"Col. Jack Carnehan," she said. "Codename: agent Mongoose. "
Savino nodded. "Yeah. He was the best. A goddamned legend. But crazy. A real danger junkie. And there was one other thing that made him different. He really believed that the good guys always win. "
Savino's lips twisted into a wry, sad little half smile.
"It was amazing, really. In some ways, Carnehan was like a kid who never grew up. He kept on playing the same games, only at some point, the games started to be played for keeps and he just never noticed. Steiger bought into the whole trip all the way. I suppose I can even understand it. Old Jack had a lot of style. Charisma with a capital C. And Creed was young. He fell under the man's spell. "
Savino was staring straight ahead, his eyes slightly unfocused, as he recalled the past. His face and voice were touched with melancholy. It was the first real emotion Andre had seen in him.
"The thing was," Savino went on, "Carnehan didn't really play by the rules, either.
He didn't exactly break them, but he sure bent a lot of them all to hell. The same as you commandos do. You call it 'throwing away the book.' Improvising in the field.
Well, hell, that's all we ever did. We threw away the book and improvised."
"You did a lot more than that," said Andre. "You crossed over the line." She glanced at Drakov and saw him listening with an amused expression on his face.
"Crossed over the line," Savino repeated, mockingly. "Where is the line? And who decides where it should be drawn? You? Me? Forrester? Some legislator who's never been on the minus side and hasn't got the faintest idea of what we're up against? Don't you understand? It's all arbitrary."
"Well, if you believe that, then I guess anything you do becomes justifiable," said Andre. "And obviously, you've worked very hard at believing it. You really sold yourself a bill of goods, Savino. I just hope it didn't cost you too much."
They made a right on West Eleventh Street and pulled up in front of the black double doors of Il Paradiso. Savino draped his jacket over Andre's shoulders, covering the handcuffs, then helped her out of the car. As he took her arm and drew her close, she felt the sharp point of a stiletto digging into her side.
"A nightclub?" said Andre. "What's this, another Network front?"
"No, actually, this club is operated by the Mafia," Drakov said.
"The Mafia?" Andre said, with disbelief.
"Sort of a sideline for the local capo," Drakov explained. "It allows him to rub elbows with the artsy set and feel sophisticated." He held the door for them. "Oh, by the way, most of the employees of this establishment are perfectly ordinary citizens with little or no knowledge of the proprietor's criminal activities.
Attempting to give alarm or otherwise involve any of them would only endanger them needlessly. And you wouldn't want to do that, would you, Miss Cross?"
Savino pricked her slightly with the knife and she winced.
"All right, you've made your point."
They went inside.
The club wasn't open yet, but the young employees were all bustling about, getting everything ready. There were several bartenders behind the garish, guitar-shaped bar, peeling lemons, slicing limes, setting bottles into the wells and turning on their beer taps. Waitresses were setting up tables and a crew of roadies were up on the elevated stage, stacking amplifiers, assembling a giant drum kit and making sound checks with the mikes. A gorgeous young woman in a black lycra skirt, high heels, a T-shirt with the club's name and logo on it, and moussed and silver-streaked blond hair approached them.
"Excuse me, sir, we won't be open for another.. oh, it's you Mr. Savino."
"Is. the boss in?" Savino said.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Manelli's upstairs."
They went up a carpeted flight of steps, past a massive bouncer whose biceps strained the seams of his pink silk tiger print shirt. The bouncer greeted Savino politely, calling him sir. It was clear that while Drakov wasn't known here, Savino was definitely part of the hierarchy.
Upstairs at n Paradiso was where the “in group" congregated. A second bar catered to the celebrities and the beautiful people, who descended to the dance floor now and then to give a thrill to the rabble down below. The private upstairs lounge extended over the tables down below, ending in a railed balcony that overlooked the dance floor and provided an unrestricted view of the stage. Manelli was seated at a table in the corner, surrounded by his entourage, heatedly discussing something with two men sitting across from him. He looked up as they approached and excused himself, striding quickly across the room to meet them.
"What the hell is going on, Savino?" he said. “l had a meeting and I couldn't even get into my own office, for Christ's sake! There's some kinda weird lock on the door-"
“I told you we'd be using the office for a few days," Savinosaid, calmly. " "You didn't tell me you were going to change the lock! Hell, you changed the whole goddamn door! I try to take a meeting in my own damn office and can’t even get the door open! It made me look like a goddamn Idiot."
"I told you we were going to use your office until further notice," said Savino.
"Yeah, but you weren't here and what am I supposed to say to people when I can't conduct business in my own damn office? How do you think: that makes me look?"
"I don't give a damn how it makes you look," Savino said. "You tell them the office is being repainted or something. I don't care what the hell you ten them, Domenic, but I don't want to hear you questioning my instructions again, is that understood?"
They spoke in low voices and to anyone watching them, it would have appeared as if" Savino were a subordinate being dressed down by Manelli, instead of the other way around.
"You're pushing me, Savino," said Manelli, tensely. "You're pushing me real hard.
I don't like being pushed. And I don't like not knowing what my club is being used' for. " He gave Drakov a long, appraising look. "I go to great pains to keep my other business separate from the club, Drakov. There's a reason for that. I like to keep a low profile and we're very visible here. Now my people tell me you've had several sealed crates delivered to my office and stored there. I want to know what's in them."
"Lilliputians," Drakov said.
"What?"
"Lilliputians. They're miniature people, about six inches. tall. I'm using the crates as troop transports."
Manelli stared at him long and hard, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "All right, if that's the way you want to play it, have it your way."
He glanced from Savino to Drakov and pointed his index finger at them. "The club's about to open and I don't want any difficulties tonight, but I want you and whatever's in those crates out of here first thing in the morning, you understand?
And I want that cockamamie hi-tech lock off my goddamn door. You got til noon.
And that's more slack than you deserve. At one second after twelve, I'm going to have my boys bust down that door and crack open those crates. And if what's in there is what I think is in there, the Network's going to find out that the cost of doing business just went up. Way up. Kapish?"
He turned and went back to his table without waiting for a reply. Savino took a deep breath.
"He thinks we're dealing arms," he said. "Manelli always was a pain in the ass to keep under control. He's going to be trouble. And trouble is something I don't need right now."
"Relax," said Drakov, walking up to Manelli's office door and pressing his palm against the flat metal plate. The lock clicked open. "After tonight, it will be finished. And what you do about Manelli will be entirely up to you."
He entered the office and Savino shoved Andre in after him. The two large wooden crates stood open on the floor. They were empty. Manelli's desk and chairs had been moved back against the wall and in the center of the floor, glowing faintly, was an activated chronoplate.