“You are a remarkable man, Holtz,” Radnitz said. “You appear always to look ahead for my requirements. What is your nephew doing now?”
“Improving his technique in arms, and waiting to serve you.”
“Very well. Since you guarantee him, he can consider himself hired on the same terms as I hired Silk. Now, go and talk to Kendrick.”
Half an hour later, Gustav Holtz was sitting in Claude Kendrick’s room. Kendrick, flustered by Holtz’s macabre appearance and alarmed to hear that Radnitz might, at the last moment, pull out of their agreement, explained to Holtz how the icon was to be smuggled to Switzerland. He also gave Holtz details about Haddon, Bradey and Duvine.
Holtz listened, then he said, “This vanity box. I will need a photograph of it to show Mr Radnitz.”
“That is no problem. I have photographed it for the replica,” Kendrick said and produced a series of coloured photographs.
“I feel sure Mr Radnitz will approve of your planning,” Holtz said, rising to his feet. “I congratulate you.”
“So I may expect payment in Zurich?” Kendrick asked, a little anxiously.
“When the icon is delivered, payment will be made.”
Back at the Belvedere hotel, Holtz explained to Radnitz in detail Kendrick’s plan.
Radnitz listened, and from time to time, nodded approval.
“Yes. It is a clever idea,” he said after examining the photographs of the vanity box. Then his toad-like face turned vicious. “Ever since Kendrick failed when trying to get those Russian stamps, I promised myself to teach him a lesson. I want a replica of this box made. Your nephew is to bring it to my villa at Zurich.”
Ever alert, Holtz said, “If you will excuse me, sir, that would not be wise.”
Radnitz glared at him.
“Why not?”
“A young man carrying a lady’s vanity box would be immediately suspect by the security people. He would have to pass through the Swiss customs. It would create dangerous difficulties. I know a man in Zurich who can make the box. All I have to do is to send him these photographs. I assure you there will be no problems.”
Radnitz nodded.
“You seem to think of everything. Very well. I leave it to you. I expect your nephew at the end of the week.”
Holtz inclined his head, took the photographs and went away.
The coloured girl moved in her sleep, releasing a soft moan of pleasure. She lay naked on the grey-white sheet on the bed, her slim body glistening with sweat, her long, black hair a silky shield across her face.
Her movement brought the man lying by her side awake with the awareness of a jungle cat.
He looked around the small sordid room, then at the girl sleeping at his side, then across the room to the rotting shutters that partially kept out the glare of Florida’s sun. His eyes took in the cane stool, the chipped enamel basin on the rickety table, supported by bending bamboo legs, and to his sweat shirt, Levis and loafer shoes, dropped on the dusty rush mat as he had stripped off.
He half-turned and lifted himself on his elbow to look down at the girl, his eyes running over her body. He liked black meat. White women now bored him. They expected so much before they gave out, and even when he did go along with their stupid teasing and demands, there were times when they dodged the final issue. Black girls either meant business or said no. That he appreciated. Since coming to Miami, he had shunned the spoilt, vapid white girls and had hunted in West Miami where the action was.
At the age of twenty-eight, Sergas Holtz was a splendidly built male animal who took a fanatical pride in keeping his body in peak condition. Tall, with shoulder-length straw-coloured hair, boxer’s muscles, long-legged, when seen from behind, he aroused female interest, but the interest became cautious when he turned.
Sergas Holtz’s face scared, yet fascinated women. His face narrow, a short boxer’s nose, small ice-cold grey eyes and a sensual mouth was a sexual challenge for girls who wanted excitement. Even when he laughed, his eyes remained mirthless. He was a man who didn’t invite friendship. During the years, serving as a mercenary soldier, murdering, looting and raping with others in the Congo and other parts of Africa, none of his comrades took to him. Even, although an excellent student, none of his teachers were ever friendly, sensing uneasily that there was something evil in him.
Sergas preferred being a loner. When not fighting in the jungle, he spent hours in the Army gymnasium, boxing, learning karate and all the tricks the Army could teach him of the quick, silent kill.
TV Westerns fascinated him. He became the fastest gun draw in the Army and the best marksman. Satisfied with his marksmanship, he turned his attention to knife fighting. He became an expert knife-thrower.
There was only one man with whom Sergas found he could talk frankly: his uncle, Gustav Holtz. Apart from the fun of killing ruthlessly and chasing women, Sergas’s only other interest was money. Tired of Army life, he had returned from Africa to Paris where his uncle worked for Herman Radnitz. From what Sergas learned from his uncle, Radnitz impressed him. Radnitz’s enormous wealth, his ruthless power, his association with the Heads of various governments made a big impact.
Sergas and his uncle had had a long discussion about his future. Sergas was inclined to join one of Castro’s groups, and go to Cuba, but Gustav had counselled patience. He would supply Sergas with enough money to live on. Sooner or later, Gustav promised, he would find a place for him in the Radnitz kingdom. He told him about Lu Silk.
“Mr Radnitz has many enemies. Some of them a little too powerful. Silk is told, and the enemy dies. Silk is paid four thousand dollars a month as a retainer and for a successful disposal a lump sum of fifty thousand dollars. He is no longer young. He will either retire or be killed,” Gustav said. “You could take his place. We must wait, but in the meantime perfect yourself,” and he went on to tell Sergas of Lu Silk’s qualifications.
“Why wait? Tell me where I can find this man and I’ll get rid of him,” Sergas said.
Gustav shook his head.
“Right now, you are not yet in Silk’s class. You are very good, but he is perfection. I won’t have you risking your life. Besides, Radnitz would be suspicious. Wait.”
So Sergas remained in Paris, honing his killing technique, chasing girls and reading biographies of the world’s leaders. When Radnitz moved to Paradise City, Sergas moved to Miami where he rented a modest one-room apartment. In Miami, he spent hours on the beach, swimming, jogging and keeping in trim, hunting girls and throwing knives at the palm trees.
He had faith in his uncle. Sooner or later, he would become a member of the Radnitz kingdom. If his uncle said so, it would be so.
This afternoon, he had needed a woman. He had gone to West Miami on his Honda motorcycle and to the black quarter. He had found this girl, now sleeping by his side. He had bought her a coke. She had told him her man was in Key West on business and wouldn’t be back before the evening. They had looked at each other, and Sergas knew she meant action. Clinging to him on the Honda, she had directed him to a shack where she lived.
As soon as his lust was released, Sergas always lost interest in his sexual partners. He slid off the bed and put on his Levis. As he was reaching for his sweat shirt, he heard a car pull up with screeching brakes. Moving swiftly to a rotting shutter, he peered through the slats.
A battered, dusty Lincoln was before the shack. From it sprang a big black, wearing a cream-coloured suit and a panama hat. His brutal face with its fuzz of beard, shiny with sweat, was a vicious, frightening mask. He came storming up the path as the girl came awake. She sat up, her face turning grey with terror as the black flung his weight against the door.