Hazard (28 page)

Catherine's next two throws were also near misses. She went to the board, pulled out one of the darts and jabbed it point blank into the activating area. The girl on the film began undressing.

“Not fair,” said Hazard.

“All's fair,” said Catherine.

Pinchon agreed with her. He'd taken the liberty of pouring Catherine a cognac. He held it out and she refused by ignoring it, choosing instead to be close beside Hazard, who reached and took the snifter from Pinchon's hand.

That was more or less how the evening had gone for Pinchon up to then. Not at all as he'd expected. To distract this Edmund Stevens he had provided Contessa Pilar Falconetti, a beautiful, young Italian socialite accustomed to getting on her terms whatever and whomever she happened to want. Pinchon had explained the circumstances to Pilar in advance, and they had agreed her favor was worth five thousand francs. Not that Pilar needed the money, really. She had wealth enough to go along with her authentic title. Five thousand would hardly cover what she spent each month on shoes alone. However, as Pinchon knew from past experience, she preferred being paid. Somehow it always enhanced her performance and increased her pleasure.

Over drinks before dinner Pilar had indicated to Pinchon that she approved of the arrangement. The American introduced as Edmund Stevens aroused a most favorable first impression, and she began at once to keep her part of the bargain, putting a little simmer in her eyes whenever her glance met Hazard's. When her attention was elsewhere but she knew his was on her, she embraced her own bare shoulder or ran her fingers over the inner bend of her arm, suggesting how pleasant she was to touch. Hopefully his hands would identify with hers.

During dinner Pilar was more direct. She flattered Hazard with her laughter and gestures, and in between her contributions to the conversation her eyes said other things to him. Frequently she made sure he noticed the wet pink pillow of her tongue.

Pinchon soon realized his strategy was backfiring. He had counted on Catherine being blasé, as usual. He'd thought she'd be amused and join him in observing Pilar perform her specialty. Instead Catherine showed she cared, reacted possessively toward Hazard and tried to outdo Pilar. Pinchon was not receiving even his fair share of the attention. He had to go on the offensive.

“What do you do, Stevens?” he asked.

“Ed,” corrected Hazard. “I'm a surgeon.” He'd been prepared for the question but the answer he'd had in mind was advertising executive. He hadn't even considered surgeon. It had just come out.

Pinchon glanced distrustfully at Hazard's hands. “You're good with a knife?”

Hazard was reminded of the one tucked inside his right boot. “Actually,” he told Pinchon, “I'm better with a saw.” Having fun with it, Hazard went on, “Of course, I never use an axe. Never.”

Catherine wondered what the hell Hazard was up to now.

“I assume you specialize in amputations,” Pinchon said.

Hazard shrugged. “More often than not it's all that can be done. Though I do manage to save a limb now and then.”

“Admirable,” Pinchon commented.

Catherine smiled, catching on.

Pilar clutched her arms, cringing at the thought that she'd been well on the way to intimacy with this butcher.

“Just last month,” Hazard continued, “I was called in on a very interesting case in Boston. The patient was over two hundred years old and—”

Pinchon's eyes went up.

“That's not so old,” said Hazard. “I've seen some over four hundred and thriving. Mostly oaks but even a few hardy maples.”

“You're a …”

“Tree surgeon.”

Pinchon was annoyed, feeling that this bit of fun had been at his expense. He doubted Stevens was telling the truth. More likely, the man was just another indolent American floater living by his wits. Anyway, tree surgeon or not, he was hardly a serious rival.

“Are you over on a vacation?” Pinchon asked.

Hazard nodded. “Pursuing my hobby.”

“Me,” Catherine said.

“Egyptian antiquities,” said Hazard.

“How fascinating,” Pilar said. “Of course you know Jean-Claude has a splendid collection.”

“I'd like to see it.”

“Perhaps later,” Pinchon said, and then to Catherine, “Do you still have those Egyptian beads I gave you?”

She didn't remember. And then she did. “Oh, those. No, I gave them to my secretary, Peter.”

“They were twenty-eighth dynasty, authenticated by the curator of the Cairo Museum.”

“Peter adores them; he wears them all the time.”

Pinchon almost concealed his irritation and told her, “They belonged to Ankhesenamun.” He asked if Hazard knew who that was.

Hazard managed to pull it out of his mental file. “She was the widow of Nebkheprure-Tutankamen. Married three times. Once before and once after the death of Tut. Her last marriage was to her grandfather, Ay, who was also her great-uncle. The intent of that incestuous union was to protect her throne from an ambitious general named Horemheb. But Horemheb got to be Pharaoh anyway. Incidentally,” Hazard added for good measure, “Horemheb married Mutnedjmet, the sister of Nefertiti.”

Pinchon wished he hadn't asked.

Catherine was impressed, said so, and blew a kiss Hazard's way.

Which inspired Pilar to share with Hazard some of her apricot mousse via the little silver spoon that had been in her mouth.

Having one's ego spoonfed by a ravishing contessa was by no means distasteful. However, Hazard reminded himself of his purpose for being there. When he'd killed Badr four days before in London he'd been left with only one connection that might lead him to the whereabouts of Hatum and Mustafa. The last he'd seen of any of them they were at Heathrow catching a flight with Pinchon.

Hazard, pretending mild curiosity, had asked Catherine about the Frenchman. Influenced by her own motives she mistook his interest in Pinchon as a show of jealousy. An encouraging sign, she thought, certainly contrary to the platonic boundaries Hazard had set on their relationship. She couldn't, of course, come right out and accuse him of jealousy but she playfully hinted it. Hazard got the message.

He also recognized the advantage of it and, playing the part, denied he was jealous. Catherine, predictably, enjoyed revealing what she knew about Pinchon. As it turned out, it wasn't all that much. Pinchon was very wealthy, terribly attractive, had been madly in love with her for ages, and still was. Hardly what Hazard wanted to hear. He wanted to know why Pinchon was socializing with Arabs, particularly these Arabs. Catherine had only a vague notion about that. She said she thought Pinchon had some business interests in the Mideast. Hazard tactfully pressed for more but she didn't know.

The only significant fact Hazard got from Catherine was where Pinchon lived.

A day later he was packed and ready to go.

Where? Catherine had wanted to know.

Just somewhere to relax, Hazard had told her—Paris, maybe, for a day or so and then down to the south of France.

Oh? It so happened, she'd told him, she knew an ideal place. She had a charming, small house in Eze.

Eze?

It was a little medieval town set on a coastal peak between Monaco and Cap Ferrat.

Hazard hesitated.

Not to worry, she said with some exasperation; her place in Eze wasn't all that small. It had several bedrooms.

A quick revision of his plans. Instead of moving conspicuously about on his own or trying to arrange some plausible way of meeting up with Pinchon again, he decided Catherine would provide an immediate direct entrée. He'd previously considered and rejected the idea, preferring not to use or involve her any further, but her house in Eze was a good enough excuse and he could hardly stop her from going there. Catherine didn't bother to ask if he minded if she went along, nor did she wait for him to accept her Eze invitation. She quickly tossed a few things into a bag and phoned to order the private jet that was always on stand by.

On the flight to Nice she napped against him, most of the while pretending she was asleep and therefore not responsible for being so close, or for her hands. From time to time Hazard glanced to see if her eyes were honestly shut. They seemed to be. He noticed her lashes were long enough to be false, but were true, and a wisp of her fine, clean hair errantly teased his nose and lips.

He forced his mind off her and onto what lay ahead. If Mustafa and Hatum weren't at Cap Ferrat, at least he'd somehow have to find out about them from Pinchon. On the other hand, if Mustafa and Hatum were there, it would simplify matters. Or would it? What about the big, ugly one they called Gabil? He might also be around.

Hazard still hadn't come up with a good enough explanation for Gabil's actions in that rug place. Vivid in his memory were those moments when he'd looked up into the pointing nose of Gabil's gun, when his life hung on a squeeze by Gabil's trigger finger. Thinking about it still made Hazard's stomach grab. Why hadn't Gabil killed him when he'd had both reason and opportunity? And why had Gabil so conscientiously cleaned up everything—Badr's body, bloody rug, everything? Evidently at the time neatness had been essential. Gabil had to make sure there was no evidence, no incriminating trail.… And the killing of a
DIA
agent would only have caused more of a mess. So Gabil had to pass up the chance—even though the agent had just killed a comrade.

One thing for sure, by now Gabil had told Mustafa and Hatum who he really was and what he'd done, and no doubt they now had him linked to Carl. That meant no more surprises in his favor. If those Arabs were in Cap Ferrat, he'd be walking right into it.

Turbulence.

The jet buffeted, hit a pocket, and dropped sharply, causing Hazard momentarily to feel weightless. Catherine held on more and he held her. And then the going became smooth again. Catherine resettled herself close to continue her nap.

After a while Hazard removed his arm from around her and found a pillow for her head. He got up and went forward. His piece of luggage was there in a storage cubicle. He pulled it out and opened it, pausing to glance back at Catherine to make sure she was asleep. He couldn't know she was observing him through the diffusion of her lashes.

From the carton of images he selected one at random and slipped it into his jacket pocket. After closing the suitcase and shoving it back into the cubicle, he went aft to the lavatory.

The feeling of being pressured was intensified by the small enclosure. It was also rougher there in the rear section of the plane, which wasn't going to help. At least this time, he thought, he'd be able to make a specific meaningful notation on the reverse side of the image card. Those he'd made up to then had been necessarily vague, rather poor excuses. This, however, would be an interesting first. He'd never tried sending from five miles up and going like hell. Maybe it couldn't be done.

Three minutes to midnight.

He ripped open the small envelope to get at the image, expecting it would be, as all the others had been, a color photograph. Instead it was a message, five words from Byron and no doubt intentionally chosen by Kersh.

HAPPINESS WAS BORN A TWIN

Hazard sat on the toilet and stuck the image card between the lower frame and glass of the mirror that faced him. He slouched forward and down to avoid his reflection, centered his thoughts on the message, told himself to disregard its meaning and just send it. That wasn't easy. His mind insisted on taking it personally, and he felt obliged to deny it. Hell, he'd spent a lot of happy times alone. He had been and could be absolutely happy without anyone. He raised his head just enough to look into his own eyes telling him he was a liar.

Come on, get on it, he told himself, and thought Keven. Thought her. The message. His mind saw it and her and as she would see it, all at once. The fusion was very clear, intense, and lasted longer than usual. And when Hazard was again fully aware of being carried swiftly through the night sky somewhere over France, he would have bet anything that this time he'd scored a hit.

Now, a night later, he was in Pinchon's game room.

As yet, not a sign of Hatum or Mustafa, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Apparently Pinchon and the two Arabs had taken separate flights that night at Heathrow. To find out where the Arabs had gone, possibly where they were, he'd first have to do some repairing with Pinchon. No matter how much he instinctively disliked the Frenchman, he had to stop provoking him. For starters, Hazard decided he'd better go along with what Pinchon had so obviously set up for him—the prepossessing Contessa.

At the moment she was off to the side playing a pin-ball machine. Hazard went over to watch. He saw it was a bit more than a regular machine with flippers. Painted on its slanted inner surface were several nude female figures that anatomically corresponded with its many lively bumpers and rewarding holes. The object was to light up all eight bright red letters of the word
BORDELLO
, which was the name of the game.

Pilar was good at it, Hazard noticed. She showed excellent reflexes in controlling and working the flippers. Time and time again the silver ball zinged noisily from bumper to bumper and tried to gravitate through the bottom opening. But Pilar would mercilessly flip it back up into play. She had all the letters of the required word lighted, except for one of the
L
s. She jiggled the machine to get more action out of it and even applied some body English—short little pelvic thrusts, as though that would influence.

Hazard tried not to pay obvious attention to that but then thought she would probably prefer he did. Between plays he offered her a sip of his brandy. Her smile told him she took it for more than it was worth.

“What happens when you get all the lights on?” he asked, meaning
BORDELLO
.

She didn't know but assumed it would be something appropriate.