Hawk wasn't flapped. "Get to Phoenix. Find this Miss Crystal look-alike and the connection, if any, with LT Check in from Toronto."
He ended the call as a well-orchestrated scenario unfolded in front of Carter:
Sichi's coffee was jostled by a woman dressed as an American tourist.
As Sichi rose to avoid being splattered, the «tourist» took his briefcase and tossed a small parcel at Sichi's feet.
A minivan paused at the curb and disgorged a group of Japanese tourists, who stepped goggle-eyed and bewildered into the bright afternoon sun.
The driver of the minivan got out, apparently to take a stretch. Without making a big thing about it, the guide, a man in ill-fitting gray pants and a baggy blazer, pushed some of the tourists out of the way. He produced a Ruger Mini 14 and began to blast Sichi, catching the terrorist completely by surprise.
Not to be outdone, the driver leveled a Tech-9 at the woman dressed as a tourist, and filled her chest with hollow tips that made a popping sound on contact.
By their subsequent posture and gestures, both men were now clearly providing cover and a means of getaway for the Arab, who moved quickly, picked up the attaché case Sichi had carried, and reached for the small parcel the lady «tourist» had tossed at Sichi's feet. The contents spilled and the Arab went after them. Even from where he stood, Carter could tell there were some first-rate uncut diamonds there.
It was all very neat and fast. The Japanese tourists, terrified and screaming, scattered in all directions.
Abrams, the Mossad man, bolted the moment the shooting began, scurrying across the busy street and disappearing into a row of modernistic stores and boutiques located within a large arcade.
The operation on Sichi had been so well orchestrated that Carter couldn't even manage Hawk's request for a body search. A number of individuals were already grouped around Sichi and the woman. There was nothing for it now but to get Abrams.
Moving quickly past the Place de l'Opéra and the pale pink and green colors of the large nineteenth-century opera house that always reminded Carter of a large, elaborately iced cake, Lev Abrams pushed vigorously toward Boulevard de la Madeleine, looking for all the world like a tourist on a brisk stroll.
Keeping a respectable distance between them, Carter watched Abrams stop at a newsstand, using the opportunity to see if there were any follow-up to the shooting he should be aware of. The Mossad man continued toward Place de la Madeleine and Carter formulated a plan, as intricate as a chess gambit, that would allow him to intersect Abrams either on the Boulevard des Capucines near the Olympia Music Hall, or at nearby Fauchon, one of the most elegant stores for food and cooking utensils in the sprawl of Paris.
Either site would be good. There was little chance of being seen, little likelihood that what Carter planned would draw more than passing attention from the Parisians.
After he'd bought a paper, Abrams began to pick up the tempo of his stride. A short man with thinning sandy-red hair, the Israeli appeared top-heavy. His shoulders were large and square, his legs seemingly short and skinny. His sudden burst of speed caused Carter to miss the connection he'd planned at the Olympia.
Very well, Fauchon it was.
By some fast maneuvering through the back streets, Carter arranged to pass Lev Abrams as he approached from the opposite direction. Drawing abreast of the Mossad operative, Carter pretended to be interested in a display in a shop window. His hand moved casually to Wilhelmina. Luck was with him: there were only a handful of people on the street.
Carter showed the passing Abrams a glimpse of the Luger.
The Mossad man stopped, perplexed and nervous.
"There's enough muzzle velocity here to leave a large hole at this range," Carter said in Hebrew. "That's surely enough reason for you to hold your hands out in front of you."
Abrams began to perspire. Being stopped like this so soon after the shooting was having an effect on his adrenals. "You're not Israeli," he said in English.
"Just wanted to make sure you understood me," Carter said, leading him to a roll-down metallic shop front of a brasserie that wouldn't be open until the evening. "Why were you following Sichi?"
The Mossad man shuddered involuntarily. "I don't know what you're talking about. If this is a holdup…"
"Not in the conventional sense," Carter said, casually replacing Wilhelmina in her holster. "I want information and since I don't have much time, I'm afraid I can't be overly polite about asking for it."
Abrams gave himself a few moments to recover from the chase, then lit a Gitane cigarette, blowing the pungent smoke out in a harsh rasp. "What do you want?"
"Why was the Mossad so interested in Sichi?"
Abrams glowered contempt at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I don't have time for this, Abrams." The Israeli couldn't disguise the shock on his face at the sound of his name. "Just believe me when I tell you we're on the same side. If you share with me, I'll see that you get my findings on LT."
Abrams took a last drag on his cigarette and crushed the butt under his heel. The mention of the initials had hit a nerve. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay. Law of the lion."
"I lost you, Abrams," Carter said curtly.
"LT, you fool — lex talionis. Means law of the lion. Lex Talionis is a paramilitary group wanting to be their own law."
"That's a new bunch, no?" Carter asked. "I never heard of them."
The little Mossad man nodded. "We've had only one report on them. From South Africa, of all places. Not from my sector. I don't like to work with those people, those Afrikaners. I've been at this game long enough so that I don't have to take assignments relating to South Africa." His voice was edged with disgust.
Carter waited while the Mossad man lit another cigarette. "Sichi," he said. "Why were you on him?"
"To see if I could find out who he was dealing with. We had word he was betraying his people, the Red Brigade, by selling a cache of arms meant for them. He'd bought the arms in Marseille, and was here to sell them elsewhere."
"Any ideas?" Carter asked.
"You saw it go down. He had all the bills of lading and shipping materials in that briefcase. My guess is that Sichi was selling the arms to Lex Talionis."
"Who do you think it was who got him?"
"You must be new in this business if you don't recognize the Red Brigade." Abrams replied.
"I've been around long enough to recognize Abdul Samadhi from the PLO," Carter said, ignoring the jibe.
"Those two in the minivan were Red Brigade." Lev Abrams said, but Carter could see he was intrigued.
"You could be wrong about that," Carter suggested.
Abrams shrugged.
"There was a third spectator. Someone else was interested besides you and me," Carter said. Abrams blinked nervously. "In other words," Carter pressed, "your group hasn't a positive make on Abdul Samadhi."
Grudgingly, Abrams nodded. "Maybe he isn't important."
"Maybe," Carter agreed. "On the other hand, why would they let someone who wasn't experienced tail this operation?" He let that sink in, then pounced. "Why would they trust such a person to tail you?"
"You'll let me know if you find out anything?"
"Ah," Carter said. "I see I've raised some doubts in your mind. Yes, I believe in professional courtesy among colleagues. As soon as I get a line on Lex Talionis. I'll get you a briefing."
Carter exchanged contact information with the Mossad man, then hailed a taxi. He had an SST to catch.
Three
Phoenix, Arizona
Of all the spots on Hawk's list of places frequented by Arriosto, the Happy Breed seemed the most desperate to make a statement. It was in a glitzy, upscale neighborhood on Speedway. Lots of fern bars and expensive boutiques. The decor was high-tech. All the waitresses were at least six feet tall, their bodies pitched into the inviting postures spike heels forced on them. They wore black leotards, black mesh hose with seams, rhinestone chokers and anklets.