by Marc Olden
The fat man and Talon were walking along an empty corridor in CCE’s Washington building. Their footsteps echoed in the early morning. The fat man breathed hard, biting his lip at the pain across his back as the slashes dried, grew tighter, and began to itch. Talon strode defiantly along the empty hall, looking straight ahead, listening to Reiss’s heavy breathing and conversation.
“Did he say anything?” asked Talon.
“Who? Oh, the black man. No. Just enough to scare the pee out of me,” the fat man drawled. “You mean after he cut up Dietrich and Simon. No. Not a goddamn word. Just looked at me, is all, and left. Man, I hope to granny I never see anything like that again. No siree.”
“All that because of one woman,” said Talon.
Reiss was silent, licking his lips, thinking about how he had sat in his own living room, looked into hell, and lived to talk about it. “We’re here,” he said.
They stopped in front of a plain, unmarked brown wooden door. Raising his voice, Reiss shouted, “Mel Reiss. Got company. Watch it in there!” Inserting a key, he pushed the door open and looked into the darkened room. He stood there for seconds, then stepped inside, reaching to his right and turning on the light.
They were there. Shotgun-armed guards, unshaven, red-eyed, and mean-looking. Their hands gripped wooden stocks, and their fingers brushed lightly against triggers. Some of them were men who had run into the Black Samurai at the airplane hangar at Dulles and were in a mood to even things up. Others worked for CCE, which meant they all worked for Talon.
Talon stepped around Reiss, and tossing a black doctor’s bag to the nearest man, said, “Put some ice in first, then the canister. Then pack it with ice until the bag is full. Reiss, open the safe.”
Talon’s cold command sent a charge of energy in the room, and all the men moved, some to do as he said, others to get out of their way. Reiss waddled over to the safe, his fat face perspiring, the white bandage across his forehead dark and damp with sweat.
The small safe door swung open, and Reiss dug a fat hand into the chipped ice, pulling out the canister, spilling ice on the floor and on the front of his dark-blue topcoat.
He stood to one side, as two men scooped ice from the safe and packed it into the doctor’s bag. The work was done in silence, as though Talon had given an order.
But he hadn’t. His presence was enough. Silently, he watched the ice being placed in the bag, his eyes slightly hooded as though he were a hawk high in the mountains combing the ground below him for prey.
Reiss sat in his living room, his wide body leaning forward and away from the back of the brown velvet couch. Once, he had forgotten about the slashes and had leaned back against the couch. The touch of the couch had made him cry aloud. Now he nervously watched the people around him, careful to move away or lift a fat arm in protest when anyone looked as though they wanted to touch his back.
Talon stood at the window, staring out at the sunshine. “I’ll stay here tonight,” he said. He wasn’t asking. It was a command.
“Fine,” said the fat man. “Two guest rooms upstairs, take your pick. What time you leaving tomorrow?”
“No later than six in the evening. It’s going to take me that long to set up security from here to the airport and around the plane. It’s the airport I’m worried about.” His back was to the fat man, and he didn’t seem to see how nervous Reiss was. Talon had that effect on everybody. Turning from the window, Talon said, “I wonder how the black man knew about the airport.”
Shrugging his shoulders and wincing at the pain from the slight gesture, Reiss said, “Beats the shit out of me. I thought you had that covered. Barnes? Didn’t he—”
Almost in a whisper, Talon said, “Yes. Barnes. He died without telling us a thing. We can only assume that he was a part of it.”
“The photographs?” said the fat man.
“Yes. He had them. They don’t show much if anything about the black. That’s why I wanted you to question the girl.”
“Sure, Talon. We did. Nothing, old buddy. Not a cotton-pickin’ thing.
Talon smiled. “The black man—he mentioned her to you, didn’t he?”
The fat man’s fingers lightly brushed across the bandage of his forehead. “Whoowee!” he said, letting out a huge breath of air. “Sumbitch used that there knife like only a nigger can. Just let loose and sliced away. Simon ain’t gonna walk right again. Fact is, they don’t even know if he’s gonna walk again at all. And Dietrich. Mother of pearl! What happened to him shouldn’t happen to a Democrat. He ain’t ever gonna be no use to a woman again. Damn, I get the creepy-crawlies even thinking about it.”
Talon leaned his head to one side, his eyes slightly closed. “But you—you got away without too much. Oh, I know, your back, your knee, and your forehead. But you still came off better than either one of them, and he knew you were there when the girl got it. Makes a man think, doesn’t it?”
Reiss looked at Talon, then quickly shifted his eyes away. He was scared. Something about what Talon had just said gnawed at the back of his brain. A picture flashed across his eyes of the black man standing in his living room, dressed in black leather, the bloody sword dangling at his side, his eyes burning into Reiss. Something about it …
“Reiss, Reiss!” Talon’s voice filled the room.
“Sorry, Talon, just thinking.”
“I asked you about the sword. You did say it was a sword he carried, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Not a long one, but short, sort of Oriental.”
“Like a Samurai sword?”
Reiss pursed his thick lips together, thinking. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that. Looked foreign, yeah, could be Japanese or something like that.”
“Samurai,” murmured Talon, a small smile playing on his torn harelip. “Samurai. A black Samurai.” His smile grew wider. “Yes,” he said. Turning, he walked back to the window, stood there for a few seconds, and said, “Come here.”
Breathing heavily, Reiss got to his feet and came over to Talon. “Look,” said Talon.
Both men watched a red Corvette cruise by, a black man in black leather behind the wheel. He passed the house without stopping. “That’s four,” said Talon.
“Huh?”
“Four times I’ve seen him go by here. You think he’s looking to buy a house around here?”
Reiss grinned nervously. “No way. Niggers ain’t allowed ’round here ’less they have a broom in their hand.”
“One particular nigger seems to go where he pleases, here or anywhere else,” said Talon. They watched the street. The car did not pass by again.
“Hey, look, Talon, what you worryin’ about? We got men in the garage, and all over this house. No way he can get in here and do what he did out at the airport. We got enough firepower to put holes in his black ass from now to Sunday. He sets foot in here, and he goes out looking like black Swiss cheese.”
Talon looked at the fat man, then turned back to the street. When the telephone rang, Reiss’s head snapped around to face it. “I’ll take it,” said Talon, walking past him. Reaching the phone, Talon picked it up and listened, saying nothing.
A voice said, “Reiss? Reiss? Our deal, remember. Stop fucking me over, white man, or I’ll …” The voice stopped, then said, “Reiss? Reiss?” More silence, than the phone clicked dead.
Talon stared at the receiver, hung up, turning to face the fat man, still standing at the window and looking at him from across the room. Silently Talon mouthed the words “white man.”
Picking up the phone, Talon turned his back to Reiss and began dialing.
Talon had made several phone calls, his back to the fat man, each time making it clear he didn’t want to be overheard. In between his calls, the phone had rung, and in each case, he picked it up on the first ring, listened, and said little. Now he sat on the brown velvet couch, his eyes half-closed. He encouraged no conversation, and Reiss got the point.
The fat man stood at the bar, drinking. Guards used the bathroom, wal
ked through the living room into the kitchen. No one spoke to either Talon or Reiss.
When the doorbell rang, Talon said, “I’ll get it.” Walking across the gold carpet now spotted with dried blood, he stepped into the foyer out of sight, opened the door, and stepped outside, leaving it slightly ajar behind him.
The fat man was nervous. He didn’t like being kept out of conversations, and what the hell was Talon up to, anyway? Phone calls, whispering all over the place, and now stepping outside so Reiss couldn’t hear a goddamn thing. Fucking creep, that Talon.
He came back inside the house, the man following him. The man walked past Talon, who stood looking at Reiss, and disappeared. In seconds he returned, five men with him, shotguns cradled across their chests.
Talon said softly, “One of those phone calls a little while ago mentioned your name and said something about a deal with a white man.”
Looking first at the shotgun-carrying guards, then at Talon, Reiss grinned and said, “Hey, Talon, what the Sam Hill is goin’ on?”
Talon spoke as he walked toward Reiss. “The voice said, ‘White man, remember our deal.’ And you saw with your own eyes a black man driving back and forth, maybe afraid to come inside because he knew what he’d find—some guns waiting for him.”
“Talon, I—”
“We could have speculated about all these particular things,” said Talon, interrupting the fat man’s pleading. The two were now face-to-face. “But how can we speculate about your bank account with a quarter of a million dollars, all of it deposited in the last three weeks? And that’s in black and white, fat man. I can show you a copy of your bank statement if you wish. Roy brought it with him.”
Reiss stuttered. “B-b-bank statement?”
“Bank statement,” said Talon. “Plus a black man who drives by but won’t stop. And a black voice on the phone saying, ‘Reiss, we got a deal.’”
“Talon, I swear to God I don’t know. You gotta believe me.”
“Some of these men in this room,” said Talon, “ran up against the black man, and they came in second. They are going to be the people asking you some questions. When they get finished, I’ll have some more. And, Reiss”—Talon’s eyes shone brightly in the sun coming into the room—“I am determined to get answers. Because, fat man, I think you have been playing both sides, and that is not the way to a long life.”
Talon signaled.
And the men moved toward the fat man, who backed away from them, his hands held in front, his head shaking from side to side in a vain denial. When his slashed back touched the wall, he screamed.
Talon smiled.
Chapter XV
PHIL TAPER TURNED THE steering wheel sharply to the right, his tongue flicking at his moustache in nervous intensity. The oncoming truck zoomed by them, missing the small MG by less than three feet.
Swinging the wheel back to the left, Taper maneuvered the small car back into a straight line on the highway. In a loud voice, he yelled, “Bloody bugger!” and without turning around to look at the truck that had almost crashed into him and Robert Sand, Taper lifted his left hand from the wheel, shoving two fingers in the air.
“That’s the way we do it over here in England,” he said. “Two fingers. Means the same as your extended one finger in the States. That bugger must have learned to drive in a playpen.”
Sand smiled, rubbing the stiffness in his neck. “Right-side driving. Don’t see how you can do it.”
Taper chuckled. “Neither can I, and I was born here.” Nodding his head toward Sand, he said, “Everything check out?”
Sand said, “Yes.”
Taper had picked him up at Heathrow Airport outside of London. Wrapped in newspaper on the front seat had been a Colt .45 and two thousand dollars in British one and ten-pound notes. Sand hadn’t bothered counting the money. No one working for The Baron short-changed him. If they did, they never did it twice.
Taper had also been told by The Baron that Robert Sand was a man to be obeyed and not trifled with. “Let’s put it this way,” Clarke had drawled over the transatlantic phone, “I’m a mean sumbitch, and I’d just as soon peel the skin from your ass as fry an egg and you know it. Well, the man who’s gonna come up to you at the airport makes me look as limp-wristed as one of your English fruits. And I don’t mean the kind that grow on trees, either. You get funny with this dude, Mr. Taper, and you might wake up dead. So behave and be careful.”
So Taper had become a believer before even seeing the mysterious man who refused to send a photo of himself and instead had sent word to Taper, “I’ll find you at the airport.” Of course, Sand had the advantage of a small photograph furnished him by The Baron. He had looked at it for ten seconds, then handed it back.
The six-and-a-half-hour flight to London had been smooth. Taper knew enough people to arrange a quick customs clearance, and thirteen minutes after landing, the two men were in Tapper’s car heading toward London.
“The cables,” said the Black Samurai.
“Done. Sent them as ordered. Frightfully clever idea. Yours or Clarke’s?”
“Mine.”
“Your idea about the competitor?”
“Yes,” said Sand.
Taper nodded in admiration, his eyes still on the road. He quickly looked out of the corner of his left eye at Sand, now quietly staring ahead. As a newspaperman and a contact for William Baron Clarke, Taper had met a lot of people. This one, this black man, was different. Quiet, yet giving off the feeling of being as explosive as gasoline and fire combined.
He hadn’t known The Baron’s man would be black, and the sight of him striding toward him in the parking lot had been surprising. The black was polite enough, all right, but still he was most definitely his own man. Friendly, yet guarded. Well, perhaps it was better that way. From what Phil Taper knew, this man would be a target soon enough, and there was no sense in him hurrying the day.
“Booked two hotels under the names Clarke told me,” said Taper.
“Thank you,” said Sand. “Have you ever met Lisa Warren?”
“No, but I’ve heard about her. She’s with Drewcolt a lot, his hostess and much more, I assume. When her husband was killed a few years back, there were pictures of her in the papers. Someone else covered the story. Quite a looker, I must say.”
“I want to check over any background you might have on Crafford Castle.”
“Done,” said Taper. “It’s quite historical, you know, and there was an uproar when it was sold to an American, your Mr. Print Drewcolt. It all died down, however, and he’s lived there happily ever after for the past eleven years. There are books on it, historical brochures, and I’m sure I can get more detailed information for you. I must tell you, however, that Drewcolt has undoubtedly made changes since taking over, particularly regarding security, so there are things I might not be able to find out for you.”
“Lisa Warren could help me there,” said Sand. “I know something about it already. Besides, Drewcolt loves historical tradition. He won’t have changed it that much. History’s one of his loves … Is her lawyer ready?”
“‘Solicitor,’ old boy. That’s what we call them here. Yes. He’s ready. He’s anxious to do anything that will get her away from Drewcolt, even though he’s not averse to the money your Mr. Clarke is paying him. Nor, for that matter, am I. Still, he does have a fatherly affection for her, which is about all you can have when you’re seventy-one years old.”
“Good. What about the airport?”
“Talon’s flying in on a CCE plane, possibly tomorrow, most likely the day after. I’ll receive a telephone call the minute his wheels touch down. Who was it that lured him out of the country?”
“Me,” said Sand.
Taper grinned. Yes, this black man was something quite special. “That does use up a lot of their time,” he said, quickly looking at Sand, then back to the road. “When Talon gets back, that should leave, oh, three days, maybe less to the signing between China and Russia.”
“T
hat’s what I want. I want CCE to have as little time as possible. This time, if they lose their ace in the hole, there’ll be no time for another.”
Taper shuddered, his darkly handsome face frowning. “I must say you Americans are a determined lot You’re ready to destroy a city for … for what—money?”
“Yes,” said. Sand quietly. “Money. Exactly what you’re now working for, Mr. Taper. Money. We’ve met your price. Drewcolt’s simply named his own price, a much higher one. And there are people, Americans among them, who don’t want to see him collect.”
Taper chewed his bottom lip. Cheeky bastard, this black. Worse, he was right in what he had just said. No sense letting him know it, though. The Baron was right. Watch this one. Carefully. And Lord help anyone who steps on his foot.
Through chill fog and twilight, they drove toward London in silence.
Talon held the cable in his hand. It had been delivered to Maynard Reiss’s home. While the unconscious fat man lay bleeding on a huge round bed covered in green sheets, Talon accepted the cable, tipped the boy bringing it, and opened it. He read it twice, and quickly dialed Drewcolt, reading it to him.
Drewcolt had listened in silence, then said, “Read it again.”
Talon read it slowly. The cable was from London, to Reiss. It read: “Operation almost complete. Bid submit twelve hours after. Our gratitude. R.”
There was silence on the transatlantic phone; then Talon said, “What are your feelings?”
“I don’t like it,” said Drewcolt, his voice hard. “Don’t like it at all.”
“It fits,” said Talon. “We should have known. The fat man’s bank account, these cables. This is the third one he’s received in four hours, each signed with the initial ‘R,’ each mentioning ‘operation.’ He’s been on the other side all along, and getting paid for it. He’s sold out, Mr. Drewcolt.”
“I know, I know,” murmured Drewcolt “It looks as though he kept somebody else aware of our every move. We do the dirty work, we stop the Russians, and somebody else comes in and walks off with the whole damn pile.”
