Roman tried to ease the tension in his body. Massenat was wedged between him and Santagata at the back of the aircraft with Funicelli in the front with Desmarais, but for a moment Roman worried that with the repetitive tapping of one heel and his hand on the same thigh, Santagata might pick up that it was more than just due to the rough flight and what lay ahead of them.
The questions had been sporadic, not only to make them not so obvious, but because for the first half hour the flight had been very bumpy. On the worst parts, as the plane lurched and tossed and rattled, they all fell deathly silent. Nobody felt like talking. Except for Desmarais, who whooped excitedly, ‘Just like riding a wild bronco at Calgary.’ The sight of four tough guys gripped with white-knuckle fever seemed to tickle Desmarais. Roman felt like saving an extra bullet for him.
Then the weather settled a little; there was still the occasional bumpy flurry, but not so wild.
‘It was mainly cross-border jobs in Canada,’ Santagata added after a moment. ‘Art was always worried about me flying back out or crossing the border straight after a hit, especially as I became known. I think otherwise he’d have used me more.’
‘Right.’ Roman nodded solemnly. He felt the tingle rise up through his body until it reached his fingertips. Santagata had said it as if to explain why Giacomelli hadn’t used him more, but at the same time he’d signed his own death warrant. Roman knew every hit Giacomelli had made in Canada, and none of them were major! ‘Santa Dave’ was dispensable. Giacomelli wouldn’t stretch that far to make amends, especially not with himself and Cacchione later declared as a team. Giacomelli wouldn’t risk that level of confrontation over a lone hitman.
But having made the decision, the only question was when? He’d originally planned to do it later: he could claim that Santagata simply got caught in the cross-fire with the RCs. But there’d be too much going on then, too much else to think about. Roman chewed at his lip, and felt Santagata’s eyes on him again briefly, glancing sideways and meeting them only for a second: dark almost black eyes, shielded even more with the weak cabin light. Difficult to read into.
Had Santagata picked up on something? Some invisible electrical signal that ran between them: He’s planning to kill you. So make sure to take him out first. Or had it been a double-bluff all along? Santagata at the same time measuring him for a drop. Jean-Paul never really had believed him about not abducting and trying to kill Georges, and maybe this was the pay-off. After all, that’s what Santagata did most: hits, not playing chaperone.
He felt the sudden pressure of it all like a powder-keg: the bumpy flight, Santagata’s eyes on him intermittently, what lay ahead and the contingencies yet to cover — his nerves wound so tight with it all that his whole body was shaking almost in time with this tin-can rattling through the night. And all because he couldn’t bear living in his brother’s shadow a day longer. If he didn’t make the…
‘Jesus!’ The bottom dropped out of his stomach as the plane fell sickeningly. A sharp shudder as the plane hit the bottom of the drop followed by some heavy tilting and swaying — then it rose again as swiftly until Roman’s stomach was at the edge of his throat.
‘Here goes again,’ Desmarais commented, wrestling with the joy-stick.
They saw sheet lightning out to their right, about five miles away. The small plane bobbed and swayed, but just before the next sharp drop Roman noticed one advantage: Santagata was no longer paying him any attention, his eyes were fixed stonily ahead.
The drop was longer this time, the shudder so hard as it bottomed out that the cabin lights flickered off. Roman decided in that instant to take his chance: he simply might not get as good a chance later! In the darkness he leant forward; and as the lights flickered back on he already had the.22 out of his garter strap and pointed at Santagata’s face.
Santagata took a second to focus on the gun. Distant lightning flickered against one side of his face. ‘What the fuck is this?’
Massenat between them leant back with his hands held by his shoulders. A ‘this ain’t nothing to do with me’ gesture.
Roman smiled slowly. ‘You know those Bond films where he’s got a gun pointed at the bad guy, but he daren’t fire it in case one of them gets sucked out of the plane?’ Roman steadied the.22. ‘That’s the one advantage of these low-flying shit-heaps. We don’t have that to worry about.’
Roman squeezed the trigger as Santagata lurched and reached across. Still he would have got the shot off cleanly, but at that second came another sharp drop, the cabin lights flickering off again.
Then Santagata’s hand was on his arm, pushing it away. Roman struggled to point back at Santagata’s face. Santagata was strong, straining hard, and Roman had to bring his left arm up to get any movement back that way. He daren’t risk another shot on the off-chance: too many danger points it could hit.
The cabin lights flickered back on and he saw a patch of Santagata’s hair matted with blood, a trickle running down his forehead. He’d grazed the skull with the first shot.
Santagata reached for his gun with his other hand; Roman didn’t notice, but Massenat did. He pinned down the gun arm, then whipped his elbow sharply back into Santagata’s stomach. Santagata keened forward with the blow, heavily winded.
All the strength went from Santagata’s body in that same instant, and Roman wrenched his arm free as Santagata’s grip loosened.
Roman grabbed Santagata’s hair and pulled his face back up straight. ‘So it’s goodbye Mr Chips.’ Santagata’s eyes had barely re-focused on him as he put the gun by Santagata’s left eye-socket and pulled the trigger.
Santagata’s head flew back with the impact and Roman was left with some hair in his hand. He wiped it disdainfully on his seat.
Desmarais half-turned, his face as red as his hair. ‘You guys wanna pull stunts like that — least you could do is fucking warn me.’
Roman smiled drolly, his breathing still ragged. ‘Just imagine it’s still the fucking Calgary stampede — but now the cowboys are shooting in the air.’ Roman was glad that something could rattle Desmarais; it was his turn to gloat at the fear in Desmarais’ face.
They sat out the rest of the turbulence in silence, Santagata’s body intermittently double-lit by bursts of lightning. Then Desmarais dropped two-thousand feet so that Roman and Massenat could risk opening the door to get rid of the body.
‘Never did like paying fucking excess baggage,’ Roman remarked as it sailed out.
Massenat chuckled briefly, but the silence was quickly back. They’d weathered one storm, but there was a tougher one yet ahead. And now they were one man down.
Eight minutes later Jake Kirkham called. They’d seen the plane land, and the car had just left the airfield. ‘Two men and a woman inside. I’ll call again when they’ve reached the safe-house. Let us know what you want us to do then.’
When S-18’s Melanie Fuller phoned back after only seven minutes, Michel thought she had good news. But no, Mundy hadn’t responded to his bleeper message yet.
‘It was something else I thought I should pass on straightaway. One of the guys here with a high clearance pass was able to access a bit more information. He says that it’s a sector 14 operation, three-man monthly rotation guard team. Still pretty basic info, I’m afraid — but it might help.’
‘Sector 14? Where’s that?’
‘Northern Ontario. An oblong block stretching between Hearst, James Bay and Iroquois Falls, sixty miles from the Quebec border.’
‘Okay.’ All Michel wanted to do was race to a map, but it was immateriaclass="underline" he’d already decided that if they didn’t raise Mundy fast, he was heading out there.
‘I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve got something on Mundy. If he doesn’t phone within the next few minutes, we’ll start trawling his regular haunts.’