Hazard (33 page)

Hazard accelerated to get closer behind the Mercedes as the highway descended and became part of the town—a small town, considering its special importance, less than two kilometers from end to end.

They entered from the north on Avenue Victoria, which was the main way. Along both sides were modest houses of pale stucco, most with their shutters closed. Avenue Victoria changed without apparent cause to become Boulevard Thiers, lined with plane trees and small shops that more than anything else offered perfume for sale to tourists who believed they could save by coming to the source and ended up paying double dearly for the fancy bottles made of thick glass that magnified meager quarter ounces.

Hazard was only a car length behind the Mercedes when they reached the Place de la Foux. It was then that the Peugeot began to jerk and cough. Hazard could do nothing but coast and just barely make it to the sign that said “
essence
” and to the two gas pumps that stood at the curb. There was no hurrying the wine-faced attendant, who pretended not to understand in order to sell a whole tankful rather than the five gallons Hazard tried to say was all he wanted. It was by no means a fast pit stop. Hatum was long gone. Hazard considered trying to catch up but decided it would be futile. Might as well return to Cap Ferrat.

“As long as we're here let's look around,” Kevin suggested.

“You want some perfume?”

“Do I need some?”

“No.”

They drove down the main boulevard, which again arbitrarily changed its name to du Jeu de Ballon and then reverted to de Gaulle for a single block before becoming Victor Hugo. On reaching the edge of town, Hazard turned the car around and went back.

It was at a square with a fountain that Keven spotted a black Mercedes. Maybe it was the one. It was parked down a divergent one-way sidestreet, and Hazard had to circle around the narrow streets to get to it. As they approached the Mercedes they saw Hatum come out of a building that identified itself with a tasteful black-and-gold plaque as the Parfumerie de Fragonard. Hatum was carrying a pale blue carton about half the size of a shoe box. No chance for Hazard. Hatum got quickly into the car and pulled away.

Hazard followed left and right and onto the boulevard, and it was soon obvious they were headed out of Grasse the same way they'd come. Hatum was now bound for Cap Ferrat. For Hazard it would be nothing but a useless round trip.

“Anyway,” said Keven, “I enjoyed the ride.”

Hazard promised himself he'd have a more productive evening.

The Mercedes was then about a hundred or so yards ahead, going up the grade beyond the outskirts of town. Suddenly its taillights flashed amber as it braked and swung off onto a side road, a dirt road.

Hazard went on past because it would have been too conspicuous to follow. He immediately found a place to make a turn around and go back. He paused and saw the dirt road ran between two vast fields of flowers. The Mercedes was stopped on it about a hundred and fifty feet in. Hatum was out of the car. He had walked a short ways from it and was standing faced away.

Hazard stomped down on the accelerator.

Hatum was in the midst of urinating, enjoying relief while preoccupied with the acres of bright pink roses that lay before him. When he heard the car coming he glanced around furtively, at the same time attempting to stop mid-stream. Before he could do much else the car was there and he recognized Hazard. No way for Hatum to make it back to the Mercedes. He jumped down into the roadside ditch, scuttled along the bottom of the ditch, kept on his hands and knees, and saw that his only chance was the rose field. He scrambled over into it and when he was out of sight he stopped. His trousers were wet from himself. He tucked in, zipped up and took out his gun.

Hazard had quickly gotten out of the car, his Llama drawn, but had caught only a flash of Hatum disappearing into the roses. Hazard returned to the safe side of the Peugeot and instructed Keven to lock herself in and
stay
in, no matter what.

“What if—?”

“In that case drive away,” he told her. “Just go like hell.”

She nodded, and he knew she had to be clutched up frightened inside, at least as much as he was. It showed in her eyes, wider than usual. He hoped she didn't panic. He gave her a final reassuring look and left her sitting there, holding her net bag in her lap.

He went around to the rear of the Peugeot, using it as a shield while he appraised the situation. The field was large, about six acres of roses. They were planted in thick rows parallel with the road. He estimated the bushes were four to five feet in height. Heavy foliage. There was perhaps a yard between the rows, and at intervals along each row were narrow unplanted spaces providing passage from one row to the next. Those spaces, however, were located irregularly, and in that respect the field was a kind of maze. From his slightly higher vantage the field resembled a pink sea, so brilliant it appeared to be moving, although the air was still. He decided that if he wanted Hatum, he'd have to go in to get him.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and tried to erase the thought that came to him—it smelled like a funeral.

Keeping low, he went down into the grassy roadside ditch and crawled into the rose field about thirty feet from where Hatum had gone in. No sign of Hatum up that first row. Hazard paused to get acclimated. A different perspective now—the bushes were denser then he'd thought and it was darker because the leaves above reached out and across from row to row. The bare ground was wet, muddy and scattered with pink petals from the rain. The lower stems of the bushes were at least two inches in diameter, armed with half-inch red thorns that curved slightly and reminded Hazard of the spurs on a fighting cock.

Belly down, he made his way slowly forward along that row to an open space. He glanced up and down the next row. No Hatum. He crossed over and went up that row to another space. Cautiously he continued from row to row until he was deep into the field. From rugs to roses, he thought.

He stopped, held his breath, and listened. There was a rustling sound off in a diagonal direction. He was about to start moving toward it when two shots made him press down tight to the ground. The bullets had come close, he knew, because he'd heard them cutting through the nearby stems and leaves. He remained motionless for what seemed a long while before chancing to go further.

Down that row he crawled, inching along to another open space. Concentrating on where he believed the rustling sounds had originated, he made out a patch of black that had to be Hatum's suit. At the most, twenty-five feet away. Unmissable. Hazard leveled the Llama and squeezed off three sure shots. He saw the black flinch as the bullets hit. He fired another for good measure and then, confidently, up in a crouch, he went quickly around the next two rows to get to it.

It wasn't Hatum. It was Hatum's suitjacket. Evidently Hatum had gotten badly hung up on the thorns while trying to get through a small opening. To free himself he'd slipped out of his jacket.

Hazard saw Hatum's shoeprints in the mud, leading off to the right. He followed them, advising himself not to be over-eager, to take it slow. But when he reached the next opening and saw Hatum's tracks again to the right, it occurred to him that Hatum might be circling back toward the road and the cars. The direction of the tracks along the next row convinced Hazard that was it.

He straightened up. His head emerged from the sea of pink.

Hatum. At the edge of the field and headed for the road. Too far away for a shot.

Hazard ran fast as he could—to the next opening, the next row, through and down and around, slipping in the mud from row to row, running the maze.

Hatum was now over the ditch and climbing up to the road.

Hazard saw it was impossible. He'd never get there in time. On a straight line, maybe, but not this long way around and around, not if he continued following the maze. He still had three rows to go.

To hell with it.

He went full speed at the row ahead, threw himself at it, tore right into it and gasped, cried out with the sudden pain. It was as though a hundred furious cats had leaped on him all at once. The thorns snagged, clawed and ripped at his clothes and flesh. He fought his way through and went on into the thick of the next that resisted, almost sprung him back, caught, stuck, and stabbed him.

One more row.

He went headlong into it, thrashing, using his arms and hands to fight aside the network of green and pink that had also become his enemy. It took all his endurance to break through and come stumbling free down into the ditch.

Hatum was getting into the Mercedes.

Hazard started diagonally up the bank, going for the Mercedes, hoping to get into range for a last shot. But then, adding to the confusion of the moment, there was Keven. Out of the car, also running. Right at him.

She didn't grab at Hazard. She threw herself at his legs, clipping them out from under him, sending him sprawling with her into the ditch.

Hatum's fingers were turning the key in the ignition of the Mercedes.

The explosion caused a concussive wave across the sea of roses. A million petals dropped with the shock. Flames burst and a cloud of black smoke rolled up, hung high in the damp air. Chrome and other metal parts of the Mercedes came scattering down.

For a moment Hazard didn't know what had happened, or how. It didn't take long to figure it out.

That gray stuff that had looked so much like modeling clay. She'd brought it along in her net bag. She'd learned to work with it when they'd been at the
DIA
farm in Maryland. While he was learning how to fight with a knife, she, according to her nature, had favored a course in explosives.

Mustafa and Gabil were in room 307 of the Hôtel du Cap.

They'd had no trouble finding out where Hazard was staying. Mr. and Mrs. Hazard, in fact. Actually the du Cap was the obvious place, the first they'd checked. Getting into the room was a simple matter. It had taken Mustafa only some twenty seconds to pick the lock.

The most difficult part was the waiting. They'd already been there over two hours. Mostly to occupy himself, Mustafa had searched the room, all the drawers and luggage. The one thing he'd found that puzzled him was the carton of images. Why, he wondered, would anyone keep those little photographs and sentences in individual sealed envelopes? He guessed it was some sort of collection or a kind of American game.

A more valuable find was the pound bag of Mosouka raisins that were in the drawer of the night table. Mustafa ate them by the handful. With the flavor of the raisins freshening his mouth he smoked more than usual, lighting up a cigarette every few minutes, taking only a few puffs and extinguishing it in the water of the toilet bowl. After about an hour he was on the last in his pack, and when he'd smoked that one down past the holding point he regretted having wasted all the others before. He persevered for a while and then complained aloud.

Gabil volunteered to go down to the lobby and buy him a new pack.

Mustafa decided against that, but soon the habitual urge got the best of him. He told Gabil to go, but hurry.

Within a few minutes Gabil returned with the cigarettes, and Mustafa once again began alternately inhaling strong smoke and chewing sweet raisins.

Mustafa's plans were not complicated. As he saw it, it was just another killing to be done as swiftly and methodically as possible. Gabil would be positioned in the closet with the door slightly ajar. Mustafa would be out of sight in the bathroom. When Hazard came into the room they would simply step out and shoot, catching him in a crossfire. If the girl happened to be with Hazard, she would be Gabil's target while Mustafa took Hazard. It would be over in an instant. No noise. They would use silencers on their Magnums.

Mustafa was now relaxed in a chair. He had Gabil stationed at the window to watch for Hazard in case he drove up. During the last two hours Mustafa hadn't said more than twenty or thirty words, mostly instructions. That was his way—close-mouthed, stoic, he relied on gestures or one emphatic word at a time. During the entire next hour he only grunted a few times, as though silently conversing with himself.

Then, from the window, Gabil saw Hazard and Keven drive up in the Peugeot and get out.

Mustafa must have sensed a change in Gabil. He looked questioningly.

Gabil hoped Mustafa didn't come over to the window because he told him no, it was nothing—although Hazard and Keven were now in full view, walking to the hotel's entrance.

Mustafa slumped down, muttering impatiently.

Below, Hazard hesitated before entering the hotel. He had good reason to feel self-conscious. Although he'd managed to clean himself up some, he was really beyond repair, a mess. His suede jacket was nearly in shreds and he couldn't take it off because underneath his shirt was soaked with blood. His trousers were torn all down the legs, and there were gaping rips elsewhere. What little was left of his clothes was caked stiff with mud.

“Walk in front of me and stay close,” he told Keven.

They went in, and in tandem stride quickly crossed the lobby to the elevator, but not without causing several incredulous stares. Once in the elevator and going up, Hazard felt relieved until Keven asked him if he had a key. He didn't as usual, and as usual she'd left hers in the room.

He'd wait for her on the third floor landing while she went back down to the desk.

She returned promptly. Along with a key she also had in hand a small envelope, hotel stationery.

“What's that?” Hazard asked as they headed for the room.

“It was in our box. Probably the bill.”

“Too soon, and too skinny,” he said, and took it from her.

They were rounding a corner of the corridor and approaching 307 when Hazard opened the envelope and read its hastily scrawled note.

Mustafa upstairs with me

to kill you. Go to Avignon,

Auberge de Noves. Will call.