Deceptions (22 page)

If anything could go wrong, this was the most likely place for it to happen. And after what they had seen on last night’s
network news, and read in today’s papers, the pressure was that much greater.

The worst of it was in finally knowing, with all remaining doubt removed, that the five men he and Mary Yung had shot and
buried were really bona fide government agents. Until now he had known, yet he hadn’t known. There had still been that tiny
stubborn voice somewhere inside him that refused to be quieted, that kept insisting that such things couldn’t happen to people
here.

Now the voice was quieted.

Curious as to what sort of story would be offered to explain the deaths of the three agents, Gianni had read, watched, and
listened to every related piece of news he could find. So far, from the local police who had uncovered and green-bagged the
bodies, all the way up to the FBI director himself, there had been nothing but lies and hedging.

The director, a tall, physically imposing man with steely eyes and a square jaw straight out of a Hollywood casting office,
had mourned his bureau’s dead with quiet dignity and promised their killers would be brought to justice.

Up yours,
Gianni had thought.

But then he had to wonder how much of the truth even this man knew.

The line of passengers slowly moved forward.

Bag in hand, Gianni edged along with it.

He watched Mary Yung… watched the row of Alitalia clerks checking passports, tickets, and baggage… watched everyone in sight
who might be a possible threat.

Gianni particularly watched for blank-faced solitary men in business suits who looked as though they themselves might be watchers.
There happened to be a fair number of such types about. In fact, two of them were stationed directly behind the long ticket
counter.

And what if I see one coming for us?

Unfortunately, the possible responses were limited. Because of airport security, Gianni and Mary were unarmed. Earlier, they
had dropped their guns into a convenient sewer. So all they could do, at best, was to duck away, run, and try to lose themselves
among the crowds. If only one of them was spotted, the other had to forget any thought of foolish heroics and just quietly
leave the terminal.

If they were separated and both of them somehow got away, they would try to meet at noon the following day in front of the
Fifth Avenue entrance to the Forty-second Street public library. If that failed to work out, they would try again for the
next three days. After that, they would cut loose and be on their own.

But of course these were their worst-case scenarios.

They were simple, of last resort, and neither Mary nor Gianni ever really expected them to be activated.

It was Mary Yung’s turn.

Garetsky saw her carry her bag to the check-in counter and hand her ticket and brand-new counterfeit passport to the Alitalia
agent.

She was out of there and on her way to the boarding gate in just under five minutes.

Eighteen minutes later, so was Gianni Garetsky.

About half an hour after that, the big 747 was airborne and on the way to Rome.

Parts of him took his wife along for the ride. Leaving America, he felt himself abandoning Teresa as well. He had talked for
years of their taking a trip to Italy, to the “old
country,” but something always seemed to come up with his work. Then she was gone and it was too late.

I waited too long. I should have taken her sooner.

Stop whining,
he told himself.
You did what you did, what you didn’t do, you didn’t do, and beating your breast changes nothing. Besides, did she ever complain?

No.

And wasn’t it always you who talked about Italy, not Teresa ?

Yes.

And what did
she
always say?

That if Italy was so wonderful, how come so many Italians were always leaving it for America.

And what else did she say?

That she didn’t really care where we were, as long as we were there together.

And did you believe her?

Yes.

All right. Then for God’s sake, leave it alone and go to sleep.

P
ETER
W
ALTERS TOOK
a swallow of water from the bottle beside him and felt it cool and pleasant going down. It was just past noon, with the sun
directly overhead and the Barcelona street out front barren of shade.

He sat behind the curtained window of a room he had rented almost directly opposite Abu Homaidi’s house. His rifle with the
high-powered scope lay across the sill, and he touched it from time to time for reassurance.

Come on, Abu. Enough’s enough.

By now he felt less anger than impatience. His anger had
simply run out of adrenaline. It had just left him tired and depressed.

More than two-and-a-half days had passed since he’d had to shoot the Palestinian girl, and her death had affected everything.
Homaidi’s people rarely left the house anymore, and as far as Peter could tell, Homaidi himself hadn’t appeared at all.

You made your move a little too fast,
the girl had told him.

Now she was needlessly dead, Homaidi was warned and trying to wait him out, and he himself had lost the advantage of surprise.

So when had he started screwing up?

Certainly in his last hit, when he’d forgotten to check for sirens. And what others before?

Or was he just psyching himself out? It could happen that way. You start questioning and second-guessing yourself. You worry
enough about something, build doubts, and before you know it, you’re making sure the very worst happens.

Psycho-bullshit.

Yet it wasn’t anywhere near that easy to dismiss. He was having lapses he hadn’t had before. So far, he’d been lucky, but
how long could he go on depending on luck? He was close to forty. Maybe too old, when lives depended on reflexes and concentration.

At best, he was in a lonely landscape. And there was no one who could make it less lonely for him.

There had once been Gianni, of course. They’d run as close, as much in the same blood, as brothers. But that was more than
twenty years ago. Now they weren’t even in the same world.

Just thinking of Gianni Garetsky brought him joy. The guy had really made it. Nice that one of them had. And on his own terms.
No sucking up or selling out.
Bravo, Gianni.

The thought made Peter grin through the curtain at the street below.

An instant later, he stopped grinning.

He reached for his rifle and got down on his knees, in firing position. Carefully, he kept the muzzle back out of sight on
the windowsill.

Two of Homaidi’s men had come out of the door. They stood there for a moment, casually looking around. One of them lit a cigarette
and tossed the match into the gutter. Then they separated and walked in opposite directions. They checked people, parked cars,
the houses on both sides of the street until Peter lost sight of them.

But they soon returned to the door.

A moment later, two more men came out.

They were immediately followed by Abu Homaidi and another three men.

Peter sighted through the scope, enlarging and drawing the group closer. But Homaidi was blocked from view by the bigger men
circling him. Then they began walking up the street to Peter’s left, mingling with other pedestrians, making it impossible
to draw a clear bead on the terrorist.

They stopped at a gray sedan parked on the curb, and Homaidi and three of the group got in. The others stood talking to them
through the car’s windows.

Peter Walters swore softly. Damned if they weren’t trying to sucker him, bait him out of hiding. He could read the whole thing
as easily as that.

He spent a total of five seconds thinking about it, estimating the odds.

Then he flicked the rifle on safety, wrapped it in a light raincoat and went for broke.

He dashed down two flights of stairs, out the back door, and into the narrow serviceway that ran behind the house. He wasn’t
afraid of getting there too late and losing the car. They’d make sure he had enough time to catch sight of them before they
drove off.

Peter moved quickly but calmly. He felt no panic. It was almost as though he had already died and accepted it.

By the time he circled around to the street, got into his car, and drove to where he had last seen Homaidi, the gray sedan
was gone. But he just continued in that direction and saw it moments later about two hundred yards ahead. There were four
cars between them.

Peter settled into his slot and kept it that way.

The traffic was heavy in this part of the city, so it took a while for him to pick out Homaidi’s backup squad in a dun
colored Jeep with six cars in between. The Jeep held four men, and probably enough weaponry to mangle a full platoon.

You can still break out of this,
Peter told himself. But it was only a token thought. This contract remained his. He could feel Abu Homaidi reaching in to
a forest of nerves in his gut. It carried an old excitement.

By the time they reached the coast road, only three cars separated Walters from the gray sedan up front, and two cars, a pickup
and a stationwagon separated him from the Jeep in back. Having a good idea now of how it was going to be, he settled in for
a long stretch.

The final bit of game playing ended about half an hour later as they hit the start of the Costa Brava, Spain’s fabled Wild
Coast, where the road twisted as it climbed, the sea and mountains locking it in, one on each side. The last of the intervening
vehicles had turned off and disappeared. Peter saw no more than the gray sedan in front and the Jeep at his back.

Did he have Homaidi, or did the sonofabitch have him?

Two cars and eight of them. All men, thank God.

One car and one of him.

Even money.

Peter Walters smiled at the road ahead.

He waited for Homaidi to make the first move. Behind him, the Jeep was still holding at two hundred yards. There was no other
traffic moving in their direction.
A
n occasional car passed going the opposite way.

What were they waiting for?

Peter was sure Homaidi was in touch with the Jeep by radiophone. It was the only reasonable way to keep control of an operation
like this.

If I were doing it, I’d be getting off the main coast road very soon now.

I’d be sure to have a good spot picked out in advance. The important thing is isolation. No interruptions.

Moments later the gray car turned off on a road rising to the left. When Walters reached the place, he turned also.

It was a two-lane, rutted blacktop with weeds growing out of endless cracks and potholes. If three cars a day used it, that
would be a lot.

Perfect.

Peter felt energy pumping through him like a crowd in riot.

Clouds had suddenly come in off the sea, and it had started to rain… no more than a heavy drizzle, really, but enough to cut
visibility and get the wipers going. The road twisted and climbed through the beginnings of a pine forest, and Peter heard
its whisperings.

Now,
it told him.

He began slowing with the thought, not hitting the brakes and setting off their warning lights, but just easing up on the
gas and letting the steepness of the grade do the rest.

He watched the rearview mirror.

The driver of the Jeep, maintaining his climbing speed and unprepared for the abrupt slowing, was quickly narrowing the gap
between the two cars.

When the Jeep was no more than about a hundred feet back and still closing, Walters took his foot off the gas pedal entirely,
pulled the pin on one of the fragmentation grenades beside him, and counted to five. Then he leaned from his window, lobbed
the grenade in a high arc back toward the oncoming vehicle, and slammed down hard on the gas pedal.

The car leaped forward and quickly out of range. With frags, you don’t hang around waiting.

Watching the road ahead, Peter never did see exactly where the grenade landed. But when the explosion came, he saw the fireball
in the rearview mirror, saw it rise as the gas tank went, and felt the rush of superheated air catch up with him at a good
hundred yards.

Whatever had to be done now was all in front of him.

The road was narrow and sharply winding here, with the undergrowth and trees pressing close from both sides. Speeding around
a bend, Peter suddenly had to jam on the brakes to keep from crashing into the gray sedan, where it had been left parked across
the road.

Then he was down under the dashboard as they opened up with everything they had, and they had a lot. By sound and impact alone,
Peter was able to pick out two submachine guns, a high-powered rifle, and an automatic pistol. They were in the brush at the
left side of the road. All four of
them. He thanked Jesus, Cortlandt, and the Company for the car’s heavy steel plating, standard equipment lately on his assignments.
Without it, he’d now be Swiss cheese. He might yet be. But he still had a few things to do.

That’s some fucking Homaidi.

Who’d have expected this?

No wonder he’d lasted so long.

There was a break in the firing as they stopped to reload, and Peter went to work.

Staying down, he groped for the gas mask above him on the seat, found it, and put it on.

Then he picked up and tossed his two remaining fragmentation grenades, carefully counting to twelve this time because his
targets were no more than twenty feet away, and he didn’t want the damn things getting thrown back at him.

He tossed blindly through the driver’s window, head down behind the armor plating. He heard the crackling roar of the two
blasts going off, then the metallic rattle of shrapnel against the car and the whine of steel flying over his head. He thought
he heard a cry, but he couldn’t be sure. Homaidi and his people were flat out among brush and trees, so there had to be a
measure of protection in simply that.