I nodded.
“That’s a large amount of money to throw away,” Carlos observed, watching me.
“It’s worth it.”
“We’ve underestimated you.” His voice was still un-troubled. We might have been two businessmen discussing a fluctuation in the stock market “We’ll have to do something about it.”
“Don’t try. It’s already cost you two men.”
“Two?” Carlos lifted an eyebrow. “The captain is one. Who’s the other?”
“Luis Aparicio.”
This time I could see the shock of my words hit Carlos, but the man regained control of himself almost immediately. I pointed at the bandage on my arm.
“He almost had me. He wasn’t good enough, though.”
“Where is Luis?”
“Dead.”
I watched Carlos freeze — all but his eyes which stared at me dubiously, as if he didn’t believe what he’d heard.
“You’ll find him in the trunk of Bickford’s car,” I said, carefully observing the impact of my words on the three of them. Bickford almost leaped out of his chair. Carlos had to put a hand out to restrain him. Garrett’s face turned a mottled shade of red. Carlos leaned forward, and, for the first time, I saw pure hatred on his face.
“He was my nephew,” said Carlos. The words coming from his lips were numbed by the realization of what I’d said.
“Then you can have the family duty of burying his body,” I said, and moved my hand enough so that the squat .38 Airweight revolver was aimed directly at Carlos’ head. Carlos sank back into the armchair.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about Jean-Paul Sevier?” I asked.
Carlos shook his head. “I don’t have to. Your question tells me that Luis was successful.”
“Then Luis didn’t make a mistake?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Carlos was in control of himself again.
“I thought Jean-Paul was killed by mistake, that I was the target. But if Luis killed him deliberately, it means you knew he was a police agent.”
Carlos nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“How did you find out?”
Carlos shrugged. “In the past, there have been several attempts to infiltrate our organization. We’ve become extremely cautious lately. Yesterday, to make doubly sure that Jean-Paul was who he said he was, I put in a call to our friends in Marseille. Everything checked out, except for one thing. Jean-Paul Sevier did not fit the description of the man they had sent. So I told Luis to get rid of him.”
His voice still showed no concern. His face had settled back into its normal imperturbability, his features varnished into their usual blandness.
“We have arrived at a detente, Senor Carter,” Carlos said. “Apparently, neither of us can make a move without bringing on a violent retaliation from the other.”
“So?”
“Wait a second, Carlos!” Garrett broke in to protest. “You mean we’re going to go along with this son-of-a-bitch?”
I looked at the angry, jowled face, the tiny broken veins in Garrett’s nose, the nicks in his heavy-fleshed chin where he’d cut himself shaving. This was a man whose impatience could destroy him, I realized, filing the thought away.
Carlos shrugged. “What other alternative do we have, amigo?”
“Goddamn it! He’s cost us two men and a ship. Are you going to let him get away with it?”
“Yes.” Carlos didn’t look at Garrett as he spoke. “There’s nothing else we can do at this moment.”
And what have you planned for me later, I wondered. I was sure that Carlos didn’t intend to let me live if he could help it I was much too dangerous to him. I knew that for the time being Carlos would go along with me because he had no other choice. The question was, how long would that be?
I arose. “I take it you’ve agreed to lay off Stocelli?”
Carlos nodded. “You can tell him he’s safe from us.”
“And myself?”
Again Carlos nodded. “We’re going to have our our hands full protecting our organization from the damage you’ve already done. Survival first, Senor Carter.”
I moved to the French doors without haste. Pausing in the doorway, I said, “You made one mistake today. I told you it would be costly. Don’t come after me again. It would be another mistake.”
“We profit by our mistakes.” He didn’t take his eyes off me. “Be assured we won’t be so foolish next time.”
You could take that remark two ways, I thought I was sure that the next time he sent someone after me it would be in a more careful manner.
“Just remember Luis,” I warned him. “If there’s another attempt on my life, I’ll go after the man who sent him — you! Entiende, Senor Ortega?”
“I understand very well.”
Quickly, I turned and went out through the French doors, leaving the three of them in the living room: Carlos seated in the deep armchair, the smoothness of his face an inscrutable mask hiding his feelings as he watched me go; Bickford, a gray-faced hulk sitting on the couch beside his sleeping wife; and Brian Garrett, staring angrily at the dusting of white powder on the rug and the empty, ripped plastic bag that lay on the floor near the doorway where I’d dropped it.
I crossed the terrace and swung my legs over the ornamental concrete block balustrade to the grass of the yard. Then, hidden in the darkness, I doubled back to stand beside a window opened next to the terrace, my back pressed against the wall of the house, the gun in my hand, waiting to see if they’d come after me.
Turning my head, I could see them in the living room. None of them moved.
After a few minutes, Brian Garrett walked over and picked up the plastic bag that had held the heroin.
“Ten kilos! Where the hell did he lay his hands on ten kilos to throw away like it wasn’t worth a goddamned cent?”
“You fool!” Carlos spat out the words. Garrett turned around to face him. “Forget the heroin. I want Carter. I want him dead! Don’t you understand what he’s doing to us?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I went into my hotel through a service entrance because I didn’t want to advertise my presence. Instead of going to my room, I took the service elevator up to the ninth floor.
Suite 903 was at the end of the corridor. I checked my watch. Three-thirty in the morning, yet a tiny spill of light came from the crack between the door and the sill. I wondered why Dietrich would be up so late. Cautiously, I inserted a metal probe into the lock and pressed a thin plastic card into the door at the latch.
The bolt turned back, making only the faintest click. I waited, listening, and when there was still no noise on the other side of the door, I took out the snub-nosed .38 Smith and Wesson Airweight and silently pushed the door open.
I walked into the living room. I heard noises in one of the bedrooms. Almost immediately, a tall, silver-haired man appeared in the doorway. Thin and fine-boned, he appeared as fragile as a praying mantis with his elongated, bony face and his somber dignity. He stopped short in complete surprise,
“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded imperiously. “Put that gun away!”
“Are you Herbert Dietrich?”
“Yes, I’m Dietrich. What is this? A hold-up?”
“My name is Paul Stephans,” I said, “and I think it’s long past time that you and I had a talk, Mr. Dietrich.”
Recognition leaped into his eyes. “You’re Stocelli’s man!” he said accusingly.
I shook my head. “Why do you think I’m connected with Stocelli?”
“I was told you had a secret meeting with him at three o’clock in the morning on the night you arrived.”
I sighed. Apparently, everyone in the hotel knew about that midnight visit
“I’m not Stocelli’s man. I’m doing a job for Alexander Gregorius. He sent me down here to deal with Stocelli on a business matter.”