Alex nodded. He more than understood. He reached out and took Michelle’s hand and smiled.
“I’d like to go back to Corsica when this is finished,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been there.”
“Nothing much has changed,” Michelle said. “Corsica always remains Corsica. It is beautiful and peaceful.” She hesitated. “And home.”
“Will you go there with me?” Alex asked.
The telephone rang before she could respond, and she went to it.
“It is for you,” she said. “A man.” Something about the way she said it made Alex realize who it was. He thought Michelle instinctively knew as well. Her eyes were frightened and angry.
He took the phone and spoke a terse “Yes.”
“Alex, you lied to me,” Ludwig’s voice purred across the line. “I asked you if you had brought me another woman, and you never admitted that you had.”
Alex replaced the receiver and stood staring at it.
“It was him, wasn’t it?” Michelle asked.
He turned to her and nodded. “There was one other thing he said last night that I didn’t mention.”
“What?” she asked.
“He asked me if I had brought him another woman.”
Michelle felt a chill creep up her spine and willed it away.
“Then I can definitely help you,” she said.
“Not as bait,” Alex said, “Never that way.”
“That will not be for me to choose,” she said. “Ludwig will decide that for us.”
Alex looked away from her.
“You had better go and pack,” he said. “I don’t want you here any longer. We’ll go to my apartment now.”
“And I will be with you when you go out? When you do what you must do?”
“Yes, you’ll be with me,” Alex said. He had no intention of letting this woman out of his sight.
CHAPTER
38
Ludwig replaced the receiver and smiled. Moran and the woman had arrived at the apartment the Pisanis had given him. The smile broadened. He had taken the woman with him, had run like a frightened rabbit to his hole. Yes, he was frightened for himself and for her. He feared for her safety—that was obvious—and for his own, and it would distract him, keep him on edge, watching over her, while trying to remain alive himself.
He thought of his telephone call to the woman’s apartment and how it had so shocked Moran. He had simply hung up and run for cover. The mention of the new woman, right on top of the earlier conversation, when he had spoken about his wife. The two together must have been devastating for him, Ludwig told himself.
Now he must be certain the same horror awaited him, a reprise of unforgotten terror, that would force him to relive the past in more than memory. And then to die himself, unavenged.
No, you’ll be safe there, frightened Alex, he told himself. For a short time. The apartment—the entire building in the Opera district—was a fortress. All the other apartments and the street itself were manned by Pisani men. It would take an army to get to you there. He laughed softly. But I don’t need to reach you there. I don’t want you anywhere right now. You will come later. Once I’ve finished my work for Montoya. And I will know where you are every minute. And when I choose—yes, when I choose—then you will die. And the woman too. Just for the joy of it. And perhaps I will let you watch. Before you die. Just to help you remember.
He turned back to the other men in the room, still smiling.
“You seem pleased, my friend. I hope the news is worthy of your pleasure.” Marcel Francisci smiled back at Ludwig, but his always cunning eyes searched for any hint that what pleased the man was not something that would prove a disadvantage to his own interests.
“It always pleases me to see an enemy run for cover,” Ludwig said.
“And your old enemy is running?” Francisci asked.
“As quickly as he can,” Ludwig said.
“Then it is good news. A man cannot hunt when he is hiding. And you know where his hole is?” Francisci asked, still probing.
“Yes, I know.”
“And will you kill him there?”
“He is not of consequence right now,” Ludwig said. “First the Pisani brothers will die. Then, when we control Marseilles and Alex Moran is stripped of all his protection, then I will kill him. At my leisure. So I have time to enjoy it.”
“He will still have his government’s protection,” Francisci cautioned.
“Do you think so?” Ludwig asked. The smile had returned again. “Perhaps I have another surprise for you,” he said. He took pleasure in Francisci’s questioning look. “But that will have to wait for another time.”
Francisci inclined his head to one side, indicating he was willing to wait for more pleasant news. “My main concern is the Pisanis, as you know. The sooner they are eliminated, the faster our power will grow.”
“I agree, my friend. So let us do it now.”
Francisci raised his eyebrows, questioning the obvious bravado. “What makes you feel we are ready?” he asked. “Assassinating a paceri in the milieu is something that must be carefully planned. To attempt it and fail would only make other factions believe the Pisanis are still too strong to be attacked. They might abandon their decision to sit back and watch, especially if Antoine and Meme call for their help.”
Ludwig turned and walked across the large sitting room in which they had gathered. He was annoyed by the questions, by the obvious doubt. They were in a secluded house deep in the countryside outside Aix-en-Provence, one of Francisci’s many hideaways, and one only a select handful of his men even knew existed. It was an ideal place, but the isolation, and the inactivity it necessitated, were eating at him. He turned back to face the milieu leader. “The intelligence we have now makes failure improbable,” he said. “And Montoya arrives within days. I want a body to greet him with. A Pisani body.”
Francisci shrugged. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my friend. How will you do it?”
Ludwig offered him a contemptuous smile. The man was telling him the assassination would be his task and his alone. Francisci had no intention of involving himself in anything that might place his faction at risk if it failed.
He glanced at the other men in the room—two of Francisci’s lieutenants and one of his own South Americans, the latter sitting like a lump of stone, listening to a language he did not understand.
“My men and I will move into Marseilles to be ready at the first opportunity. We know the various routes the Pisanis take from their home.”
“They never move together,” Francisci cautioned.
“I am aware of that,” Ludwig snapped. “I will hit whichever one moves first. And I will kill him personally and leave his body gutted in the street. I will leave it as a symbol to all of what is left of the Pisani faction.” He smiled at each man in turn. “Then the other will have to seek vengeance, and he will have to come out of his hole to do it. His men will expect him to take a personal hand in avenging his brother, will they not?” He watched the Corsicans nod agreement, but did not miss the doubt on their faces.
“And then he too will die.”
Francisci turned to one of his lieutenants, a middle-aged, bulky man with a face that looked as though someone had stepped on it, repeatedly.
“What do you think, Louis?” he asked the man.
“I would kill whatever brother it is at distance,” Louis said. “And I would use automatic weapons. They are old, these Pisanis, but they are dangerous men. And they have survived many years because they are not easy to kill.”
Ludwig glared at the man. “I appreciate your concern,” he said, emphasizing the final word. “But killing is not something about which I need instruction.” He forced himself to smile, to soften the rebuke. “And I have a personal debt to the Pisanis, one that goes back ten years.” His mind flashed back to the time he himself had been forced to run like a frightened rabbit, the only time in his life he had been made to do s
o. “And I want to kill them close at hand. I want them to know the debt is being repaid.”
“You will have backup to assure success?” Francisci asked.
Ludwig’s eyes flashed anger at the suggestion he might not survive the attack. “I will have support both from without and within the Pisani faction,” he snapped. “Does that satisfy your concerns?”
Francisci’s eyebrows rose again, and he inclined his head again to acknowledge both his surprise and satisfaction. “I did not know you had achieved so much,” he said. “I compliment you.”
Francisci pushed himself up from his chair with surprising agility. He was a man of the Pisanis’ generation, but looked and moved like a man many years their junior. He seemed more like a fit fifty-year-old than a man in his late sixties. He crossed the room and placed a hand on Ludwig’s shoulder.
“Do not be impatient with us, my friend,” he said. “We have opposed the Pisanis for many years, and we have survived it. There are no others who can say this.”
“Sometimes caution can go too far,” Ludwig said.
“Yes, you are right,” Francisci agreed. “And I have no doubt you will succeed. My only concern is your safety in that success.”
Ludwig almost laughed at the lie, but thought better of it.
“I too have survived many years,” he said. “And I have always done it at the killing end of a weapon.”
“And you will do so again,” Francisci assured him. “Especially if you have truly penetrated the Pisani armor, as you say.”
Ludwig knew Francisci was awaiting some assurance, some information about how, and through whom, such a penetration had taken place. It was something he would not get. Not now. Not ever. Promises had been made to that person that the Pisani faction would be theirs, and that was something Francisci would not be pleased to hear.
“All is in readiness,” he said, noting the momentary look of disappointment and concern in Francisci’s eyes. You know, don’t you? he thought. You know I can take away what you want at will. But I won’t do that. I will only force you to share it. It won’t make you happy, but it will make you even richer and more powerful than you are. And that will soothe the blow to your ego. Money and power always have that effect.
Francisci slipped an arm around Ludwig’s shoulders and walked him to the French doors that led to a sprawling garden of wildflowers outside. Ludwig knew the man would just as happily slip a knife between his ribs if it proved in his interests.
“You and your men should relax now,” he said. “I have some women coming to you who I think will please your South Americans.”
“And do you have one for me as well?” Ludwig asked.
“But of course,” Francisci said. “A very special one.” He stopped and turned to Ludwig, a look of reproach in his eyes. “But send this one back intact. Please.”
Ludwig laughed. “I did not know you had such personal concern for your poules,” he said.
Francisci shrugged. “It is like lending a man several automobiles,” he said. “When they keep coming back damaged, the owner becomes concerned about the cost.”
Ludwig laughed again, and this time Francisci joined him. But Francisci’s laugh lacked sincerity. He hated waste, especially when it was needless.
Francisci’s car pulled out of the long, wooded drive and out onto the rural highway. He was seated in back, Louis and the driver in front. Francisci drummed the fingers of one hand on his knee. Ludwig’s spy in the Pisani faction was a danger to him, and he knew that danger had to be eliminated. A Byzantine plot was forming in his mind, and it brought an eventual smile to his lips.
“Louis,” he said, forcing the man to turn to face him. “I want you to sit on our friend Ludwig. And I want you to learn who the traitor is in the Pisani nest.”
“Do you want him killed?” Louis asked.
“No,” Francisci said. “He is too valuable to die now. That will happen later, and we will let someone else do it for us.”
“I will find out,” Louis said. “It will not be hard now that we know he exists.”
Francisci nodded. “Yes, our friend Ludwig should never have told us that. Sometimes his ego gets in the way of his judgment. He has too great a belief in his own power.” He smiled. “Men who take themselves too seriously always place themselves at risk.” The smile broadened. “You must try to remember that, Louis. It is a great lesson in life.”
The woman walked across the bedroom, allowing her movements and the erotic costume she wore to evoke the fantasy she hoped to create. She was dressed in a flimsy silk top cut low to expose her ample breasts and ending just above her pubic mound, which was covered in a Gstring emblazoned with a single embroidered rose.
It was all done in a deep whore’s red, Ludwig thought as he watched her, naked, from the bed. Even the stockings and garter belt were in that bright, lascivious color. It had a touch of the ridiculous about it, and he wanted to laugh at her, but decided he would save that for later. After he had finished with her.
The woman stopped at the foot of the bed and smiled at him. It was a coy, whorish smile, and he liked that. It suited her; it suited the moment. She was tall and beautifully proportioned, with long, slender legs that rose up to a tight, well-rounded bottom. She was no more than nineteen, he guessed, and her face—even though it was the face of a whore—still held a certain innocence that he found appealing. And he liked the way her long blond hair hung down over both shoulders, just caressing the sides of her breasts.
“Do you have something special for me?” he asked.
She looked down at his erect penis and smiled. “I see you have something special for me,” she said. She knelt on the bed and began to crawl slowly, erotically toward him.
Sitting with his back against the headboard, he extended one hand to her, and when she reached it, she began to lick his fingers. He liked that too. Perhaps he would not hurt this one. Perhaps he would want her back again. He would have to see. It would depend on just how much she pleased him.
His other hand was under the pillow at his side, and he allowed his fingers to play over the handle of the stiletto he had hidden there. He wanted to use the knife. It always gave him pleasure to use it with a woman. But perhaps he wouldn’t cut her, as he had the others.
He always found the faint, razor-like cuts arousing. The sight of blood always had that effect on him. Yet he wasn’t sure if it was the blood or the terror in their eyes when they saw it. He liked the terror. That was the best part of it for him. He liked them to know he could do what he wanted. Go to any length.
But perhaps he wouldn’t cut this one. A thought came to him, and his smile widened. Perhaps he would shave this one. Tie her to the bed and shave her. Watch her eyes as the knife flicked away the pubic hair, wondering all the time if his hand would falter, cut her in a way that would go beyond her worst nightmares.
He liked the thought of it. He liked the idea of producing dreams that made someone wake, screaming in their bed. His father had made him dream like that as a child. Awaken in fear and terror of the beatings that would come when he failed to satisfy his expectations. The man had loved to beat him. Beat him like some animal.
His hand began to tremble at the memory, and the woman reached out and began to stroke it, as though she were soothing his fear.
He glared at her, then forced his face to soften, replacing his anger with a smile.
“Lie down,” he said. “I want to tie you. And then I have something very special for you.”
“Oh, I like that,” she said. “I like special things in bed.”
“Then you shall have it,” he said. And we shall see how much you like it, he added to himself.
CHAPTER
39
Sergei Bugayev sat at the small, front-window table in the quayside restaurant he favored, awaiting the arrival of his bouillabaisse. Normally it was a pleasant experience, anticipating the pleasure about to be his. But today it was not. Alex Moran sat beside him, holding a pistol under the
table, the barrel pointed at Bugayev’s balls. He had intended to find Bugayev the day before. But Ludwig’s call to Michelle’s apartment had forced him to change those plans. It had forced him to run instead. Now the running was over.
“Are we to meet like this every ten years, my friend? With me at the unpleasant end of a gun?”
“Let us hope not, Sergei,” Alex said. “And let us also hope you have all of your parts the next time we do meet.”
“Oh, Alex, I assure you I share that thought,” Bugayev said. “But the last time, you were much kinder. You allowed me to enjoy my lunch before you assaulted me.”
“I have no intention of assaulting you, Sergei. I simply want you to tell me all you know about Ludwig. Primarily where he is and how I can get to him.”
“And the gun, my dear Alex?”
“Merely a precaution, Sergei. For my own protection, and to let you know how seriously I take this matter.”
Bugayev’s eyes became sorrowful, so much so it surprised Alex. “Put the gun away, Alex. And we shall talk as friends. Ludwig does not work for us. Has not for more than a year now. And I would like to help you. Nothing would make me happier than to see him dead. Except, perhaps, to do it myself.”
Alex slipped the pistol into his belt and sat back in his chair. “I wish you had felt that way ten years ago,” he said.
“I did, my friend. But it was something I could not act upon then.” He hesitated, then pushed on. “The KGB knew nothing of his plan to kill your beautiful Stephanie, Alex. If we had known—if I had known—I would have killed him then and suffered the consequences.” He drew another breath. “I learned you were here the day you arrived, Alex.” He shrugged. “The KGB is still efficient enough to note the movement of agents. You were seen going into Langley, as we watch anyone who enters there, and the old photograph we had of you was circulated to our watchers at various airports. If you had not come to me, I would have sought you out to offer my help.”
Corsican Honor Page 36
