describes as “cold,” range of primary emotional responses narrow, bordering on sociopathic with highly motivated survival instincts. Inhibiting factors of guilt, nonexistent.
Del Valle paused, taking a sip of Cognac. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for Corvino during the three days the child had been snowed in the house with the old woman’s body. He’d brought up the subject only once in conversation during their second tour of duty in Nam on a plane ride back from Saigon, saying very little but implying a secret world of childhood nightmares and buried fears. Terrors Del Valle couldn’t conceive of, although he remembered what it had felt like the first time his parents had gone away for a week without him—a week he’d spent in a gloomy old ranch outside Dallas, with an old aunt he’d met only once before and never saw again. It must have been terrifying for Dominic, trapped alone and confused in a house with only a dead woman for company. The thought tapped a primal nerve. He shuddered, returning to more pressing concerns.
Like the two million dollars missing from the house in Panama. Had Corvino killed the other Spiral members for the money? Del Valle didn’t believe it, but then two million dollars would come in handy if he wanted to disappear. That kind of money could buy you a new identity, a new life, and if he was ready to retire…
If that was the case, then it would have made more sense just to disappear in Panama, fleeing to some other South American country where he could arrange plastic surgery and a new set of papers.
No, it didn’t hold water as far as Del Valle was concerned. Even if Dominic had killed Lang and disposed of the body to make it look like the Englishman had run, there were too many loose ends. Corvino was too methodical to set up a situation with so many holes in it. But unless they located Lang, all they had to go on was Dominic’s report and the basic information from the Panamanian police.
He checked his watch—7:30 P.M. His day had started at 5 A.M. He should go home and eat dinner with Jeannie, relax, watch some television, try to make it an early night. Tomorrow was going to be long and complicated. Harris’ and Skolomowski’s bodies, released by the Panamanian police, were being flown in and were due to arrive at Bolling round nine. There’d be autopsy reports to go over, more data to be compiled, and a meeting with top DEA officials who weren’t happy with the fact that the two million dollars was still missing.
Del Valle replaced Corvino’s file in his safe and switched off the lights.
WASHINGTON HARBOR COMPLEX.
GEORGETOWN.
7:43 P.M.
You are the wind moving over rock.
Flow…
Dressed in black sweat pants and a white silk gi , Corvino stood in the center of an empty room. White walls, a plain wooden floor, it was his Dojo and was sacred. He alone trained there, four hours a day minimum between assignments. He stood perfectly straight, feet together, heel to heel, big toe to big toe, and exhaled. He swept his hands down gracefully from his chest, spreading his arms out into a reverse V pattern, bending his knees out as he lowered his torso, his back remaining rigidly straight.
Left foot out, knee bent at a right angle.
Inhale.
Right arm sweeping up in a smooth motion, the hand as straight as a razor; left arm raising simultaneously, the forearm positioned horizontally.
Right foot forward. Right hand into a fist. Strike as the left arm chopped down.
Exhale.
Flow as the wind…
He continued to move, following the pattern of Sennin kata.
His mind clear of distractions, he stretched muscle, sinew. Punch, kick, turn, sidestep…
He completed the kata in five minutes, then started afresh, repeating the form six times until he was satisfied his right leg was strengthening.
Afterwards, he showered, taking his time under the hot needle points of water, washing away not just sweat but also trying to get rid of the negativity he’d been
Del Valle paused, taking a sip of Cognac. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for Corvino during the three days the child had been snowed in the house with the old woman’s body. He’d brought up the subject only once in conversation during their second tour of duty in Nam on a plane ride back from Saigon, saying very little but implying a secret world of childhood nightmares and buried fears. Terrors Del Valle couldn’t conceive of, although he remembered what it had felt like the first time his parents had gone away for a week without him—a week he’d spent in a gloomy old ranch outside Dallas, with an old aunt he’d met only once before and never saw again. It must have been terrifying for Dominic, trapped alone and confused in a house with only a dead woman for company. The thought tapped a primal nerve. He shuddered, returning to more pressing concerns.
Like the two million dollars missing from the house in Panama. Had Corvino killed the other Spiral members for the money? Del Valle didn’t believe it, but then two million dollars would come in handy if he wanted to disappear. That kind of money could buy you a new identity, a new life, and if he was ready to retire…
If that was the case, then it would have made more sense just to disappear in Panama, fleeing to some other South American country where he could arrange plastic surgery and a new set of papers.
No, it didn’t hold water as far as Del Valle was concerned. Even if Dominic had killed Lang and disposed of the body to make it look like the Englishman had run, there were too many loose ends. Corvino was too methodical to set up a situation with so many holes in it. But unless they located Lang, all they had to go on was Dominic’s report and the basic information from the Panamanian police.
He checked his watch—7:30 P.M. His day had started at 5 A.M. He should go home and eat dinner with Jeannie, relax, watch some television, try to make it an early night. Tomorrow was going to be long and complicated. Harris’ and Skolomowski’s bodies, released by the Panamanian police, were being flown in and were due to arrive at Bolling round nine. There’d be autopsy reports to go over, more data to be compiled, and a meeting with top DEA officials who weren’t happy with the fact that the two million dollars was still missing.
Del Valle replaced Corvino’s file in his safe and switched off the lights.
WASHINGTON HARBOR COMPLEX.
GEORGETOWN.
7:43 P.M.
You are the wind moving over rock.
Flow…
Dressed in black sweat pants and a white silk gi , Corvino stood in the center of an empty room. White walls, a plain wooden floor, it was his Dojo and was sacred. He alone trained there, four hours a day minimum between assignments. He stood perfectly straight, feet together, heel to heel, big toe to big toe, and exhaled. He swept his hands down gracefully from his chest, spreading his arms out into a reverse V pattern, bending his knees out as he lowered his torso, his back remaining rigidly straight.
Left foot out, knee bent at a right angle.
Inhale.
Right arm sweeping up in a smooth motion, the hand as straight as a razor; left arm raising simultaneously, the forearm positioned horizontally.
Right foot forward. Right hand into a fist. Strike as the left arm chopped down.
Exhale.
Flow as the wind…
He continued to move, following the pattern of Sennin kata.
His mind clear of distractions, he stretched muscle, sinew. Punch, kick, turn, sidestep…
He completed the kata in five minutes, then started afresh, repeating the form six times until he was satisfied his right leg was strengthening.
Afterwards, he showered, taking his time under the hot needle points of water, washing away not just sweat but also trying to get rid of the negativity he’d been
Similar Books
