carrying with him since his meeting with Del Valle.
He wanted answers to questions that didn’t make sense, but most of all he wanted to be finished with Covert Ops. He’d invested enough money to be able to live comfortably for the rest of his life, and the thought of learning to paint with oils, reading, and pursuing his other interests was appealing. He was on the wrong side of forty and a lifetime of killing had become a heavy burden.
He stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping away the condensation. The face that stared back at him seemed to have aged ten years in the last week. Although he was in far better shape than most men his age, the strain was beginning to show.
There was another retirement option though, one he didn’t relish because it would mean he’d spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder. He could fake his own suicide, adopt a new identity and disappear. It wasn’t that difficult if you knew how, but Del Valle would never believe he’d taken his own life, especially in light of his admission. Neither would Hershman—and he would want Corvino found. Knowing him, Hershman would issue a sanction and have him executed as a security risk. A fake suicide would be perceived as indication of guilt.
Toweling himself dry, he headed for the bedroom where he slipped into a black silk robe. The cool fabric caressed his warm skin, gently resting against him like a lover’s tender embrace.
Mitra…
He sat on the futon bed, legs crossed.
Panama had been a set-up, he was sure But by whom? His gut feeling was that Skolomowski and Lang were involved. Had they taken out the targets before he and Harris had arrived? It was more logical than the rival Colombians theory. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and if the men connected with the Escobar clan had hit the Cali contingent, they couldn’t have got in without Lang seeing them. This meant the Englishman had lied one way or another. But what was their motive—to steal the two million dollars? Then what, disappear? Or were they going to kill him and Harris and make it look like the dead men had stolen the money and had gone on the run? That was possible. And the Pole had probably killed Mitra for the hell of it.
Skolomowski was dead. Maybe there was a God after all.
But even if he accepted that theory, there were still other factors which didn’t make sense. If Skolomowski and Lang had killed the Colombians, they would’ve done a thorough job. So who was the man who shot the Pole and where had he come from? And then there was the man who had attacked him—a man reason dictated should’ve been dead. The whole situation was a giant Chinese puzzle box that threatened to drive him crazy.
Mentally exhausted, Corvino lay down. Within minutes he was asleep.
ALEXANDRIA.
10:05 P.M.
Nick eased the Bronco into the driveway, shut off the engine, and cut Bob Seger’s voice in mid-wail as he and The Silver Bullet Band sang about going to Kathmandu. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. He wanted a cigarette. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t smoked for nearly three years; there were times when the desire just rolled back in and he would automatically reach for a pack of Winstons that wasn’t there. Once an oral compulsive, always an oral compulsive , Sandy had said at times like these, and he would laugh. Then she’d kiss him and add, isn’t that nicer than a stinking butt? She’d accent the last two words so she sounded like Larry Storch playing a Mexican bandito in some B-Movie western. He would laugh again and hold her.
Sandy.
That was what he wanted to do right now. Hold her. Hold her and feel her soft kisses on his brow as she wrapped him in her arms.
He looked at the darkened red brick house. It was as empty as he felt. He wanted her. Wanted the lights to be on and his wife to be sitting in front of the TV. He would enter and she would get up off the couch and switch off the TV set. She’d
He wanted answers to questions that didn’t make sense, but most of all he wanted to be finished with Covert Ops. He’d invested enough money to be able to live comfortably for the rest of his life, and the thought of learning to paint with oils, reading, and pursuing his other interests was appealing. He was on the wrong side of forty and a lifetime of killing had become a heavy burden.
He stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping away the condensation. The face that stared back at him seemed to have aged ten years in the last week. Although he was in far better shape than most men his age, the strain was beginning to show.
There was another retirement option though, one he didn’t relish because it would mean he’d spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder. He could fake his own suicide, adopt a new identity and disappear. It wasn’t that difficult if you knew how, but Del Valle would never believe he’d taken his own life, especially in light of his admission. Neither would Hershman—and he would want Corvino found. Knowing him, Hershman would issue a sanction and have him executed as a security risk. A fake suicide would be perceived as indication of guilt.
Toweling himself dry, he headed for the bedroom where he slipped into a black silk robe. The cool fabric caressed his warm skin, gently resting against him like a lover’s tender embrace.
Mitra…
He sat on the futon bed, legs crossed.
Panama had been a set-up, he was sure But by whom? His gut feeling was that Skolomowski and Lang were involved. Had they taken out the targets before he and Harris had arrived? It was more logical than the rival Colombians theory. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and if the men connected with the Escobar clan had hit the Cali contingent, they couldn’t have got in without Lang seeing them. This meant the Englishman had lied one way or another. But what was their motive—to steal the two million dollars? Then what, disappear? Or were they going to kill him and Harris and make it look like the dead men had stolen the money and had gone on the run? That was possible. And the Pole had probably killed Mitra for the hell of it.
Skolomowski was dead. Maybe there was a God after all.
But even if he accepted that theory, there were still other factors which didn’t make sense. If Skolomowski and Lang had killed the Colombians, they would’ve done a thorough job. So who was the man who shot the Pole and where had he come from? And then there was the man who had attacked him—a man reason dictated should’ve been dead. The whole situation was a giant Chinese puzzle box that threatened to drive him crazy.
Mentally exhausted, Corvino lay down. Within minutes he was asleep.
ALEXANDRIA.
10:05 P.M.
Nick eased the Bronco into the driveway, shut off the engine, and cut Bob Seger’s voice in mid-wail as he and The Silver Bullet Band sang about going to Kathmandu. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. He wanted a cigarette. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t smoked for nearly three years; there were times when the desire just rolled back in and he would automatically reach for a pack of Winstons that wasn’t there. Once an oral compulsive, always an oral compulsive , Sandy had said at times like these, and he would laugh. Then she’d kiss him and add, isn’t that nicer than a stinking butt? She’d accent the last two words so she sounded like Larry Storch playing a Mexican bandito in some B-Movie western. He would laugh again and hold her.
Sandy.
That was what he wanted to do right now. Hold her. Hold her and feel her soft kisses on his brow as she wrapped him in her arms.
He looked at the darkened red brick house. It was as empty as he felt. He wanted her. Wanted the lights to be on and his wife to be sitting in front of the TV. He would enter and she would get up off the couch and switch off the TV set. She’d
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