Hazard (29 page)

“Maybe all you get is a free game,” Hazard said.

“That,” she said, “would be most disappointing.” She pointed to a large, white, rectangular area on the upright glass partition of the machine. “Something happens there.”

“An inside look?”

“Let's hope so.”

With that she released the plunger, shooting the next ball out into action. It caromed from one electric bumper to another, tattooing a sound of tiny bells. It dropped helplessly into holes that quickly rejected it. But somehow it avoided the roll-over that would light up that last letter. Pilar kept the ball in play and Hazard found himself going along with it, wanting to see if she was right about the reward.

He'd never know. Because at that moment Catherine intruded, broke Pilar's concentration, and made her miss with the flippers. The ball escaped.

Catherine asked Pilar to show her the way to the nearest loo.

“I'm sure you can find it.”

“I wouldn't want to get lost,” said Catherine, her words really intended for Hazard.

Pilar obliged, reluctantly. The two women went from the room, leaving Hazard alone with Pinchon.

An uncomfortable moment.

Hazard was tempted to just come right out and ask Pinchon about his Arab friends. Instead he told him, “You have a very unhealthy pair of
Cedrus libani.
”

“Really?” Pinchon almost looked down at himself.

Hazard explained that he was referring to the two large trees that flanked the villa's entrance. Cedars of Lebanon. “On the way in tonight I noticed they badly need attention.”

“My grandfather planted them,” said Pinchon.

“I just thought you should know.”

“Are they in danger?”

“Possibly.”

“I don't suppose you'd consider taking a professional look at them?”

“I'm on holiday, but as a personal favor to you …”

A false, grateful smile from Pinchon. “Naturally I'd expect to pay. Let's say double your usual fee, considering the circumstances.”

“On one condition.”

“Whatever.”

“You promised to show me your Egyptian collection.”

“I always keep my word.”

Pinchon wanted to reduce Hazard to an inferior position, an employee. Hazard, meanwhile, was trying to put some noncompetitive points on the board, and also set himself up for a look around the grounds. He crossed the room to where French doors were wide open. He stood in front of them, looking out.

“You know,” he said, “there may come a day when trees are more important to the world than people.”

Pinchon thought that perhaps with this man trees would be more effective than Pilar.

“You should have music outside,” Hazard said. “You'd be amazed how trees respond to music. It makes them happier and healthier.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Pinchon said.

Hazard continued looking out. “Would you mind if I wander around a bit? I'd like to see what else you have besides cedars.”

Pinchon gestured his permission. He was glad to get rid of him. Let the nature-loving son of a bitch go worship bees. Catherine would be coming back any moment.

Hazard stepped out onto a side terrace. Feeling Pinchon's eyes on him, he paused to look up appreciatively at the sky. It was a clear, warm night with a pleasant sea smell. He strolled along the terrace and, once again for Pinchon's benefit, stopped to inspect a tall palm. Then he continued on leisurely to a corner of the spacious villa where, sure he was out of view, he dropped the act.

The grounds were well kept and subtly lighted. Hazard went down some wide stone stairs to a landing. He was startled from above by a white figure obscured by shadowy foliage, but he quickly determined it was only an armless statue and went on down to the rear of the villa. He scanned the area, not really searching for anything or anyone, he thought, merely satisfying his curiosity. At most just making sure.

Topiary. Hedges trimmed to form obelisks and spheres, and there was a free-standing stone archway. Hazard went through it to enter a long, dark tunnel. It took him a while to realize he was on a paved path between two precisely parallel rows of pear trees, their slender branches bent and trained to create the tunnel effect. The opening at the far end presented a patch of turquoise that turned out to be a large swimming pool with an extensive cabana. Off to the left and set back a ways was a two-story building that Hazard assumed was a guest house. Its ground-floor lights were on and a series of irregular thudding sounds came from there.

Hazard went to investigate. He approached one of the windows and peered in.

Mustafa was lying face up on a gym mat. Dressed only in a pair of boxer-type undershorts, he was doing press-ups with weighted bar bells—up and down from his chest to straight above his head. His face was red and clenched with strain; his shoulder, arm and chest muscles bulged powerfully.

Nearby was Hatum, also in shorts. He was working out on a heavy canvas punching bag, which explained the thuds Hazard had just heard. Hatum had a fighter's build, hard and tight with strong, thick legs. He didn't move around the bag but stood with his feet planted solidly to deliver spurts of sharp, hooking blows.

Hazard realized the opportunity. He had them completely unaware and unarmed. From where he stood they were easy targets, less than twelve feet away. But the closed window was a problem. If he shot through a pane or broke it out he might be able to get only one of them for sure. Better to make certain, go in and get them both. Then he'd have four of a kind—all dead, all done. It would be messy and incriminating, but he doubted he'd ever get another chance at them as easy as this.

He looked left and right. No entrance there. He looked in again and saw that the way in was from the side. Quietly he went around and found the door. He hoped it wasn't locked.

He paused to think ahead. He'd go for Hatum first because Mustafa was on the floor. He'd get Hatum in the back of the head, at the base of the skull. One shot. By then Mustafa would be on the way up. He'd stop Mustafa with a body shot and finish him off with another, more vitally placed.

He unbuttoned his jacket, reached in under, and slipped the Llama down and out. Its grip felt warm to his hand, familiar by now. He took a deep breath and told himself he couldn't lose this one, it was a boat race. He was about to reach for the doorknob when he sensed someone and glanced around.

Gabil was about six paces away, silhouetted by the swimming pool.

Hazard's impulse was to fire. His finger on the trigger automatically took up the slack.

“No!” Gabil whispered sharply, a command.

Ambivalence froze Hazard.

Gabil came slowly to him, loomed a whole head taller. To eliminate the threat of the Llama he took hold of Hazard's forearm, not roughly, and pushed it down as though it were an unwilling pump handle. “Come with me,” Gabil whispered, then turned and walked off.

Hazard decided to follow, staying in the shadows as Gabil did. The big man led the way into one of the dark canvas-enclosed recesses of the cabana. Hazard kept some distance between them.

Gabil told him, “Put it away.”

Hazard still had the Llama in hand. The dim, bluish light reflected from the swimming pool made Gabil appear even more formidable, grotesque. He reminded Hazard of a heavyweight he'd seen in an old fight film, a giant Italian named Primo Camera, who'd suffered a terrible beating from a former champion named Max Baer.

“I don't want to hurt you,” Gabil said with some impatience.

That seemed true enough, Hazard thought. Twice now Gabil had had the advantage and not taken it. He could have easily come down from behind on Hazard just moments before. Hazard figured the least he could do was to stop pointing the Llama at him. As a compromise Hazard brought that hand down to his side.

“We need to talk,” said Gabil, “but not now or here.”

“About what?”

Gabil ignored the question. “Tomorrow afternoon in Villefranche at a place called l'Aiguille. If I am not there by three, then the next day.”

Hazard was somewhat taken aback by Gabil's crisp, intelligent manner of speaking. It contradicted the big Arab's ugly looks.

A loud splash, and another.

Mustafa and Hatum had dived into the pool, having a swim after their workout. Gabil left Hazard and went out to them. From the dark enclosure of the cabana Hazard watched them as they swam awkwardly, thrashed the water as though they feared it. That, thought Hazard, was the desert in them. After doing a couple of lengths and floating around some they got out and Gabil went with them into the guest house.

Hazard returned the Llama to its holster, thinking how close he'd been to finishing what he'd set out to do. In a way he was glad he hadn't. It would have been impetuous, perhaps even suicidal. There would be other, more discreet chances now that he'd located his targets. But what about Gabil—what the hell was he up to? Why had he again acted so strangely? Maybe he'd find out tomorrow.

He went back to the villa via the pear-tree tunnel. In the game room Pinchon was trying to keep Catherine amused with card tricks. Hazard went straight for the brandy. Pilar came over to him.

“I have a headache.” Her eyes let him know she was lying.

“Tension,” said Hazard.

“A
splitting
headache.”

“Try some aspirin,” Hazard told her and went over to watch Pinchon. He saw right off that the Frenchman was using a shaved deck and wasn't really good at it. Catherine was bored. She asked Hazard, “By chance do you play gin rummy?” She knew damn well he did.

“Strictly by chance,” Hazard replied.

“Jean-Claude is one of the best players in all Europe. He's veritably unbeatable.”

“Would you care to play a few hands?” Pinchon asked Hazard.

“For money?”

“Just enough to make it interesting, say five francs a point.”

Hazard quickly converted that—about a dollar a point.

Pinchon obviously was out to hustle him, and the high stakes were intended to embarrass him in front of Catherine.

“Come on, Edmund, be a sport,” Catherine urged.

“Okay, as long as I can quit whenever I feel I've had enough.”

Agreed.

They moved to an appropriate table. Pinchon broke open a new deck and shuffled with style.

Hazard hadn't wagered on anything for nearly a week. He was hungry for action.

They cut for deal.

That was the only thing Pinchon won.

Hazard's mnemonic ability allowed him to remember every discard in the stack, and by mentally combining the discards with the cards in his hand he knew almost exactly what Pinchon was holding.

While Pinchon cursed his luck and became more and more agitated, Hazard piled up points and boxes, blitzed and blitzed again. At the end of two hours it was Pinchon who'd had enough.

“You play well for a tree surgeon,” he said as he paid off in cash. Fifty-five thousand francs.

Hazard almost felt a little guilty.

Catherine told Pinchon he was a very good loser.

Pinchon wasn't sure she meant that as a compliment.

L'Aiguille was a bistro. A neighborhood place situated on a side street three blocks from the Villefranche waterfront.

Like nearly every bistro in France it was decorated with tasteless total regard for indestructability. Every possible surface was covered with garish plastic of one sort or another, and all edges were trimmed protectively with metal stripping. As though to avoid being different, it offered no more than the usual drinks and served only
saucisson, jambon,
and
fromage
sandwiches. There was, however, one imaginative aspect to the place. A local rumor had it that the bistro's owner had once been active in drug traffic in Marseilles and out of gratitude and memory of his past, murky pursuits had chosen the name l'Aiguille—the Needle. The owner denied the rumor so emphatically everyone believed it. In fact he'd previously been a woolen-mill worker in Lyon and had chosen the name l'Aiguille because most of the money that financed the bistro had come from saving every centime his wife had earned over the years as a seamstress.

There were only five customers in l'Aiguille that Saturday afternoon in June. Three were regulars standing at the bar drinking
vin ordinaire
and agreeing with typical dour French dissatisfaction that Pompidou was doing everything wrong. They paid no attention to the two men seated at a table in the rear.

Hazard and Gabil.

“Killing Badr accomplished nothing,” Gabil was saying.

Hazard silently disagreed. He'd decided in advance to say as little as possible.

“And now apparently you're after Mustafa or Hatum.”

“Both.”

“Those are your orders?”

A nod from Hazard. It was better they believed that.

Gabil appraised the man opposite him and thought he didn't have the look of an official killer. No cold, covered anxiety in the eyes, although some tightness at the corners suggested inner tension. Most disarming was his casual manner. A practiced style, no doubt, but convincing. It would encourage one to accept this easy-going American at face value, make the mistake of underestimating him. Gabil recalled how deliberately Hazard had blown Badr's brains out.

“The least I can do is forewarn you,” Gabil said.

“I thought you would.”

“There's no way to talk you out of it?”

“Don't even try.”

“I can appreciate that.” Gabil nodded. “You're expected to do your job. However, I hope you'll be equally understanding.”

Hazard waited.

Gabil told him, “I promise I won't kill you unless it is unavoidable.”

“You avoided it in London,” Hazard said.

“Yes.”

“Better to keep things uncomplicated, right?”

“Better for me if I had killed you,” Gabil said. “I could use the credit.”