Ahmed al-Qati also knew that she had lied to him. She had told him she was twenty-nine years old when, in fact, she was thirty-three years old. That deceit was perfectly understandable in a Western or Continental woman. She had also told him that she had a modest sum put by, enough to live in relative comfort in the seedy Seaside Hotel overlooking the Mediterranean until her divorce decree was handed down. He knew to the contrary that she had escaped the mansion in Sicily with the equivalent of two-and-a-quarter million American dollars. Considering that the spurned Aragone was probably looking intently for that money, that lie was also understandable.
In one of his fantasies, which would never be lived out, al-Qati had given himself the role of protector of Sophia Gabratelli and her fortune. By her upbringing, she was considerably more worldly and outspoken, and probably needed less defending, than any woman he had ever met. Still, she was tiny and likely susceptible to wily men. After the sixth time he had met her for dinner, he had let it be known quietly around the city, and through the police, that she enjoyed his protection. He had not told her this.
He forced his eyes from her face and stared over the railing at the smooth, darkening expanse of the sea. White rollers coasted up the sand of the beach. A dozen people walked in the surf’s edge. Two swimmers were far out.
For the life of him, he could not recall his wife’s face. Sophia had that effect on him.
“Does it make you bitter?” she asked.
“The American attack? Yes, it does.”
“Do you seek vengeance?”
He smiled at her. “At one time, it was all I could think of. But no longer.”
“You are at peace with yourself?”
“Not at peace, I think. But I have decided that the fates of nations are not up to me. I will do my part, and I will be prepared if it should ever happen again.”
“Defensively? With your battalion?”
“Yes. That is, I believe my soldiers will conduct themselves with honour, should the Americans come again.” After convincing Ramad of the need to check on his command, al-Qati had conducted a quick inspection at El Bardi, then headed directly for Tobruk.
“And you?”
“Myself, I now play games with the air force.”
“And you do not think much of the air force?”
“I do not think much of the games,” he said.
She smiled at him. “Enough of this. I tire quickly of war talk and coffee. Will you walk in the sea with me?”
He grinned. “I have not done that in many years.”
“Then you will enjoy it all the more.”
Al-Qati paid the bill, then the two of them walked down the steps from the veranda to the sand.
She stooped to free her feet from her sandals, and he noted that the small toe of her right foot was slightly bent. Nevertheless, all of her toes were delightfully carved.
When she straightened up, standing a full head shorter than he, she wrapped her hand around his forearm. Her skirt swished against his leg as they walked down to the sea.
Ahmed al-Qati had not felt as content in many years.
Jim Bennett had Liz Jordan and mechanic Slim Reddy witness Wyatt’s signature, then had them sign their names at the bottom of the document.
For a lawyer, Bennett was only mildly ambitious, a trait that had encouraged Wyatt to retain him a couple years before for his personal needs. His personal requirements weren’t all that extensive, but Jan Kramer had insisted that Wyatt use someone other than the company attorney. Bennett also took care of the legal niceties for Bucky Barr’s educational foundation.
After they were left alone in the office Wyatt shared with Kramer and Barr, Bennett asked, “Where’s Jan?”
“She took some vacation days, Jim.”
He assumed she had. By the time Wyatt had gotten dressed, called for a cab, and arrived at the office, she had totally disappeared. His Corvette was sitting in the parking lot with the keys in the ashtray, but her Riviera was gone. She either wasn’t at her condo, or she wasn’t answering the phone. During the day, he had left five messages on her machine.
He ended up spending the day with Liz Jordan, paying the monthly statements, preparing bank deposits, and constructing last month’s profit-and-loss report. Jan was right; they were doing okay.
The meeting with Jim Bennett — the primary reason he had returned to Albuquerque — took place at three in the afternoon. Together, they reviewed the final draft of his will, Wyatt asked some questions, Bennett answered them satisfactorily, and Wyatt signed off.
Wyatt shoved the document into its envelope, then got up and put it in the wall safe. Only he, Bucky, and Jan had access to the safe. He noted that Barr also had a more recently dated will stored in the safe. Apparently, neither of them were very confident about this operation.
Bennett snapped his briefcase shut. “You sure you don’t want to get in some handball?”
“Can’t do it, Jim. The work’s stacking up on us.”
“Next week, then? I’m going to go to potbelly if I don’t spend more time on the court.”
“Give me a call, but don’t write anything solid on your calendar, Jim. I’m going to be in and out of town.”
Bennett gave him a wave, then went to the outer office to hassle Liz for a couple minutes. She didn’t want to play handball either.
Wyatt stood, looked around, couldn’t think of anything else he needed. He started for the door.
Then stopped and went back to lean over the phone.
He punched the memory number labelled, “Kramer.” It rang four times, then the answering machine kicked in.
He hung up.
Checking his watch, he decided he had better get airborne for Nebraska.
He checked the contents of his wallet. Four-thousand-two-hundred-and-eleven dollars. The roll in his left pocket contained eleven thousand. He figured it was enough to get him through the next couple of weeks.
Shutting off the lights, he stepped into the reception area and headed for the door to the hangar.
Time to go.
“Are you leaving already, Andy?” Jordan asked.
“In a little while, Liz,” he said, altering course for the door to the parking lot.
The Corvette started right away, and he rolled down the windows for air. The heat was oppressive, but his Corvette didn’t offer air-conditioning except for the forced-air kind. Pulling out of the lot, he took the access road to University Boulevard and got the roadster up to seventy before he came abreast of the passenger terminal. The traffic slowed him down then, and he drifted with it onto Gibson Boulevard and got into the lane for Interstate 25 north.
He managed seventy miles an hour on the freeway, staying with the flow of the traffic until he reached Lomas Boulevard and took it west.
Jan Kramer’s condominium was in a four-story minitower just north of downtown Albuquerque. It was a newer building, following the architectural principles in evidence throughout much of the downtown region. The rounded corners and lodgepole projections of adobe construction predominated.
His wallet contained a plastic pass-card for the underground parking garage, and he used it to gain access to a guest parking spot.
Jan’s Riviera was parked squarely in her slot, and his hopes lifted a trifle.
Taking the elevator to the fourth floor, he got off and walked the carpeted hallway to the north end. Being circumspect, he knocked on the door.