Hazard

by Gerald A. Browne

  Hatum’s fingers were turning the key in the ignition of the Mercedes.

  The explosion caused a concussive wave across the sea of roses. A million petals dropped with the shock. Flames burst and a cloud of black smoke rolled up, hung high in the damp air. Chrome and other metal parts of the Mercedes came scattering down.

  For a moment Hazard didn’t know what had happened, or how. It didn’t take long to figure it out.

  That gray stuff that had looked so much like modeling clay. She’d brought it along in her net bag. She’d learned to work with it when they’d been at the DIA farm in Maryland. While he was learning how to fight with a knife, she, according to her nature, had favored a course in explosives.

  Mustafa and Gabil were in room 307 of the Hôtel du Cap.

  They’d had no trouble finding out where Hazard was staying. Mr. and Mrs. Hazard, in fact. Actually the du Cap was the obvious place, the first they’d checked. Getting into the room was a simple matter. It had taken Mustafa only some twenty seconds to pick the lock.

  The most difficult part was the waiting. They’d already been there over two hours. Mostly to occupy himself, Mustafa had searched the room, all the drawers and luggage. The one thing he’d found that puzzled him was the carton of images. Why, he wondered, would anyone keep those little photographs and sentences in individual sealed envelopes? He guessed it was some sort of collection or a kind of American game.

  A more valuable find was the pound bag of Mosouka raisins that were in the drawer of the night table. Mustafa ate them by the handful. With the flavor of the raisins freshening his mouth he smoked more than usual, lighting up a cigarette every few minutes, taking only a few puffs and extinguishing it in the water of the toilet bowl. After about an hour he was on the last in his pack, and when he’d smoked that one down past the holding point he regretted having wasted all the others before. He persevered for a while and then complained aloud.

  Gabil volunteered to go down to the lobby and buy him a new pack.

  Mustafa decided against that, but soon the habitual urge got the best of him. He told Gabil to go, but hurry.

  Within a few minutes Gabil returned with the cigarettes, and Mustafa once again began alternately inhaling strong smoke and chewing sweet raisins.

  Mustafa’s plans were not complicated. As he saw it, it was just another killing to be done as swiftly and methodically as possible. Gabil would be positioned in the closet with the door slightly ajar. Mustafa would be out of sight in the bathroom. When Hazard came into the room they would simply step out and shoot, catching him in a crossfire. If the girl happened to be with Hazard, she would be Gabil’s target while Mustafa took Hazard. It would be over in an instant. No noise. They would use silencers on their Magnums.

  Mustafa was now relaxed in a chair. He had Gabil stationed at the window to watch for Hazard in case he drove up. During the last two hours Mustafa hadn’t said more than twenty or thirty words, mostly instructions. That was his way—close-mouthed, stoic, he relied on gestures or one emphatic word at a time. During the entire next hour he only grunted a few times, as though silently conversing with himself.

  Then, from the window, Gabil saw Hazard and Keven drive up in the Peugeot and get out.

  Mustafa must have sensed a change in Gabil. He looked questioningly.

  Gabil hoped Mustafa didn’t come over to the window because he told him no, it was nothing—although Hazard and Keven were now in full view, walking to the hotel’s entrance.

  Mustafa slumped down, muttering impatiently.

  Below, Hazard hesitated before entering the hotel. He had good reason to feel self-conscious. Although he’d managed to clean himself up some, he was really beyond repair, a mess. His suede jacket was nearly in shreds and he couldn’t take it off because underneath his shirt was soaked with blood. His trousers were torn all down the legs, and there were gaping rips elsewhere. What little was left of his clothes was caked stiff with mud.

  “Walk in front of me and stay close,” he told Keven.

  They went in, and in tandem stride quickly crossed the lobby to the elevator, but not without causing several incredulous stares. Once in the elevator and going up, Hazard felt relieved until Keven asked him if he had a key. He didn’t as usual, and as usual she’d left hers in the room.

  He’d wait for her on the third floor landing while she went back down to the desk.

  She returned promptly. Along with a key she also had in hand a small envelope, hotel stationery.

  “What’s that?” Hazard asked as they headed for the room.

  “It was in our box. Probably the bill.”

  “Too soon, and too skinny,” he said, and took it from her.

  They were rounding a corner of the corridor and approaching 307 when Hazard opened the envelope and read its hastily scrawled note.

  Mustafa upstairs with me

  to kill you. Go to Avignon,

  Auberge de Noves. Will call.

  It was initialed ABD.

  Seconds later Gabil, glancing down, saw Hazard and Keven hurry to their car, get in, and drive away. He assumed they’d gotten his message. He wondered what he’d have done if they hadn’t.

  17

  IT WAS a two-hundred-sixty-five-kilometer drive from Cap Ferrat to Avignon.

  The Auberge de Noves was situated at the top of a spiraling private road. It was a small inn but by no means prosaic or inexpensive. Through all seasons its dozen suites were usually occupied. One could not just drop by and expect to be accommodated. People who tried that were more often than not turned away even when there was space available.

  Hazard and Keven, however, were welcomed as though they’d had a long-standing reservation.

  The proprietor personally received them. He was a slender man in his early fifties—kind-eyed, smooth-mannered, a fifth-generation Frenchman and for countless generations a Jew. His name, as he said it, was Monsieur Feldman. He recognized Hazard and Keven immediately from description. He asked no questions nor did he mention Gabil. Considering the circumstances, Hazard assumed Monsieur Feldman was more than emotionally involved with his distant homeland. Probably a link in the network of Mosad.

  Because they arrived well after nightfall, neither Hazard nor Keven fully appreciated where they were until the following morning. Wrapped in fresh robes they ate breakfast outside on a balcony that was theirs alone. Then they saw they were surrounded as far as they could see by gentle, amiable earth colors—pointed exclamations of cypress, greener olive, and almond. A blossoming lime tree was right there within touch, the tips of its branches pointing, as though singling out Hazard and Keven to receive its fragrance. And from out of the stillness came the constant harmony of bees.

  The heart of Provence.

  They were eager to go meet it.

  But first Hazard needed something to wear. Keven drove into town and bought him a pair of jeans and a blue chambray shirt. She also stopped in at a pharmacy to get an herbal ointment for his scratches and to replenish her stock of vitamins. Fortunately nothing irreplaceable had been sacrificed in their retreat from the Hôtel du Cap—not their various passports nor Hazard’s roll of winnings. Unknown to Hazard at the time, Keven had taken those things along in her net bag, which he now referred to as her bag of tricks.

  The rest of that day they lost themselves among the folds of the fields and along the banks of the River Durance. The air was clear, cleansing, and it carried their laughter. They felt they’d suddenly been transported to a place they’d separately imagined. Frequent pauses along the way for kisses seemed only to enhance the unreality.

  The mood carried over into the night, when they lay together and experienced more together than ever before. They took turns at worship. Each touch was a tribute. Selfish generosity. So intensely did pleasure reflect and mount between them that their separate roles became obscure. They were both at once in and around, enclosed and enclosing. No words were exchanged, but an identical declaration crowded their mouths and silently explode
d, again and again.

  Afterward there was not the usual afterward. They held on, remained within the chrysalis they’d spun, and went early, easily to sleep.

  The days passed.

  Hillside carpets of wild lavender, a flock of sheep to wade through, white-washed houses baking. Gnarled trees as seen by van Gogh. The rotating faces of sunflowers, cold jus des framboises, a quixotic windmill, some gypsies stealing along without destination. The three hundred bells of Avignon saying daily good morning. Places heavy with history. Arles, Nîmes, Tarascon, St. Remy. Les Alyscamp, where Christ said mass, and there were the stones his knees impressed. Warm bread smeared with local sweet butter. A bouquet of flowering thyme. Roman ruins, a solitary mitred tower to be invaded and its ramparts used for impetuous afternoon passion.

  On the eighth night (time was precious and therefore counted) the telephone rang like an alarm. It had to be Gabil. He was calling from a public phone at the air terminal in Nice. In an hour he’d be leaving for Cairo.

  “Why?” asked Hazard.

  “I will know when I get there.”

  “Did they find Hatum?”

  “Not entirely. Did you know that he was a kinsman of Mustafa?”

  “No.”

  “A close cousin.”

  “So what?”

  “Mustafa has pledged his honor against your death. For him it is now a blood thing.”

  “It was always a blood thing,” Hazard said. “Where is he now?”

  “In the restaurant having coffee.”

  “He’s going with you?”

  “I am going with him.”

  Hazard thought a moment and asked, “What’s a good hotel for me in Cairo?”

  “Go home,” advised Gabil.

  “Cairo,” Hazard repeated decisively.

  “Then stay at the Hilton like a good tourist.”

  “How about a place called the Mena House?”

  “If you prefer.”

  “Tyrone Power stayed there once,” said Hazard, something he’d read. “Where will you be?”

  “I will contact you.”

  “For sure?”

  Gabil gave his word before clicking off.

  The next morning Hazard and Keven expressed farewell gratitudes to Monsieur Feldman and drove south to Marseilles. In that city’s better shopping district Hazard, at Keven’s insistence, went into a men’s shop and a quarter hour later walked out wearing a complete change. The sleeves of his new brown-suede jacket were a bit short and the new velour trousers were a bit tight in the crotch but there was no time for alterations. They also bought one small piece of luggage to carry, mainly for appearance.

  At Marseilles airport, they surrendered and paid for the rented Peugeot. There was a flight to Cairo via Rome and Athens at 3 P.M. Keven had already stated and restated all the reasons why she should go with him to Cairo. Hazard didn’t say no, just let her go on about it, and she thought maybe she had him convinced until he bought their tickets and handed her a one-way to New York, departing at 3:15 P.M.

  Too late to argue.

  Their planes were to leave from different ramps, so they stood during the final few minutes in the terminal.

  “I’ll be sending to you,” he said, the way most people promised they would write or phone.

  “When?”

  “Every night, say … around nine or ten.”

  “Around?”

  “All right, nine, starting tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll count on it.”

  They kissed lightly, then turned from one another. As usual, they didn’t say good-bye.

  Hazard’s flight took off on schedule.

  At 3:15 Keven tried to cash in her ticket. Air France said it would mail her a refund. She doubted that and said so. She also had difficulty making the auto-rental clerk understand that for purely sentimental reasons she wanted to re-rent that particular Peugeot.

  18

  CATHERINE WAS now Madame Pinchon.

  Or, as she sardonically referred to herself, Madame J.C.

  Pinchon’s marriage proposal, in the form of a serious suggestion, couldn’t have been more timely. Not that Catherine’s ego needed such extreme repair. Actually, as a result of being rejected by Hazard, her self-confidence suffered only a slight abrasion, which healed itself almost overnight. Yes, she was amazingly resilient when it came to that.

  What did persist, however, was a resentment that she’d been horribly cheated at her own game. It was as though her partner (opponent?) had suddenly abandoned the match, walked off before a winner could be decided, and there she was, left with no one to test.

  Feelings of unlovableness were already starting to take advantage of her. Next would come awful deep depression and total ennui. Unless she did something about it.

  She could, of course, resort to a new, half-hearted relationship, as she’d frequently done in the past under similar circumstances. But this time she didn’t feel that would suffice, wouldn’t supply nearly enough proof. Neither was she in the mood to expend the patience and effort needed to set up another protracted involvement. Especially not after having wasted so much restraint and good behavior on Hazard.

  Conveniently, there was Pinchon. She accepted him as a secondary target.

  His idea was to fix a future date for their wedding, say a Sunday in a month or six weeks. He figured by then his scheme would be a fait accompli.

  Catherine, in a now-or-never tone, insisted the marriage take place at once.

  Pinchon misinterpreted her eagerness in his favor. He arranged for a civil ceremony at the local marie. Ordinarily a three-day waiting period was required by law.

  Catherine did not want to wait.

  Pinchon exerted his influence—money—to get the waiting period waived. They could go to the marie and be married immediately.

  Catherine did not want to go to the marie. She preferred to be married there at the villa, outside on the lawn.

  Pinchon tried to reason with her.

  Catherine wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Pinchon gave in.

  Catherine chose a pleasant, shady spot on the lawn and had a white, double-seated glider swing placed there. She and Pinchon sat opposite the over-starched little town clerk and a fat stranger the clerk had brought along to serve as witness. While the official words were droned, Catherine used one of her bare feet to get the glider going back and forth. Ignoring Pinchon’s reproachful glances, she blithely maintained the momentum.

  The moment being so crucial, Pinchon decided against ordering her to stop. He thought perhaps she was merely too happy to contain herself.

  When the town clerk came to the part of the ceremony that asked Catherine would she take this man, etc., her apathetic response was: “Why not?” The clerk’s pause requested a more conventional reply. She curtly told him to get on with it.

  And when the moment called for Pinchon to contribute the family ring, a forty-two carat, oval-cut emerald, Catherine extended only the second finger of her right hand. To offset what seemed a most impertinent gesture, Pinchon quickly slipped the ring on. After the solemn pronouncement he kissed both corners of Catherine’s mouth, presumably to seal it from all others forever. The clerk and the witness departed, complaining of motion sickness.

  Catherine had agreed to forego an immediate wedding trip. She was cooperative when Pinchon explained that he had an important business matter pending, one that required his personal attention. There was no reason, however, why their marriage should go uncelebrated.

  Catherine said she would enjoy having a few of her friends in.

  Pinchon approved. He imaged a brief, informal soirée, with himself the principal attraction. It was only natural, he thought, that Catherine should want to show off.

  Her friends began arriving within an hour after the ceremony. Nearly a hundred came down from London.

  Pinchon reminded Catherine that she’d said a few.

  She told him not to worry, she’d pay for everything.

&nb
sp; It wasn’t a matter of money, he told her.

  “Oh?” she said, and made a remark about the French—a nation of string-savers was her description.

  Pinchon flared but placed his hand on hers and calmly assured her it really didn’t matter how many people she invited.

  She smiled contritely, reached up with both hands and brought his face down to her, tenderly, as though it were a precious, fragile bowl. She sipped a long kiss and called him love.

  He disliked having his face handled by anyone, so it was not entirely pleasant for him.

  Had she known that, it might have been her reason for doing it, but her affection was even more contrived. To effectively mistreat a man one also had to treat him well.

  As it turned out the hundred from London were merely the nucleus. At least double that number were there by nightfall and double that many again by midnight. They arrived on flights chartered for them by her or via private jets dispatched by her to fetch them.

  How insolent and presumptuous they were, thought Pinchon. Taking for granted they would stay, they had literally appropriated the entire villa. Mon Dieu! Their amplified guitars were threatening his Baccarat crystal, their heels were torturing his Aubusson carpets, the stench of hemp and hashish was permeating his silk-damask hangings. How dare they shove furnishings aside to make space for their dancing. He never allowed anything to be out of place, not a single thing, never.

  “Arrêtez!” he shouted. “Arrêtez!”

  But the music was louder and those near enough to hear him only laughed and nodded. From their induced high points of view he was merely expressing exuberance.

  What recourse did he have? Calling the gendarmes was out of the question. There’d be no way of explaining all the drugs that would be found. Trouble, disparaging publicity had to be avoided, especially now. Besides, if he disclaimed these people, used the excuse that they were not his but his wife’s guests, he would be bringing down the worst sort of ridicule on himself.

  Pinchon wandered from room to room, despising such atrocities as cigarettes stubbed out in huge bowls of caviar, a shattered Lalique figurine, a puddle of Dom Perignon eating the finish from a Vernis Martin table, eight people occupying one chaise longue, aboard it as though it were a boat, buckling its delicate legs.