Privateers (26 page)

“Very good. I …” The Englishman’s eyes suddenly squeezed shut. His mouth dropped open and a strangled groan gurgled in his throat. His knees buckled. Dan grabbed him as Sir Edmond’s head lolled back on his shoulders. The umbrella dropped from his nerveless hands. He was dead before Dan could lower him to the pavement.

Dan Randolph stood at the head of the lane, turned sideways like a fencer, his arm extended straight from the shoulder. The gun barked as he snapped off four quick shots. The sleek black automatic in his hand hardly bucked at all.

Pete Weston clamped his hands to his ears as the gunfire echoed off the firing range’s walls. They were alone in the indoor range; the other nine lanes were empty and dark.

“Aren’t you supposed to wear headphones when you shoot, to muffle the noise?” Weston asked.

With a shake of his head, Dan hefted the automatic in his hand, testing its balance. “I want to get accustomed to the noise. I don’t want anything to throw me off if I have to use this thing for real.”

“You’re really serious?”

Weston was wearing his usual Wall Street attorney’s uniform: a gray three-piece suit. Dan had on an old pair of tan chinos and a short-sleeved shirt.

“That Russian sonofabitch tried to murder me,” Dan told the lawyer. “He sent a couple of KGB goons after me and they got Dixon by mistake.”

“You can’t be sure. …”

Dan silenced him with a look. “Pete, I still have friends in London. The official autopsy report said heart attack. But Dixon’s cardiovascular system showed no signs of it. The KGB has used a nerve poison for assassinations since Stalin’s time. And there was a scratch on Dixon’s leg, where the thugs jabbed him with the umbrella one of them was carrying. Cut right through his pants leg.”

Weston said nothing, but the expression on his high-domed face showed that he was not convinced.

“They were after me,” Dan said. “Malik’s pissed because he can’t just arrest me and throw me in a Russian jail. …”

“As long as the government of Venezuela protects you,” the lawyer pointed out.

“Right.” Dan pulled the cartridge clip from the butt of the pistol and began refilling it from the box on the countertop in front of him.

“You’d better be very nice to Hernandez,” Weston advised. “He’s got you by the cojones now.”

Dan grinned at the light-skinned, freckle-paled lawyer’s use of a Spanish term. “You’re becoming a real native, Pete. Next thing you know, you’ll be taking siestas and playing the guitar.”

Weston showed no amusement. “Just the same, if Hernandez wants to hand you over to the Russians …”

“I’m being very nice to him, don’t worry. I’m treating him with enormous care and affection. My contributions to his favorite charitable causes have risen steeply in the past few weeks.”

He slammed the clip back into the gun, whirled and fired five shots at the target down at the end of the lane. Weston clapped his ears again and grimaced. The target, a holographic image of a darkly threatening man holding a gun in his hand, showed bright red dots where the bullets passed through it. Dan’s five shots were scattered around the chest and shoulders.

“Five for five,” he muttered.

“Uh, look, boss …” Weston stammered. “I know I don’t have to remind you about this, but, uh … well …”

“Spit it out. Pete! I’m not going to shoot you.”

“Well …” The lawyer looked miserable. “You probably already know it. but if you want to stay on Hernandez’s good side, for God’s sake don’t mess around with his daughter anymore. Understand?”

An ironic smile flickered across Dan’s face. “Yeah, 1 know.”

“There’s no surer way to get him sore at you than to-”

“I know!” Dan repeated. “Don’t worry about it. She’s going to marry Malik; she’ll be living in Moscow before the year’s out.”

“Really?” Weston blinked with surprise.

“I’ve been invited to the engagement party. By Hernandez himself. Tomorrow night.”

The lawyer’s eyes blinked again, rapidly. “And you’re going?”

His grin returning, Dan said, “You told me to be nice to Hernandez, didn’t you? Not to do anything that might upset him?”

“So you’re going to her engagement party.”

“I’m going.”

“Where is it? At Hernandez’s mansion?”

Dan shook his head. “No. The Russian embassy.”

“The what!”

“The party’s at the Russian embassy. Tomorrow night at nine. White tie. RSVP.”

“You can’t go to the Russian embassy!” Weston waved both hands agitatedly. “That’s Soviet territory! It’d be like going into the Soviet Union itself. They’ll put you under arrest as soon as you step inside the door!”

“No they won’t. Malik won’t spoil his own party.”

Running a hand through his thinning hair, the lawyer said, “You’re afraid they’re out to kill you, and you’re going to step right into their parlor? That’s crazy!”

“So I’m crazy,” Dan replied lightly. “You wouldn’t want me to offend Hernandez, would you?”

“But-”

“All the Third World space operators will be there: Kolwezi from Zaire, Vavuniya from India, al Hashimi from Pan-Arab … all of them. I’d be conspicuous by my absence if I didn’t go.”

“Yamagata?” Weston asked. “The Chinese?”

Dan shook his head. “I doubt it. The Russians aren’t being polite to the Chinese this year, and Saito has to worry more about offending his biggest customer than offending the Soviets.”

“I still think you’re running a helluva risk.”

“Malik won’t do anything to screw up his engagement party. Don’t worry about it. They might try to grab me as I leave, if they can do it quietly, without disturbing the other guests. That’s why I’m having my Fred Astaire suit altered to carry my little companion here… .” He raised the trim dead-black automatic, pointing it ceilingward. “They won’t take me without a fuss, and I’m making certain that they know there’ll be a fuss if they try anything.”

“How can you make certain of that?”

“Come on, Pete, open your eyes! The Soviets have informers everyplace. Astro is honeycombed with them, no matter how much we try to weed them out.”

“But I don’t see-”

“Look around! I rented the whole firing range for the entire afternoon, every day this week. Paid enough to make it worth their while to turn away all their other customers. Maybe I’ll buy it and keep it exclusively for my own use. Don’t you think that will attract their attention?”

“Wouldn’t it be safer-and cheaper-just to stay away from their embassy?”

“And miss Malik’s engagement party? Not for the world!”

Weston shook his head, a lawyer whose client stubbornly refuses good advice.

“Besides,” Dan added, “it may be my last chance to see Lucita.”

Turning, he straightened his arm and emptied the gun at the holographic target. Every bullet went through its head and face.

Dan took his new secretary to bed with him that night, and although she was beautiful, willing and even inventive, he found himself fantasizing about Lucita as he made love with her. In the morning, when he opened his eyes he saw that she was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching him. He tried to recall her name: she was a Dane, a leggy, full-bosomed Viking with golden hair cropped short and curly, and eyes as green as finest jade.

“Do you know what you need?” Her tone was very serious; her low, sultry voice devoid of any hint of seduction.

“Vitamin E, perhaps?”

A smile brightened her face.

“Do not joke. What you need is to be married. A good wife would bring you much happiness.”

Dan was so stunned that he could find no words to answer her.

“It is the right time in your life for marriage. You should have children. What good is all your money if you have no children to give it to?”

He remembered her name. “Kristin … are you volunteering for the job?”

“You are joking again.” She threw the bedclothes off and swung her long legs to the richly carpeted floor, sending a wave through the waterbed.

Standing, she turned back to him, a naked Norse goddess with a body that would be worth killing an army to acquire. “1 am not trying to capture you, Dan Randolph. You are a good lover. You know how to please a woman. But you do not love me. Perhaps you do not love anyone. If you find a woman you truly love, you must marry her. It will be the only way for you to find happiness.”

He grinned up at her. “I’m happy now.”

“No, you are not. You have everything a man needs to be happy, but you are not a happy man. Not truly.”

He considered that thought for a moment, then asked, “Would you marry me?”

“Without love? No.”

“You wouldn’t marry me for my money? So that your children could be very wealthy?”

She shook her head. “I would only marry you to make you happy, Mr. Randolph.”

The idealism of youth, Dan thought. She’s young and very beautiful; she can afford to play a waiting game.

He stretched his arms out to her. “Well, you can make me happy right here and now.”

She frowned at him. But she climbed back onto the warm waterbed and let him bury his face in her breasts.

No matter how they tried to disguise it, the Soviet embassy still looked like a fortress. A high stone wall surrounded its ample grounds. There was no barbed wire atop the wall, but Dan knew that modern electronic devices and invisible laser beams guarded the perimeter quite effectively. The big spotlights that ostensibly outlined the main building against the night sky also served to illuminate the spacious lawn and wide walks, making it easier to spot possible intruders. The main building itself, designed by a Venezuelan architect to specifications laid down by a Soviet committee that included at least one security officer, looked like a heavy, brooding old hacienda set far out in the wilds where it had to be defended night and day against the possibility of Indian attack.

Feeling slightly foolish in his white tie and tails, and very conscious of the pistol holstered under his armpit. Dan stepped out of his limousine at the embassy’s front door. All day long he had toyed with the idea of bringing Kristin or some other date with him, but finally decided to come alone. After his morning conversation with the secretary, inviting her to this function would reinforce her nutty ideas about marriage, Dan thought. Besides, it’ll be easier to get a chance to talk with Lucita alone if I don’t have a date hanging on my arm.

The trio of servants just inside the front door stopped him. The tallest of them, a cadaverous bald man who might have been anywhere between forty and sixty, spoke to Dan in a hissing whisper:

“Sir, I am sorry, but we cannot allow firearms to be carried inside.”

Behind him, his two assistants glowered at Dan. In their evening clothes they looked like bit players from an ancient Hollywood gangster movie.

Dan smiled at the gaunt-faced butler. “The pistol is for my own protection. I was nearly assassinated recently.”

“You are under the protection of the Soviet Union in this building, sir. That will be assurance enough of your safety.”

“It was a Soviet agent who tried to assassinate me,” Dan replied sweetly.

The butler showed neither surprise nor dismay. “It is regrettable that you believe so, sir, but you cannot enter the party while carrying a firearm.”

“Then would you kindly inform my host of this problem? I have been invited to this party, I have no intention of leaving it because you say so, and I will not give up my protection.”

For a moment the butler hesitated. Then he hissed, “As you wish, sir,” and turned his back to Dan. He pulled from his jacket pocket a slim two-way radio, the size of a cigarette case, and whispered urgently into it in sibilant Russian. Dan stood smiling pleasantly at the two glowering goons. They must have a metal detector built right into the goddamned doorway, he mused. Probably an X-ray machine, too. You could get your annual medical checkup just by walking into the place.

“Would you step this way, please?” the butler asked with exaggerated politeness. Dan followed him into a small anteroom. The butler left him there without a further word, gliding back to the foyer like a shadowless wraith.

It was a tiny windowless room, holding nothing more than a bare wooden desk, two stiff chairs and the inevitable portrait of Lenin above the desk. The walls were papered in red, with a hammer and sickle design. A small chandelier that could hide all sorts of miniaturized cameras and microphones. A rather worn oriental carpet on the floor.

A husky young Russian stepped into the anteroom. His rented evening suit looked several sizes too small for him; he seemed to be bursting out of it. He was big enough to make the room crowded. His ruddy young face was serious, almost angry.

“I have been instructed to take your gun,” he said flatly.

In Russian, Dan replied, “You’re just going to get yourself shot, son. Go tell Comrade Malik that I’ll talk to him and no one else.”

The youngster took a step toward Dan, who snaked his hand toward the holster.

“Come with me,” he said, trying to make himself smile. “I will take you to the Comrade Chairman.”

Dan let his hand fall away from the gun butt and followed the young man down the main hallway and through the big open doorway that led into the ballroom. It was already filled with guests. Dan spotted Abdus Kolwezi’s handsome black face; the tall Zairian stood above the crowd like a dark mahogany tree above a forest of stunted shrubs. A full orchestra was playing sedate dance music. Servants were carrying trays of drinks and canapés through the crowd. Most of the conversations were either in Spanish or Russian, although Dan heard snatches of English-both American and British-as he followed the big security guard through the throng like a small sloop being towed by a massive tug.