around.
“I will not be killed …?” The would-be assassin closed his eyes in prayer as Hawthorne swung the beam of the powerful flashlight away from his face. “I will not be fed to the sharks?”
“Can you swim?” asked Tye, ignoring the question.
“
Naturalmente
,” answered the capo, “but not in these waters, especially as I am bleeding.”
“How good a swimmer are you?”
“I am a
Siciliano
from Messina. As a boy I dove for coins thrown by the tourists from the ships.”
“That’s good. Because I’m going to leave you a half mile offshore. You can handle the rest.”
“With the sharks?”
“There hasn’t been a shark in these waters for over twenty years. The coral odors repel them.”
* * *
The Sicilian killer was lying, Hawthorne knew it. Whoever was behind the attempt on his life had bought the whole marina and closed it down. The Baaka Valley couldn’t do that, Mafia or no Mafia. There was someone else who knew the islands and which buttons to press. Whoever that was was protecting the psychopath Bajaratt. Hawthorne, having stolen a pair of soiled coveralls, watched from the outside corner of the machine shop as the exhausted capo stumbled out of the mild surf onto the beach, so spent he lay prone on the sand, his body heaving, catching his breath. He had discarded his jacket and his shoes, but his bulging right trouser pocket indicated that he had put whatever possessions he felt necessary into it. Tyrell counted on him having them; a carrier pigeon without a capsule was a useless bird.
Two minutes passed and the mafioso raised his head in the glare of the floodlights. He awkwardly, painfully, got to his feet, looking swiftly to his right and his left, obviously trying to orient himself. The capo’s head stopped swiveling, his eyes centered on the machine shop. That was the place where he and his dead colleague had initiated their operation; there was no other. The switch for the floodlights was there, the money passed inside. And there was a telephone on a counter.… At this point, thought Hawthorne, remembering a dozen such entrapments in Amsterdam, Brussels, and Munich, the mark was a programmed robot. He had to follow his instincts to survive. He did.
Breathless, the mafioso ran down the beach to the steps to the shop. Gripping the rail, he climbed them, every now and then grabbing his shoulder and grimacing at his minor wound. Tyrell smiled; his own shoulder had been cleansed by the sea and only trickled. Band-Aids would take care of them both, but psychologically the capo was singing melodramatic opera.
The killer reached the machine shop, kicked open the door with unnecessary force, and burst inside. Seconds later the floodlights were extinguished and a lamp was turned on. Hawthorne crept to the open door and listened as the mafioso argued with a Caribbean operator over the telephone.
“
Sì
! Yes,
yes
, it is a Miami
numero
—number!” The capo repeated the digits and Hawthorne printed them indelibly in his memory—my God, the games! “
Emergènza
!” yelled the mafioso, having reached Miami. “
Cerca il padrone via satellite! Presto
!” Moments passed before the panicked man, now holding his groin, spoke again, screamed again. “
Padrone, esso incredible! Scozzi è morto! Un diavolo da inferno …
!”
Tyrell could not understand all the frenzied Italian shouted by the capo into the phone, but he had picked up enough. He had a number in Miami, and the existence of someone called
padrone
, who was reached by an access-satellite relay—someone here in the islands who was aiding and abetting the terrorist Bajaratt.
“
Ho capito! Nuova York. Va bene
!”
Those last words, too, were not difficult to understand, thought Hawthorne as the mafioso hung up the phone and started anxiously toward the door. The capo was being ordered to New York, where he could disappear until summoned. Tyrell picked up one of the discarded rust-encrusted anchors that lay
“I will not be killed …?” The would-be assassin closed his eyes in prayer as Hawthorne swung the beam of the powerful flashlight away from his face. “I will not be fed to the sharks?”
“Can you swim?” asked Tye, ignoring the question.
“
Naturalmente
,” answered the capo, “but not in these waters, especially as I am bleeding.”
“How good a swimmer are you?”
“I am a
Siciliano
from Messina. As a boy I dove for coins thrown by the tourists from the ships.”
“That’s good. Because I’m going to leave you a half mile offshore. You can handle the rest.”
“With the sharks?”
“There hasn’t been a shark in these waters for over twenty years. The coral odors repel them.”
* * *
The Sicilian killer was lying, Hawthorne knew it. Whoever was behind the attempt on his life had bought the whole marina and closed it down. The Baaka Valley couldn’t do that, Mafia or no Mafia. There was someone else who knew the islands and which buttons to press. Whoever that was was protecting the psychopath Bajaratt. Hawthorne, having stolen a pair of soiled coveralls, watched from the outside corner of the machine shop as the exhausted capo stumbled out of the mild surf onto the beach, so spent he lay prone on the sand, his body heaving, catching his breath. He had discarded his jacket and his shoes, but his bulging right trouser pocket indicated that he had put whatever possessions he felt necessary into it. Tyrell counted on him having them; a carrier pigeon without a capsule was a useless bird.
Two minutes passed and the mafioso raised his head in the glare of the floodlights. He awkwardly, painfully, got to his feet, looking swiftly to his right and his left, obviously trying to orient himself. The capo’s head stopped swiveling, his eyes centered on the machine shop. That was the place where he and his dead colleague had initiated their operation; there was no other. The switch for the floodlights was there, the money passed inside. And there was a telephone on a counter.… At this point, thought Hawthorne, remembering a dozen such entrapments in Amsterdam, Brussels, and Munich, the mark was a programmed robot. He had to follow his instincts to survive. He did.
Breathless, the mafioso ran down the beach to the steps to the shop. Gripping the rail, he climbed them, every now and then grabbing his shoulder and grimacing at his minor wound. Tyrell smiled; his own shoulder had been cleansed by the sea and only trickled. Band-Aids would take care of them both, but psychologically the capo was singing melodramatic opera.
The killer reached the machine shop, kicked open the door with unnecessary force, and burst inside. Seconds later the floodlights were extinguished and a lamp was turned on. Hawthorne crept to the open door and listened as the mafioso argued with a Caribbean operator over the telephone.
“
Sì
! Yes,
yes
, it is a Miami
numero
—number!” The capo repeated the digits and Hawthorne printed them indelibly in his memory—my God, the games! “
Emergènza
!” yelled the mafioso, having reached Miami. “
Cerca il padrone via satellite! Presto
!” Moments passed before the panicked man, now holding his groin, spoke again, screamed again. “
Padrone, esso incredible! Scozzi è morto! Un diavolo da inferno …
!”
Tyrell could not understand all the frenzied Italian shouted by the capo into the phone, but he had picked up enough. He had a number in Miami, and the existence of someone called
padrone
, who was reached by an access-satellite relay—someone here in the islands who was aiding and abetting the terrorist Bajaratt.
“
Ho capito! Nuova York. Va bene
!”
Those last words, too, were not difficult to understand, thought Hawthorne as the mafioso hung up the phone and started anxiously toward the door. The capo was being ordered to New York, where he could disappear until summoned. Tyrell picked up one of the discarded rust-encrusted anchors that lay
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