right?" Summers looked about him, peering into the richly furnished rooms off the hall as if somebody might be listening. "We're checking everything, me and Sergeant Jackson, but he's got his housekeeper packing for him. Is that okay?"
"Any extra baggage weight," Falcon said, "he pays. Just don't let him near a phone. You unplugged all the extensions up there?"
Summers nodded.
"Right, then ..." Falcon squinted at the timetable.
"There's a charter at six, I'll check if they got seats available."
"Charter?"
The voice came from the top of the stairs. They looked up. Von Joel was glaring at them from the landing. He was still handcuffed but had shaved and was wearing a long white flowing robe.
"No way," he boomed. "You won't get me in one of those. I want a scheduled flight."
Falcon stared at him, anxious to exert some authority.
"You go back any way we think fit, Myers. The British government's paying for this."
"Let me call my travel agents," Von Joel said. "Any extra expense is down to me. You can't say I haven't been cooperative, but I won't get on one of those clapped-out junk heaps."
Falcon shrugged. "Fair enough. You got the number? I'll call."
When the packing was finished Von Joel's house staff carried the suitcases—Gucci, matching—down to the hall. Larry wandered out onto the balcony beyond the master bedroom. The view was impressive, taking in the entire length of the swimming pool, the sweep of the garden, the wooded land beyond, and the main gates off to the right. As Larry watched he saw Lola drive up in a white Porsche and walk in through the gates, past the policemen on duty there.
Looking down, he saw DC Summers heading across the tiles toward the pool. He was wearing bathing trunks. He looked up and waved to Larry.
"Coming in?" he shouted. "Falcon said it was okay."
Larry turned away, shaking his head. The curtain behind the balcony doors moved and Lola appeared. She leaned on the doorjamb, folding her arms and staring at him. He began to smile uncertainly.
"You littie prick," she said.
Larry gulped softly. She turned and disappeared into the villa again. Down at the pool Larry saw the white length of DC Summers dive into the water.
Falcon meanwhile was in the drawing room using the portable telephone, trying to make himself understood. Outside the door, on the balcony overlooking the stairs, Von Joel lay back in a chair with his feet on a heavy antique table, lowering his handcuffed wrists around Lola's neck as she came to him, kissing him and making whimpering sounds against his cheek. Larry appeared and stood a short distance away, wary in case Lola turned the verbals on him again.
"What?" Falcon came out of the drawing room, interrogating the telephone. "Can you speak in English, please? Eh? Today . . . Tonight? What? Jesus!"
"I'll do it," Von Joel said. He took the receiver and spoke softly into it. "Julio? No, no hay ningun problema. . . . Cuatro, si, de primera close. " He laughed. "De acu-erdo, a mi cuenta." He handed back the telephone to Falcon and looked at his watch. "Five o'clock flight. We've got plenty of time. I'll have lunch served out on the patio." He hooked his arms tightly around Lola and narrowed his eyes at Falcon. "Can I have fifteen minutes?"
Falcon nodded. Von Joel got out of the chair. He and Lola made their way toward the bedroom. Falcon turned, hearing Larry Jackson's heavy sigh.
"You got a problem?"
"If the Guv'nor got to hear about this . . ." Larry shook his head. "It's like a frigging CarryOn movie. He's up there shafting his girlfriend, Summers is out doing laps in the pool—"
"Ease up, Larry," Falcon grunted. "We got him, didn't we?"
But it hardly feels like it, Larry thought, watching the DI walk away.
It was all so idiotically civilized. They were taking a villain, a right bad bastard, back to England to face the music, but first they were going to join him for lunch on the patio, just as soon as he'd finished giving his woman a seeing-to; after lunch—followed, no doubt
"Any extra baggage weight," Falcon said, "he pays. Just don't let him near a phone. You unplugged all the extensions up there?"
Summers nodded.
"Right, then ..." Falcon squinted at the timetable.
"There's a charter at six, I'll check if they got seats available."
"Charter?"
The voice came from the top of the stairs. They looked up. Von Joel was glaring at them from the landing. He was still handcuffed but had shaved and was wearing a long white flowing robe.
"No way," he boomed. "You won't get me in one of those. I want a scheduled flight."
Falcon stared at him, anxious to exert some authority.
"You go back any way we think fit, Myers. The British government's paying for this."
"Let me call my travel agents," Von Joel said. "Any extra expense is down to me. You can't say I haven't been cooperative, but I won't get on one of those clapped-out junk heaps."
Falcon shrugged. "Fair enough. You got the number? I'll call."
When the packing was finished Von Joel's house staff carried the suitcases—Gucci, matching—down to the hall. Larry wandered out onto the balcony beyond the master bedroom. The view was impressive, taking in the entire length of the swimming pool, the sweep of the garden, the wooded land beyond, and the main gates off to the right. As Larry watched he saw Lola drive up in a white Porsche and walk in through the gates, past the policemen on duty there.
Looking down, he saw DC Summers heading across the tiles toward the pool. He was wearing bathing trunks. He looked up and waved to Larry.
"Coming in?" he shouted. "Falcon said it was okay."
Larry turned away, shaking his head. The curtain behind the balcony doors moved and Lola appeared. She leaned on the doorjamb, folding her arms and staring at him. He began to smile uncertainly.
"You littie prick," she said.
Larry gulped softly. She turned and disappeared into the villa again. Down at the pool Larry saw the white length of DC Summers dive into the water.
Falcon meanwhile was in the drawing room using the portable telephone, trying to make himself understood. Outside the door, on the balcony overlooking the stairs, Von Joel lay back in a chair with his feet on a heavy antique table, lowering his handcuffed wrists around Lola's neck as she came to him, kissing him and making whimpering sounds against his cheek. Larry appeared and stood a short distance away, wary in case Lola turned the verbals on him again.
"What?" Falcon came out of the drawing room, interrogating the telephone. "Can you speak in English, please? Eh? Today . . . Tonight? What? Jesus!"
"I'll do it," Von Joel said. He took the receiver and spoke softly into it. "Julio? No, no hay ningun problema. . . . Cuatro, si, de primera close. " He laughed. "De acu-erdo, a mi cuenta." He handed back the telephone to Falcon and looked at his watch. "Five o'clock flight. We've got plenty of time. I'll have lunch served out on the patio." He hooked his arms tightly around Lola and narrowed his eyes at Falcon. "Can I have fifteen minutes?"
Falcon nodded. Von Joel got out of the chair. He and Lola made their way toward the bedroom. Falcon turned, hearing Larry Jackson's heavy sigh.
"You got a problem?"
"If the Guv'nor got to hear about this . . ." Larry shook his head. "It's like a frigging CarryOn movie. He's up there shafting his girlfriend, Summers is out doing laps in the pool—"
"Ease up, Larry," Falcon grunted. "We got him, didn't we?"
But it hardly feels like it, Larry thought, watching the DI walk away.
It was all so idiotically civilized. They were taking a villain, a right bad bastard, back to England to face the music, but first they were going to join him for lunch on the patio, just as soon as he'd finished giving his woman a seeing-to; after lunch—followed, no doubt
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