“From behind?” she said. “I like that.”
He put his hands on her breasts and kneaded the nipples. She arched her back slightly.
“Juan, I love you,” she said weakly. The dressing on her wound had gotten wet, and she was bleeding very hard now.
“I love you too,” he said, running his hands up from her breasts to her neck.
She bent forward and just managed to kiss his right wrist as he brought his legs up around her waist. He locked his ankles together so that she would not be able to move away from him.
“Juan,” she said.
He closed his eyes and let his fingers find her throat. He began to squeeze, gently at first because he was finding it difficult to muster the courage, but then harder.
Her body began to squirm, and then thrash, her movements very weak as he continued to squeeze harder and harder, the tears coming from his closed eyes. “Teva,” he cried. “Teva. Teva. Teva.” He chanted her name until her pitiful struggles finally ceased.
He kept squeezing for a long time, until his fingers cramped. He unlocked his legs from around her waist, and carefully eased himself up and out of the tub, gently laying her back.
Her eyes were open, bulging out of their sockets, and blood ran from her mouth where she had bitten through her tongue. The sight was not pretty, but it didn’t really matter. She was no longer Teva. Teva had died weeks ago.
He turned away from her and dried himself off, then padded into the other room, where he stood in a daze for a long time, looking at the machine guns on the floor by the couch; at the radio over which nothing came any longer; and at the remains of this morning’s meal.
Nothing had come from Vance-Ehrhardt’s message on the radio. No one had come here rejoicing with a message that they had won. The little man had sent no one. No one except Maria Soleres with food and medicine, but no wine.
So it was finished. Or at least in Juan Carlos’ mind it was finished. He no longer cared what happened. The little man had brought this down on them. The plan had been an excellent one, the kind that always attracted world attention for the cause. But with this operation there had been only slow death. The little man had not come back. He had lied to them, had left them here. It simply was not fair.
He went into the other bedroom. Vance-Ehrhardt and his wife were lying in each other’s arms. They were both awake, looking at him, Margarita’s eyes wide at the sight of his nude body.
“What is happening?” Vance-Ehrhardt asked. Although his voice was weak and ragged, there was a certain dignity in it that infuriated Juan Carlos.
Juan Carlos walked around to Vance-Ehrhardt’s side, doubled up his fist and struck the woman in the face with all of his might, knocking her unconscious. In the next instant, he clamped his fingers around Vance-Ehrhardt’s neck and squeezed.
The old man was not much stronger than Teva, and he battered Juan Carlos with his hands and feet, his struggles nearly overpowering. But he weakened rapidly, and after he lay still, Juan Carlos continued to squeeze.
When he was sure the old man was dead, he rolled him away from Margarita, who was just beginning to regain consciousness, and seized her neck, crushing her windpipe with the last of his waning strength. Then he crawled back into the living room and collapsed on the floor.
A large black spider had constructed an elaborate web between the rungs of a chair, and it waited in the corner for its unwary prey to come along. A scorpion, its deadly tail curved up over its head, started up the leg of the chair. The spider was unaware of the intruder. The scorpion was hunting.
Henri Riemé lay in his bed, bathed in sweat, watching the life-and-death drama unfolding across the room from him. It was 1:00 P.M., the height of the Libyan afternoon, and the temperature in Tripoli was 110 degrees Fahrenheit and climbing.
There had been a change of plan. Instead of flying on to Moscow from Barcelona, to where he had made his way three weeks ago, he had been instructed to return to Tripoli and await further communiques. Which he had done, with inhuman patience. But Riemé was not human, he reminded himself. He had not been human for years. He was nothing more than a killing machine. Neither content with his lot nor dissatisfied with it. Merely accepting the fact that he functioned.
Someone knocked on his door. Moving incredibly fast, he rolled off the bed, snatched his silenced automatic from beneath his pillow, levered a round into the chamber, and flipped the safety off as he knelt to the right of the door.
“Oui?” he called.
“It is the concierge, monsieur. Your message has arrived.”
Riemé recognized the voice. He rose, shifting the automatic to his left hand and unlatching the door with his right.
“Oui?” He looked into the frightened eyes of the old man.
“There are two men waiting for you downstairs. They have a car. It is time to go.”
Riemé remained motionless.
The concierge fumbled with his words for a moment, then said, “It is time by the clocktower to go, monsieur.”
Riemé nodded. The code words were correct. “Merci. Please have my bill ready, I will leave momentarily.”
“Your bill has been paid, monsieur. Shall I tell your friends you will be down soon?”
“Tell them nothing,” Riemé said, and he closed the door. He remained standing there for a long moment, until he heard the concierge leave. Then he turned and threw his few things in his suitcase, draped his jacket over his gun hand, and left the room.
He took the back stairs down, emerged into the alley, and hurried around to the street. There he saw a Citroën sedan parked at the curb, the driver behind the wheel, another man standing in the hotel doorway.
Riemé crossed the street at the corner, walked down the block until he was even with the car, then crossed directly to the driver and placed the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple.
“Who has sent you?”
The driver looked up, his eyes bulging. “It is time by the clocktower,” he squeaked.
“Where am I to go?”
“Not Moscow,” the driver said. “Your plans have been changed since Paris.”
The man by the hotel door glanced over. Seeing that something was wrong, he stepped aside and reached in his jacket.
“Tell your partner you are both dead if he pulls out his gun.”
“No, Claude! It is all right! It is he,” the driver called over. There was a lot of traffic, but no one else was paying them any attention.
Riemé nodded, and slowly the other man relaxed and took his hand away from his coat. He came over to the car.
“You gave me a fucking scare, you son of a bitch,” Claude said.
Riemé cocked the hammer of his automatic and pointed it at the man. “Monsieur?”
The man’s eyes widened, and he stepped back. “Oh, Christ, pardon me. Didn’t mean a thing, mon brave.”
Riemé said nothing.
“We have a new assignment for you. Sealed instructions. We’re to get you to the airport. You are going to Buenos Aires. There is something to be cleaned up there.”
Maria Soleres had not come at eight with their supper, and by ten-thirty Juan Carlos was very hungry. He had put Teva out of her misery, and they had planned on killing the Vance-Ehrhardts in any event, so the operation was still functional as far as he was concerned. But he could not remain here. Not like this, without food. Even the little man could not expect that from him.
Wearily Juan Carlos dragged himself over to the pile of weapons in front of the couch, picking up one of the Uzi submachine guns and two spare clips of ammunition, which he stuffed in his pockets.
If need be, he told himself, he would hijack an airplane and force the crew to take him to Libya. Colonel Qaddafi would receive him. He would be a hero of the people.