reached a small place called la Colle sur Loup, where, for no apparent reason, the road improved, at least to the extent that it had paved shoulders.

  Where the hell was Hatum going, Hazard wondered. Keven demonstrated how relaxed she was about everything by commenting on the scenery. Rugged, arid country, steep slopes covered with scrubby pine and cork oak and cacti. Hard, beautiful country, the high bony instep of the Alps. Huge fingers of gr
anite shoved upward, gigantic fists of it holding remnants of ancient ramparts; old frightened villages that had been perched defensively against the fierce Germanic invaders and Muslim pirates. All of it now freshly washed and darkened by the rain that had finally stopped.

  “Shit,” said Hazard.

  Keven disagreed. “I think it’s pretty.”

  He meant they were almost out of gas. The fuel indicator was nearly parallel with the red “empty” line. “Didn’t they fill it up when you rented it?”

  “I assumed they did.”

  He couldn’t really blame her for that. It was a mistake he himself might have made. But it created a critical problem. The only thing to do was to keep going and hope the Peugeot had enough reserve.

  Ten minutes and fifteen kilometers later the black ribbon of road wound huggingly around the side of a sheer rift, then came out suddenly to present a wide, lower-lying plateau with a village set on it. They saw the distant surrounding hillsides largely patched with the red and pink and yellow of flowers. A road sign announced “Grasse,” and Hazard informed Keven that it was the perfume-making center of France, the world really. She said she knew and quickly rolled her window open all the way and, yes, the air was remarkably fragrant. She inhaled deeply and sighed with pleasure.

  Hazard accelerated to get closer behind the Mercedes as the highway descended and became part of the town—a small town, considering its special importance, less than two kilometers from end to end.

  They entered from the north on Avenue Victoria, which was the main way. Along both sides were modest houses of pale stucco, most with their shutters closed. Avenue Victoria changed without apparent cause to become Boulevard Thiers, lined with plane trees and small shops that more than anything else offered perfume for sale to tourists who believed they could save by coming to the source and ended up paying double dearly for the fancy bottles made of thick glass that magnified meager quarter ounces.

  Hazard was only a car length behind the Mercedes when they reached the Place de la Foux. It was then that the Peugeot began to jerk and cough. Hazard could do nothing but coast and just barely make it to the sign that said “essence” and to the two gas pumps that stood at the curb. There was no hurrying the wine-faced attendant, who pretended not to understand in order to sell a whole tankful rather than the five gallons Hazard tried to say was all he wanted. It was by no means a fast pit stop. Hatum was long gone. Hazard considered trying to catch up but decided it would be futile. Might as well return to Cap Ferrat.

  “As long as we’re here let’s look around,” Kevin suggested.

  “You want some perfume?”

  “Do I need some?”

  “No.”

  They drove down the main boulevard, which again arbitrarily changed its name to du Jeu de Ballon and then reverted to de Gaulle for a single block before becoming Victor Hugo. On reaching the edge of town, Hazard turned the car around and went back.

  It was at a square with a fountain that Keven spotted a black Mercedes. Maybe it was the one. It was parked down a divergent one-way sidestreet, and Hazard had to circle around the narrow streets to get to it. As they approached the Mercedes they saw Hatum come out of a building that identified itself with a tasteful black-and-gold plaque as the Parfumerie de Fragonard. Hatum was carrying a pale blue carton about half the size of a shoe box. No chance for Hazard. Hatum got quickly into the car and pulled away.

  Hazard followed left and right and onto the boulevard, and it was soon obvious they were headed out of Grasse the same way they’d come. Hatum was now bound for Cap Ferrat. For Hazard it would be nothing but a useless round trip.

  “Anyway,” said Keven, “I enjoyed the ride.”

  Hazard promised himself he’d have a more productive evening.

  The Mercedes was then about a hundred or so yards ahead, going up the grade beyond the outskirts of town. Suddenly its taillights flashed amber as it braked and swung off onto a side road, a dirt road.

  Hazard went on past because it would have been too conspicuous to follow. He immediately found a place to make a turn around and go back. He paused and saw the dirt road ran between two vast fields of flowers. The Mercedes was stopped on it about a hundred and fifty feet in. Hatum was out of the car. He had walked a short ways from it and was standing faced away.

  Hazard stomped down on the accelerator.

  Hatum was in the midst of urinating, enjoying relief while preoccupied with the acres of bright pink roses that lay before him. When he heard the car coming he glanced around furtively, at the same time attempting to stop mid-stream. Before he could do much else the car was there and he recognized Hazard. No way for Hatum to make it back to the Mercedes. He jumped down into the roadside ditch, scuttled along the bottom of the ditch, kept on his hands and knees, and saw that his only chance was the rose field. He scrambled over into it and when he was out of sight he stopped. His trousers were wet from himself. He tucked in, zipped up and took out his gun.

  Hazard had quickly gotten out of the car, his Llama drawn, but had caught only a flash of Hatum disappearing into the roses. Hazard returned to the safe side of the Peugeot and instructed Keven to lock herself in and stay in, no matter what.

  “What if—?”

  “In that case drive away,” he told her. “Just go like hell.”

  She nodded, and he knew she had to be clutched up frightened inside, at least as much as he was. It showed in her eyes, wider than usual. He hoped she didn’t panic. He gave her a final reassuring look and left her sitting there, holding her net bag in her lap.

  He went around to the rear of the Peugeot, using it as a shield while he appraised the situation. The field was large, about six acres of roses. They were planted in thick rows parallel with the road. He estimated the bushes were four to five feet in height. Heavy foliage. There was perhaps a yard between the rows, and at intervals along each row were narrow unplanted spaces providing passage from one row to the next. Those spaces, however, were located irregularly, and in that respect the field was a kind of maze. From his slightly higher vantage the field resembled a pink sea, so brilliant it appeared to be moving, although the air was still. He decided that if he wanted Hatum, he’d have to go in to get him.

  He took a deep breath to steady himself and tried to erase the thought that came to him—it smelled like a funeral.

  Keeping low, he went down into the grassy roadside ditch and crawled into the rose field about thirty feet from where Hatum had gone in. No sign of Hatum up that first row. Hazard paused to get acclimated. A different perspective now—the bushes were denser then he’d thought and it was darker because the leaves above reached out and across from row to row. The bare ground was wet, muddy and scattered with pink petals from the rain. The lower stems of the bushes were at least two inches in diameter, armed with half-inch red thorns that curved slightly and reminded Hazard of the spurs on a fighting cock.

  Belly down, he made his way slowly forward along that row to an open space. He glanced up and down the next row. No Hatum. He crossed over and went up that row to another space. Cautiously he continued from row to row until he was deep into the field. From rugs to roses, he thought.

  He stopped, held his breath, and listened. There was a rustling sound off in a diagonal direction. He was about to start moving toward it when two shots made him press down tight to the ground. The bullets had come close, he knew, because he’d heard them cutting through the nearby stems and leaves. He remained motionless for what seemed a long while before chancing to go further.

  Down that row he crawled, inching along to another open space. Concentrating on where he believed the rustling sounds had originated, he made out a patch of black that had to be Hatum’s suit. At the most, twenty-five feet away. Unmissable. Hazard leveled the Llama and squeezed off three sure shots. He saw the black flinch as the bullets hit. He fired another for good measure and then, confidently, up in a crouch, he went quickly around the next two rows to get to it.

  It wasn’t Hatum.
It was Hatum’s suitjacket. Evidently Hatum had gotten badly hung up on the thorns while trying to get through a small opening. To free himself he’d slipped out of his jacket.

  Hazard saw Hatum’s shoeprints in the mud, leading off to the right. He followed them, advising himself not to be over-eager, to take it slow. But when he reached the next opening and saw Hatum’s tracks again to the right, it occurred to him that Hatum might be circling back toward the road and the cars. The direction of the tracks along the next row convinced Hazard that was it.

  He straightened up. His head emerged from the sea of pink.

  Hatum. At the edge of the field and headed for the road. Too far away for a shot.

  Hazard ran fast as he could—to the next opening, the next row, through and down and around, slipping in the mud from row to row, running the maze.

  Hatum was now over the ditch and climbing up to the road.

  Hazard saw it was impossible. He’d never get there in time. On a straight line, maybe, but not this long way around and around, not if he continued following the maze. He still had three rows to go.

  To hell with it.

  He went full speed at the row ahead, threw himself at it, tore right into it and gasped, cried out with the sudden pain. It was as though a hundred furious cats had leaped on him all at once. The thorns snagged, clawed and ripped at his clothes and flesh. He fought his way through and went on into the thick of the next that resisted, almost sprung him back, caught, stuck, and stabbed him.

  One more row.

  He went headlong into it, thrashing, using his arms and hands to fight aside the network of green and pink that had also become his enemy. It took all his endurance to break through and come stumbling free down into the ditch.

  Hatum was getting into the Mercedes.

  Hazard started diagonally up the bank, going for the Mercedes, hoping to get into range for a last shot. But then, adding to the confusion of the moment, there was Keven. Out of the car, also running. Right at him.

  She didn’t grab at Hazard. She threw herself at his legs, clipping them out from under him, sending him sprawling with her into the ditch.