When Alex had left, Antoine summoned his driver and headed for the opera district, where his original business venture, the nightclub, Club Paradise, was located. Little had changed over the years, save the names and ownership of various businesses in the neighborhood. The area was still rife with houses of prostitution, mostly located on the upper floors of four- and five-story tenements, masking themselves as hotels, each requiring clients to ascend long, narrow stairways that were easily guarded against police or other troublemakers, and allowing the whores to lean out the windows and cast inviting smiles on would-be customers.
On the corners, Corsicans working for the Pisanis sat at outdoor cafes, guarding the street against attack or other trouble that might develop. It was an armed camp—had always been so—but to the uninitiated eye, appeared no different than any other struggling business area, a bit more seedy perhaps, but merely a place where the disadvantaged were attempting to eke out a living, which, in fact, was true. In most cases it simply was not an honest living.
Inside the club, the bright light of daytime revealed the dinginess that was hidden by low-wattage neon and the fabricated glamour employed at night.
Antoine moved quickly past the massive circular bar, through a door guarded by two of his men, and into a long hallway that led to an office at the rear. It was an office he and his brother had used from the beginning and still did—although much of their work was now done in the house they shared—keeping the old office more out of sentiment than practicality.
When Antoine entered, Meme was seated at a large desk, bent over an accounts ledger. Antoine fell into an old, comfortable stuffed chair opposite—another remnant of the past with which both brothers refused to part—and quickly recounted Alex’s visit.
Meme’s dark eyes glowed with suppressed rage, and his smaller body became unnaturally still.
“You promised him we would do as he asked?” Meme’s voice was soft, like a faint wind blowing across frozen water. When he spoke that way, it sent a chill through Antoine. “Yes,” Antoine said.
Meme just stared at him, waiting for more. His eyes were like his voice.
“We will do what has to be done,” Antoine said. “We will put everyone on the street, even ask other factions of the milieu for help if necessary. We will find this bastard before Alex can go to him. And we will kill him.”
“And the woman?”
“The woman is no longer of consequence. She saw to that herself.”
Meme nodded. “You said Alex has called off his own men, and has not contacted General Cisco. Will you call him?”
Antoine shook his head slowly, then shrugged, making a face of uncertain displeasure at the idea. “He is a man of scruples, and you can never trust a man of scruples,” he said.
Three days had passed since Bugayev left the safe house after issuing his ultimatum to Ludwig. The safe house was located in the Arab quarter of the old city, a downtrodden, battered-looking area whose predominant population was Palestinian, a people whose loyalties—what there were of them—were more inclined toward the Soviets than any other nation, and whose inherent lack of trust made them difficult for even the Corsicans to penetrate.
As Bugayev entered the apartment, he found Ludwig seated on the sofa, the woman, hands still bound, in a chair across the room. She was wearing only undergarments and her eyes were like those of a frightened animal.
Bugayev removed his hat and held it before his face, hiding it from her. “Get her out of here,” he demanded.
When Ludwig had locked the woman away in the bedroom and resumed his casual place on the sofa, Bugayev started in on him. “You seem very casual and relaxed for a hunted man,” he said.
“I saw you coming,” Ludwig replied. He seemed smug, almost bored.
“Then why didn’t you lock the woman away?”
“I didn’t want to,” Ludwig said.
Bugayev clenched his teeth, but chose to ignore the arrogance. “You must let the woman go and leave,” he said.
“Why?” Ludwig picked up a magazine lying next to him on the sofa, exposing a pistol hidden there. The threat was so blatant and ridiculous it almost made Bugayev laugh in his face.
“Because the Corsicans have covered this city with a net of humanity even a fly could not escape,” Bugayev said.
“I expected as much,” Ludwig said, his voice still bored. “What about Moran’s people?” he asked.
“They are nowhere to be seen,” Bugayev said. “I doubt he knows what the Corsicans are doing. His relationship with the Pisanis is almost familial. They would protect him whether he wanted them to or not.”
“His own men have been called off?” Ludwig said. Bugayev nodded, and Ludwig grunted in response. “I must confess, that surprises me.”
“So you expected him to continue hunting you despite your threat?”
“Of course.”
“And why?”
“Because his wife is a slut and he knows it. What man would risk his life for a slut?” Ludwig smiled up at the Russian. “Oh, I knew he’d come for her, and that he’d make it appear he was alone. That is simply a question of machismo. But I thought he’d try to get to me first. And I was certain when he came, there would be men with him, and that they would attack regardless of what it meant for the woman.” He smiled with pleasure. “You see, I never intended to kill him face to face. But I never realized the man was a fool either.”
“He is not a fool,” Bugayev snapped. “Do not underestimate the man.” He watched Ludwig’s face fill with a smirk. “And don’t underestimate the Pisanis and their people. They control the docks and everything else that moves in this city. You will never escape if you carry out your plan.”
“And don’t you underestimate me!” Ludwig snapped.
Bugayev drew a long breath. “It is my job to get you out of this city alive. I can only do that if you listen to what I know to be true. If you kill Alex Moran, or if you simply attempt to and fail, all the forces of U.S. intelligence will be hunting you, whether Moran wants it or not.” He paused for effect. “Along with the French police, French customs, the entire French government. All that, combined with the Pisanis, is simply too formidable.”
The formality of the Russian’s language, combined with the rigidity of his posture, made Ludwig smirk again. “You take life too seriously,” Ludwig chided him.
“And you value life not one bit,” Bugayev snapped back.
“That is possibly true,” Ludwig said and began to laugh.
“Will you call off your plan, then?” The Russian’s voice held a note of insistence.
“Perhaps I’ll simply modify it,” Ludwig said.
“And precisely what does that mean?” Bugayev’s eyes narrowed. His lack of trust of the man virtually poured from him.
“It means I will do nothing that does not include the certainty of my leaving France,” he said. “When will the ship be ready?”
“It is ready now. You can board anytime after eight o’clock this evening. It leaves on the morning tide. Within days you will be in Libya,” with others of your ilk, Bugayev added to himself.
Ludwig offered up a long, lazy stretch. “Good. I shall be aboard before midnight. A sea voyage and the warmth of the Libyan sun will do wonders for me.”
Bugayev held his eyes, probing for some hint of what the man planned. “I don’t feel you answered my question,” he said at length.
“I gave you all the answer I intended, comrade.”
The smirk was back on Ludwig’s face. Bugayev had seen enough of it. He turned and without another word he left the apartment.
Alex had returned to his own apartment, hoping without any real hope that Ludwig might anticipate the move and come for him there. He had left instructions that any calls for him—no matter from whom—be patched through to him there. Now, seated in a chair facing the front door, his pistol on a table close to his right hand, the telephone next to it, he waited.
He had arrived straight from work, and except
for a quick search of the rooms to ensure he was alone, he had remained in the living room. The other rooms, each in their own way, held too much of Stephanie, too much to distract him, to plague an imagination already on overload.
He had been living on Antoine Pisani’s words—that Ludwig’s claim of a lengthy relationship with Stephanie was nothing more than an attempt to torture him. But the scenario kept replaying itself. If a Morganthau had existed, why not a Ludwig? Why not a man whose real identity she hadn’t known, a man who had stumbled across the wife of the DIA station chief—or even intentionally sought her out—and found, to his delight, that she was looking for an extracurricular roll in the hay?
The scenario played again, and he forced it down, away. As far below the surface as it would go. But other thoughts wouldn’t leave. He had not been here when Ludwig had come for him. Had he, there was little doubt Ludwig would have killed him. He did not walk around his own home armed, did not answer the door weapon in hand. Despite Hollywood’s portrayals, the real world of espionage simply didn’t work that way. The private lives of spies were more like insurance salesmen’s than film heroes.
But he might have killed Stephanie too. Especially if she had seen his face. And that was the other gnawing question. Ludwig would not leave her alive now. Not after she had seen him, had learned who he was. But he just might hold onto her until he was certain Alex had stepped completely into his trap; he might just choose to kill her in front of him—or to kill him in front of her, depending on his particular bent of mind. It was his one hope, and knowing that in itself terrified him.
Alex glanced at his watch. Late, very late. And that was the other possibility. That Ludwig had simply used Stephanie to abort the search for him, and now, having killed her, had left the city, leaving everyone standing in place, impotent, until her body was eventually discovered.
The sound of the telephone made him jump in his chair, and he reached quickly for it before catching himself, forcing himself to let it ring a second time, just to give himself time for some degree of calm.
Ludwig’s voice purred at him as soon as he answered, the tone mocking, filled with the delight of a school yard bully. “You must have wondered why it has taken me so long to call you,” he began, the jeering sound in his voice flowing across the line so thickly Alex thought he could feel it, like a finger jabbing him in the chest.
“I assumed you were being cautious,” Alex said, his own voice flat, as unemotional as he could manage.
“Oh, of course. I am always that,” Ludwig purred. “But, I must confess, I’ve also been a bit distracted.”
Alex’s hand tightened on the receiver, knowing what was coming, what he would be forced to hear.
“Have you ever noticed …” Ludwig paused, playing out the moment. “How can I describe it? Yes. Have you ever noticed that little gasp—that tiny little gasp—that Stephanie gives when you first enter her? Or the way the tip of her tongue protrudes ever so slightly as she closes her eyes to concentrate on the pleasure? It is such a—”
“Cut the crap, Ludwig. I’ve done what you wanted. Now tell me when and where to deliver the passport.” Alex’s hands were trembling—something he fought to keep from his voice—and he brought his second hand up to steady the receiver, afraid he might drop it.
“Ah, and I thought we might share something together. But I see that is not to be.” He paused again, letting the seconds draw out, waiting until he knew Alex would have begun to wonder if he was still on the line. “Do you know the Street of Pistols, in the old quarter?” he finally said. “It is quite a small street, only a few buildings.”
“I know where it is,” Alex said.
“You will come there in one hour, no sooner. If anyone even slightly suspicious comes there before … well, I needn’t go on, need I?”
“I understand,” Alex said. “Which building?”
Ludwig let his silence play out again. He had no fear of a telephone tap. That would take time, and the phone he was using was an innocuous one, and he would be away from it—far away—in a matter of moments. “There will be a small piece of paper pinned to the outer door—something you will have to look closely to find. There will be a simple X on the paper. X marks the spot, as you Americans say.” He laughed, short and harsh. “You will find me in the basement of that building.” He hesitated again. “But only if you are alone and have come when you were told.”
“I’ll be there,” Alex said.
“Yes, I think you will be,” Ludwig said.
Ludwig stared into the Street of Pistols, then began to walk, too quickly at first, then slower. He was dressed in a dark sailor’s peacoat, the large collar pulled up to hide the sutures in his cheek—the bandage having been removed to make him less noticeable to anyone who knew he had been wounded. A seaman’s watch cap covered his blond hair, and he walked with a slight hunch to make himself appear older. He hadn’t shaved since being wounded, and the growth of beard gave him a grizzled look, he thought.
His hands were thrust into his pockets, but even there they were trembling. He felt exposed and vulnerable, and it frightened him. And he felt beaten. Alex Moran’s chances were too good—the only man who had ever seen his face and lived. But at this point the fact was moot. All the others had died quickly, before they could pass on his description. By now Moran had had a composite drawing made, had made sure it was as close to a perfect rendering as possible. The face of Ernst Ludwig was no longer a mystery to those who hunted him. And the death of Alex Moran would not change that fact. Now, harming him would only provide an unmeasurable amount of pleasure.
But there were too many people hunting him. Too many who held the advantage of hunting on their own terrain. Bugayev was right. He should flee, get aboard the ship while Moran and his Corsican goons were concentrating on the Street of Pistols. He didn’t need the passport he had asked for. It was only a ploy to lure Moran in—a part of the game to make him think he had a chance. That was the problem, playing the game out, doing what he must do and getting to the ship before they found him and killed him. But it was important that Moran be made to pay. It was important to destroy his life, and to do it so he knew it came at the hands of Ernst Ludwig.
Ludwig tightened his fists into balls and forced them deeper into the pockets of his coat. It helped hide the trembling—from himself.
CHAPTER
12
Alex stood back in the shadows at one entrance to the short, wide alley known as the Street of Pistols. He was dressed in a black trenchcoat, the collar pulled high to keep any light from his face, and his right hand was deep in the pocket, gripping a Walther PPK/S automatic, the pistol cocked and ready, the safety already disengaged.
He scanned one side of the street, illuminated only by a single street lamp located at the opposite corner. Ludwig had chosen well. To find the proper entry among the ten or so on the street, he would have to go from door to darkened door, looking for the small slip of paper marked with an X, and making himself an easy target for anyone shooting from a building or rooftop opposite. It was a suicidal walk if that was the way Ludwig had decided he would die. But it was only one of several ways. A booby trap in the basement he would enter couldn’t be overlooked. The man’s penchant for explosives was too well documented. And his selection of the Arab quarter of the old city made that possibility all too real. More than a few PLO bomb factories were known to have existed there over the years.
But there was nothing he could do about any of it; any precautions would risk Stephanie’s life. He had to hope that Ludwig wanted a confrontation, wanted the satisfaction of seeing the fear and hatred in his eyes when he killed him. Wanted, once more, to tell him how much he had enjoyed his wife and to see the effect it had, perhaps even force her to tell him how much she had enjoyed Ludwig.
He pushed it all down. He was only replaying scenarios with which he had tortured himself for hours. He stared into the street. Almost every apartment was dark, lifeless. It was a poor, working-class neigh
borhood, and the people who lived there played no part in the city’s endless nightlife, unless it was to scratch out a living serving those who did. He glanced at his watch. It was half past midnight, the exact time Ludwig had appointed.
He had met Antoine’s men a half hour earlier, a few blocks away on the Street of Refuge. He had ordered them to keep well away from the target area, and they had given him the look Corsicans use when they know they are dealing with a fool but cannot say so—a blank stare and a simple shrug. But they would stay back, cutting off any escape in that direction, while others—Antoine among them, he suspected—would seal off the lower end of the street. But it was useless, he knew. The basements of the old buildings were a labyrinth of tunnels that could take a man who knew them, or someone with local help, almost anywhere. The bastard had chosen well on that count too. He had everything the way he wanted it. He was winning his dirty little game, and Alex could see nothing that would change it. Unless you get lucky and can kill him before he kills you.
He stepped out into the street and began walking, his rubber-soled shoes moving soundlessly on the well-worn cobblestones. A light rain had begun to fall, slicking his face so it matched the sweat in his palms.
He stepped to the first entry, cooking smells drifting out through the closed door, the door itself empty of any marking. He moved to the second, a sensation heavy in the center of his back, awaiting the blow that would come when a bullet smashed into him. His body was lathered in sweat now, despite the chill dampness of the rain, which had begun to fall more heavily. A third door, a fourth, nothing. Across the narrow street, exposed to the rooftops and upper floors of the buildings he had just left, the sensation in his back stronger, more certain.
It was at the third entry, only two from the end, that he found the slip of paper—only a two-inch square affixed low on the glass door panel near the doorknob—a heavy black X filling its surface. He pushed through the door quickly, closing it behind him and flattening himself against one wall, his breathing loud and rapid, his mind shouting at his carelessness for not checking the door for traps before entering, then arguing back that he’d had to get off the street and escape the bullet screaming toward his back. But no bullet had come, and he stood there, pistol up beside his cheek, his left hand cupping the heel of his right, which held the weapon, fighting to control the trembling which would nullify the steadiness sought by a two-handed shooting stance.
Corsican Honor Page 10
