THE PERFECT KILL (23 page)

“Oh, about one o’clock. It might go on a bit late though. You know what Curtis is like. Don’t make any plans until after six o’clock. Anyway, you’ll enjoy it. It’s quite a diverse bunch of people.”

He laughed. “Yes, you do have the strangest friends. I look forward to it. “Bye, honey.”

Miller came out of the kitchen, holding a piece of paper, on which he had jotted down the conversation. He put it on the bar and the two men leaned close and studied it.

With a pencil, Miller underlined several sentences. Then he gestured and they carried their drinks out into the garden.

“So they took the bait,” Miller said with great satisfaction.

“Between one o’clock and six o’clock today six of the Morettis’ soldiers left Detroit airport for diverse destinations.” He smiled. He was obviously enjoying himself.

He glanced at the Senator and said, “Naturally, they wouldn’t all pile on one plane and fly straight to Denver. That would have been obvious, but still, since they all left within five hours, it means they haven’t tumbled to the extra FBI surveillance, otherwise they’d have spread it over two or three days.” He looked down at the paper in his hand and said, “Senator, you’ll have your fling with Nicole four nights from tonight.”

“Why wait that long?” Grainger asked. “I’d like to get the damn thing over and get back to normal life.”

“Because I’m waiting for reinforcements,” Miller answered.

They’re bound to have two or three people here already, which makes a total of around nine or ten.”

“How many reinforcements?”

“Just one.”

The Senator glanced at him and remarked, “So it’s going to be six against nine or ten? Not very good odds, Frank.”

The Australian was still smiling. “Beautiful odds,” he said. “Just beautiful”

James S. Grainger found himself tense but not frightened. He was into his first exposure. Two minutes earlier, he had slipped out of the restaurant, through the back door via the kitchen, nodding pleasantly to the surprised chef. He found himself in a wide alley. The blue Ford was parked exactly where Miller said it would be. Miller had told him he would not be exposed until he pulled out into the street. Up to that point, he would be covered.

He pulled on the white cotton gloves that Frank had given him.

Now he was tense. He was in the street amongst the traffic, his eyes watching the other cars and, when he stopped at traffic lights, watching the pedestrians.

It took him only three minutes to reach the apartment building, which was on a quiet, tree-lined avenue. As instructed he parked fifty yards past it. He felt the tension rising further. He looked around. Across the avenue, an old woman was walking an elaborately coiffured toy poodle. Further down a young couple came towards him, holding hands. He waited until they were alongside the car, swiftly got out, locked the door and followed them. They passed the building and he quickly moved to the door.

The apartment building operated on an entry phone system. He placed himself in front of it, shielding it from observation, and pushed number 204. Instantly, Nicole’s voice answered. As instructed, he said into the speaker, “It’s Jim. 505.” The door clicked open.

With a surge of relief, he went in, closing it behind him. In front of him was the elevator. The stairs were to his right. As instructed, he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Miller was standing in the open doorway of apartment 204, his pistol held high in his right hand, pointing at the ceiling. He stood aside to let Grainger in but remained at the open door for another two minutes, listening. The woman was sitting on the settee. She was indeed beautiful: long, dark, straight hair, high cheekbones and a wide, red mouth. But she was not dressed like an important man’s mistress. She was wearing a denim shirt tucked into denim jeans.

She did not get up from the sofa. Grainger walked over and was about to say something when she held a finger to her red lips. He turned and watched Miller listening at the open door.

He was wearing a knee-length black raincoat which bulged at the front and sides. Finally satisfied, Miller closed the door, walked over to the dining table, laid the pistol on it and took his raincoat off. Underneath, a webbed harness covered his chest. Clipped to it, on his left side, was a shotgun, with its barrels sawn off very short. It was an over and under shotgun but with a difference. It had two barrels on top, and two below. On his right side hung a very small submachine-gun with a folded butt. Next to it three spare magazines protruded from a pouch. He unclipped the weapons and laid them on the table. Then he picked up a pistol and slid it into a shoulder holster under his left armpit. He smiled and said, “So far, so good.”

The woman stood up and as though he was running a dating agency, Miller said, “Jim, this is Nicole. Nicole, this is Jim.”

She held out a hand and very formally, the Senator shook it. He found himself a bit lost for words, which for a politician is highly unusual. She smiled and withdrew her hand and walked to a cabinet in the corner saying, “I’m told you drink whisky and soda, Jim.”

She turned to look at Miller who said, “Nothing for me.”

He looked at the Senator and said, “Drink it slowly, Senator, you’re only to have three over the next two hours.”

She walked over and handed him the drink, sat down on the settee, picked up a woman’s magazine from the coffee table and started reading.

The Senator carried his drink over to Miller and asked, “What happens now?”

“We wait,” Miller answered. “We wait to find out if the hook has sunk in deep.”

“How will we know?”

The Australian pointed at the table. Next to the weapons was a small black metal box that he and the other two bodyguards always carried. Next to the box was a notepad and pencil.

“When that thing starts bleeping, we’ll know.”

Back at the restaurant, Maxie MacDonald had acted out the charade of checking out the men’s room and even the ladies’ room. He questioned the chef and then hurriedly went out the back door. Rene was waiting for him in a rented car.

Grainger noted that both Nicole and Miller wore the same white cotton gloves. He was on his second drink when the little black box emitted its first beep. It went on beeping for several minutes, while Miller made notes on the pad. When it stopped, he hit the button five times at varying intervals. Then he turned and smiled at Grainger.

“The hook has sunk deep.”

The Senator walked over and looked down at the pad. There were just rows of letters, haphazardly arranged.

“Morse code?” he asked.

“No,” Miller answered. “It’s our own code.”

“What does it mean?”

Miller stood up, stretched his frame and adjusted his shoulder holster. “It means,” he said, “that the Moretti family have got two cars in position. One in the avenue with three men in it, including a Moretti brother. He was recognised from file photographs that Curtis Bennett gave us. They must be getting paid a hell of a lot of money, to risk inside family…a hell of a lot.” He walked to the window which fronted the avenue, opened the curtains a crack, and peered through. Over his left shoulder, he said, “Can’t see anything from here, but it’s about forty yards to the left. A black Pontiac. I can’t see it because of the trees. The back-up car is on the corner with one man in it. A spare car in case the other malfunctions. Very thorough.”

“What will their plan be?” Grainger asked.

Miller turned from the window and walked back to the table.

“It will be one of three things,” he said. “The car in the avenue will be parked close to yours. They could wait until you get to your car and make the “snatch” there. Or as you come out of the entrance, the car will move in on you, come up onto the curb and spill out the men.” He smiled. Grainger had the distinct impression that he was enjoying himself. Miller went on, “But we think it will almost certainly be the third way.”

“Which is?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes before eleven o’clock, when you’re scheduled to come out of the building, a man will be hanging around within a few yards of the front door. It could be a drunk or a well-dressed businessman looking for an address. It could be anyone, but definitely someone young and fit. When you walk out of the building he’ll approach you with a question. It could be a request for directions or the drunk begging a buck for another drink…anything. He’ll try to get very close to you. He’ll then either grab you and hold you physically, or hold a gun on you, until the car pulls alongside and you’re dragged in.”

“So, what do I do?” Grainger asked.

“What you do,” Miller replied, “is not let that man get within four yards of you. As soon as he’s that close you turn and head straight back for the door, which will be wedged slightly open.”

“What if he pulls a gun and shoots me in the back?”

The Australian shook his head.

“He won’t. A second after you turn he’ll be dead, and then there’ll be a short sharp war. You will stay in the hall until you hear this signal on the door.” He bent down and with his knuckles rapped on the table three times, paused, and then rapped three times again. “After that you come out fast.”

He started pacing up and down, always standing near the table and the weapons. “But we’re missing two or three men,” he went on.

“We are? But we only had six.”

Miller shook his head. “No, we are missing two or three of their soldiers. There are four in the two cars below, and the one who will be hanging about at the entrance. That makes five. We know they have maybe three or four more. One of them will certainly be manning their base, wherever it is, but the other two or three will be elsewhere.”

“Where might that be?” Grainger asked.

Miller stopped pacing and said to him, “Because of their known expertise, we think they’ll have a back-up team somewhere. The logical place would be on the road leading to your house.” He looked at his watch. “They’ll probably not move into place until about twenty minutes to eleven. It’s a quiet area and they wouldn’t want to be seen hanging about too long. All the residents’ cars in the area are parked off the road. We’ll be looking for a vehicle parked beside the road. Anyway, we’re now certain of one thing. It’s one hundred percent positive that they’ve set up a “snatch” and not a “kill”.”

He turned to look at Nicole and asked her, “Would you mind making some coffee? How about you, Senator?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

She put the magazine on the coffee table and walked into the kitchen.

“How can you be totally certain?” Grainger asked.

Miller waved at the window.

“Because of the set-up out there. If it was a “kill” they’d only use up to three men. One to make the hit, one for a back-up and one to drive the car…believe me it’s definitely a “snatch”.” He looked at his watch. “It’s quarter past ten, so try to relax a bit. Have a last whisky.”

“I’ll put it in my coffee,” Grainger answered.

Suddenly the little black box gave off a series of beeps. Quickly, Miller hurried forward, listened and made a brief note on his pad. Then he hit the button twice and straightened up.

“Just routine,” he said to Grainger. “Nothing’s changed. They’ll check in now, every ten minutes, unless something happens.”

Nicole came in carrying a tray and served them coffee. Grainger took his over to the drinks cabinet and poured a slug of Scotch into it. Then he carried it back to the table and looked down at the two weapons.

“Quite a bit of fire power,” he said.

“Yes,” Miller agreed. He tapped the sawn-off shotgun. “Probably the best close range weapon ever invented.”

“What’s the submachine-gun?” Grainger asked.

“It’s an Ingram Model 10. Its main advantage is its size. It’s easy to conceal, but its rate of fire is too high. I’d have preferred an Uzi, but for this job, it’s too bulky.”

They chatted about weapons and Grainger told him about his days in the army and about Korea. Then the little black box beeped again. Miller merely listened and then hit the button twice in acknowledgement.

“Routine again,” Miller said and looked at his watch. “Half an hour to go.” He started pacing again.

The black box beeped again ten minutes later, but again it was routine. But when it beeped five minutes afterwards, it continued doing so for a couple of minutes while Miller made notes.

Then he punched out the acknowledgement, turned with a grin and said, “They’ve located the back-up team.”

“Where?”

“About a mile from your home. They’re in a small white truck. At least two of them and probably two more in the back.”

“How do you know it’s them?”

“Because two of them got out, opened the hood and started fiddling with the engine. One of them was the youngest Moretti brother.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“They’ll be taken care of,” Miller answered flatly.

He looked at his watch, then glanced at Nicole and said, “Fifteen minutes to go.” She nodded, got up and went to the bedroom.

Two minutes later, she came out wearing a navy blue coat and holding a small bag. She put the bag by the door and went back to the settee. One minute later, the black box beeped and went on beeping. When it finally stopped, Miller hit the button five times in sequence, and then turned to face Grainger.

“It’s a cop,” he said.

“What is?”

“The man we expected to turn up and hang about, near the entrance.”

“A cop!” Grainger said incredulously.

“Well, one of the Morettis’ soldiers dressed as a cop.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s an old trick,” Miller answered. “It’s been used by the Red Brigades in Italy and by right-wing hit squads all over Central and South America. People don’t suspect a cop.”

“But you can’t be sure?”

Again Miller shrugged. “He’s lurking next to a tree, ten yards from the entrance, in the shadows. Real cops don’t lurk in the shadows. He’s there in case a real cop car cruises past. He can move behind the tree. Don’t worry, he’s a Moretti soldier.” He picked up the sawn-off shotgun and clipped it to his harness, its four blunt barrels pointing downwards. Then he clipped on the SMG in the same way. He slipped on the raincoat but didn’t button it. It hung over the weapons, concealing them.