THE PERFECT KILL (24 page)

“Let’s go over it again,” he said to Grainger. “You walk out of the door and move three short paces forward, then stop and take in the night breeze. The cop will move towards you, saying something. Close your ears to what he says. When he gets to about four yards from you, you say loudly, “Damn, I’ve forgotten something.” You turn and then very rapidly you come back through the door. You stay in there with Nicole until you hear the signal.” Again, he rapped on the table three times, paused, and rapped again three times.

“She’s coming with us?” Grainger asked.

“Only part of the way. You can say your goodbyes in the hall.”

His eyes swept the room to make sure nothing had been left behind. Then he looked at his watch and put his finger on the button of the little black box. He held it there for five seconds, then picked up the box and slipped it into his raincoat pocket.

He looked at Grainger and said, “Let’s do it.”

In the hall Miller motioned to Nicole. She moved to one side and put her bag at her feet. She looked tense. So did Grainger. Miller opened his raincoat, unclipped the sawn-off shotgun and held it in his left hand. He moved next to the door, turned, leaned against the wall and looked at Grainger.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

Grainger took a deep breath and nodded.

Miller gestured with the shotgun barrels at the door and said lightly, “Let’s go then. Don’t hurry on your way out. Make it natural.”

Grainger took another breath, filling his lungs, then he moved to the door, opened it and walked out. Quickly he glanced to his left, saw the car parked about forty yards away. His own car was just beyond it. As he turned his head back he heard the engine start up and rev. The cop came out of the shadows to his right.

He was tall, young and dark.

“Evening,” he called out. “Do you happen to be a resident of that building?” He was walking slowly forward, a pleasant expression on his face.

Grainger said nothing, just watched him and measured the distance. Eight yards.

“There’s been a bit of trouble in there,” the cop was saying.

Six yards.

“That’s why I’m patrolling out here.”

Four yards.

“Damn, I’ve forgotten something,” Grainger said and spun on his heel. He had only taken one stride before he heard the dull thwack behind him. He heard the screeching of tires, and then was pushing the door open. He turned, glanced swiftly back and saw the cop spreadeagled on the sidewalk. His legs were moving, twitching.

Then Grainger was in the hall and Miller was moving through the door in a crouch, shouting. “Shut it!”

The black car was screeching to a halt and two men were bursting out. One from the front and one from the back. Miller fired all four barrels. The one in the back was slammed against the side of the car. The one in the front was blasted on top of the hood. Miller let the shotgun drop and hang from the harness. In half a second he was holding the submachine-gun.

He fired two bursts as the car’s engine revved. Both bursts were aimed at the tires, and both were on target. The car moved about ten yards and then slewed sideways. The driver leapt out and started to run. Miller turned to look the other way, towards the sound of shooting at the corner of the avenue to his right.

The driver only got fifteen yards before he was cut down by a hail of bullets from across the avenue.

From a building further up a woman screamed, then there was silence. Miller’s eyes swept the avenue. Then he reached into his raincoat pocket and pressed the button of the black metal box three times rapidly.

There was a single answering bleep and four seconds later a white Lincoln Continental turned the corner and moved sedately towards the building. Miller turned to the door.

Inside, Grainger heard the three sharp raps on the door and then three more. He opened the door.

He saw the dead cop on the sidewalk, two bodies on the street in front, further down, the disabled car and beyond that another body. The white Lincoln pulled up. Maxie MacDonald was in the driving seat. He reached behind and opened the back door.

Miller was holding the SMG in his right hand. His eyes were still sweeping the avenue.

“You two get in the back seat,” he said tersely.

They crossed the sidewalk at a run. Nicole tossed her bag in and then dived after it. Grainger followed, pulling the door shut behind him.

Three seconds later, Miller was in the front passenger seat and the Lincoln pulled smoothly away.

No one spoke until they were three blocks away. Then Grainger asked, “What about the guy in their back-up car at the corner?”

Maxie answered.

“Rene took him out.”

They could hear the wailing of sirens behind them. Miller was pressing the button on his black box and getting a series of answering bleeps.

Two blocks later, they pulled into an open parking lot. It was empty except for two cars, parked side by side. One was a green Datsun and the other a black Ford. There was a man in the driving seat of the Datsun.

“We change cars,” Miller explained, “and say goodbye to Nicole.”

They all climbed out of the Ford and she quickly kissed the three men on their cheeks and got into the front passenger seat of the Datsun. It immediately pulled away.

Still bemused, Grainger called after it, “Thank you.”

Miller said, “Get into the back, Senator. It’s not quite over yet.”

He did so and Maxie got behind the wheel, with Miller next to him. They drove off in the direction of the Senator’s house.

After about a mile they pulled into the curb and stopped. Maxie switched off the lights and looked at his watch. It was precisely twelve minutes past eleven. They sat silently until the Senator asked, “What are we waiting for?”

Maxie held up a hand.

“Just wait, Senator. We’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

They waited in silence again until a vehicle pulled up behind them. Grainger turned to look. It was an open, battered jeep, with one man in it, whom Grainger had never seen. The jeep’s lights flicked on and off twice. Maxie turned on his lights and pulled out into the sparse traffic. The jeep followed closely behind.

What had happened during the past minutes would stay in Grainger’s mind for ever. What was to follow would be embedded in it.

About a mile and a half from his house was a turnoff with a sharp bend. Two hundred yards before the turnoff the black box in Miller’s pocket bleeped. Maxie pulled over slightly and slowed down. The jeep roared past them. Maxie speeded up again and kept the Ford about seventy yards behind the jeep.

“Watch this,” he said to Grainger over his shoulder.

The Senator leaned forward between the two men and peered through the windscreen. As they rounded the bend, he saw the white truck parked on the verge. One man was standing beside it, looking down the street at the two approaching cars. When it was fifty yards from the truck the jeep slowed and veered across the road. From the back seat, a figure rose, dressed in black.

It held a fat tube about four and a half feet long across one shoulder. The front of the tube was mushroom shaped. Grainger watched as a gout of yellow-white flame erupted from the back of the tube. He saw the mushroom shape detach itself as if in slow motion and then suddenly pick up speed and hurtle across the street. It slammed into the truck, only inches from the standing man’s left shoulder.

The truck reared up on its side, then Grainger felt the concussion in his ears from the explosion. Maxie had slowed the Ford down to a crawl. They watched as the truck burst into a fireball and then rolled over onto its roof. The man who had been standing beside it was lying on the grass. He was not moving but then suddenly he was jerking. The Senator switched his gaze across the street. The man in the back of the jeep, which was stationary, was now holding a submachine-gun. Grainger could see the muzzle flashes as he fired a magazine into the body of the man on the grass, then he ducked out of sight and the jeep accelerated away.

Grainger slumped back into his seat and muttered, “I need a Scotch.”

Maxie laughed and said, “You’ve earned it, Jim.”

They passed the burning wreck and drove at a sedate pace to the Senator’s house.

In the few minutes that it took, Miller said, “You did damn well, Jim. Now as soon as we get to the house, you phone your friend Curtis Bennet and tell him to put normal security cover on you…just normal. The Moretti family is finished and after what happened, nobody else is going to take a contract on you.”

“What about the other brother in Detroit?” Grainger asked. “He might take revenge.”

Both men in front laughed and Maxie said, “He’s the eldest…Gino. And right now Gino Moretti is a walking corpse and in three or four days he’ll be a dead one, like his brothers.”

“You’re going to get him?” Grainger asked.

“No, Creasy is.”

“Creasy!”

“Yes. He’s on his way now.”

“He’s in the country?”

Miller said, “He sure is. That was him in the back of the jeep just now. He handles an RPG7 like silk on a girl’s thigh. Like Maxie said, Gino Moretti is a walking corpse.”

Rene Callard was waiting at the house. He was standing inside the front gates, with three black bags lined up next to him. As they got out of the car, he asked Miller, “The back-up team?”

“A bonfire,” Miller answered with a grin. “Did you pull out the bugs?”

“It’s done,” the Belgian replied.

Miller turned to the Senator and said, “We won’t hang about, Jim. It’s been a pleasure working for you …and with you.”

“It sure has been enlightening,” Grainger answered. “Now what do I tell Curtis Bennett? He’s gonna have a million questions.”

Miller shrugged. “Tell him the truth. You sneaked away from your cover to meet a woman and got in the middle of a mob war.”

“He won’t believe me.”

Maxie had loaded the three bags into the trunk of the Ford. He came over, grinned and said, “But it is the truth, Jim. That’s exactly what happened. It will be in the papers in the morning. “Mob warfare in Denver City”.”

“I hope my name doesn’t get into it,” Grainger muttered.

The three men were standing opposite.

“It won’t,” Rene said. “The only people who know you were there are either stone dead or on their way out of the country. You have nothing to worry about, Jim.”

Abruptly Grainger realised that during the past few minutes they had all been calling him by his first name.

“So, it’s all over?” he muttered.

“Yes,” Miller said. “Now go and pour yourself a stiff whisky and phone Bennett.”

Then came the strange ritual. Grainger was to conclude later that it must have been something from their old mercenary days. One by one, they came forward and shook his hand. They laid their left hand against his right cheek, pulled his face towards them, then kissed him hard and long on the left cheek, close to his mouth. They then climbed into the Ford and drove away.

It was in the papers the next day, complete with pictures of dead bodies and burnt out and bullet-riddled vehicles. But the Senator’s name was mentioned nowhere.

Four days later there was another article, concerning the Moretti family. Gino Moretti was burying his two brothers. There had been a big mob turn-out, scores of long black limousines, and mounds of expensive wreaths. At the graveside, the two coffins had just been lowered, side by side. Gino Moretti moved forward, holding a large wreath. He looked down at the coffins and was about to drop the wreath onto them when he was struck by a mercury-tipped 8mm bullet in the centre of his spine. It exploded inside him and he was dead before his body was punched into the wide grave.

The police speculated it had been fired from the roof of the nearest tall building, which was three hundred and fifty yards away. It could only have been placed by an expert sniper.

Creasy had spent two days in Brussels, conferring with the taciturn Corkscrew Two. He had concluded that the man was going to be as good as his father. Both safe houses in Syria were set up and the machinery was in place. Creasy had told him that he would probably start to move in about three months.

Now it was midnight and the American lay in his bed in his usual room at Blondie’s, watching the late news on CNN. In the morning he would fly back to Gozo.

For the first time since the 21st of December 1988, his brain was taking a rest. He felt that he had passed a major hurdle by making Grainger secure. His set-up in Syria was in place and any suspicion it might arouse would diminish over the coming weeks. Both Jibril and the Syrian Intelligence would be expecting an operation to be mounted rapidly. When it did not happen they would lose their edge of concentration.

He stretched contentedly, feeling the rare experience of drowsiness and the anticipation of a sound night’s sleep. He had just reached for the remote control to turn off the television when a tap came on the door. He switched off the television, reached for the pistol on the bedside table and called, “Come in.”

The door opened. It was Nicole, dressed in street clothes. He smiled at her and put the pistol back in its place. She closed the door, walked over, sat at the end of the bed and smiled back at him.

“When did you get back?” he asked.

“About two hours ago.”

“So, you took that little holiday I recommended?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes. Four days. I…well, we went to Florida.”

“We?”

“Yes, “we”. Maxie drove me to the airport. On the spur of the moment, he decided to come with me. We took separate planes, of course.”

Creasy grinned at her.

“On the spur of the moment?” he asked.

She looked a little embarrassed. “Yes…well, in the few days of the build-up, we’d become sort of friendly.”

Creasy grinned again. “And where is he now?”

“He gets back here tomorrow evening.”

“And then?”

She grimaced and said, “That’s what I want to talk to you about. I phoned Blondie from the airport and she said you were leaving early in the morning…so I came over.” She was agitated.

He saw her glance at the side table in the corner. On it were a bottle of Scotch, a bottle of vodka, a bucket of ice and two glasses.