below. A king-size bed on a dais angled from one corner, inviting studs and babes to perform on the sheeted stage. A Jacuzzi big enough for eight bubbled near the bar, backed by a mirror in case the best crotch-shot was from behind. Skull lounged on the bed until the phone rang.
"Hello."
"Code word?"
"Psalm 69."
"Were you followed?"
"Uh uh."
"My conclusion, too. In this business, you can't be too safe."
"Now what?"
"See the door opposite the bed? Shove your half of the hundred into the next suite."
Skull crossed the room and did as he was told.
"Next?"
"Pull the middle pillow slip over your head. You'll find eyeholes on the underside."
Dumping out the pillow, Skull donned the mask.
"Done."
"Okay, back to the same door. Open it wide and lock both hands behind your head."
No sooner had Skull cracked the door than a Bowie knife jabbed his belly. The man in the next suite wore a similar mask, making this look like a gathering of the Klan. He held the blade edge-up in the proper manner, ready to thrust and rip Skull open if he so much as blinked.
"Got the money?"
"I brought diamonds instead."
"Fifty K's worth?"
"Double that. If you did the job right, there's another mission."
The knifeman motioned toward his bed. On it were both halves of the hundred-dollar bill and a folded copy of Foreign Legion magazine. The magazine contained the ad Skull had used last month, on top of which lay a videocassette. The ad read:
Mercenary. Vietnam vet. Action in Africa.
Available for missions, no questions asked.
Half up front, half on completion.
Tortured in Angola, secrecy guaranteed.
Write "Corkscrew," Box 106,
Rattlesnake, Nevada.
"What do I call you?" Corkscrew asked.
"Skull," the Canadian said.
"Why'd you front the money without meeting me?"
"In this business, you can't be too safe."
"And if I ripped you off?"
"Then you'd be out fifty grand and I'd find someone else."
"Play it," the American said, indicating the tape. He'd hooked a VCR up to the TV.
The tape was shot with a camcorder mounted on a tripod. On-screen, the image tilted with the rocking of a boat off Barbados. Sam Lord's Castle, where the pirate had kept his wife imprisoned in a cage, throwing her scraps to amuse his guests, loomed beyond the porthole used as a backdrop. This side of the porthole, a man sat in a chair, bond, gagged, and terrified by the vise fitted over his head. Soon the palms beyond Cobblers Reef passed by, trees in which Lord's slaves had hung night lanterns to lure ships approaching Bridgetown onto the coral so he could loot their cargoes. This side of the porthole, a gloved hand turned the vise.
The vise plates were flat against the bald man's ears, the mechanism crowning his pate like stereo headphones. Once, twice, three times, the vise handle turned, while Beachy Head, Crane Beach, and Foul Bay slipped by. First the skin around his compressed ears tore, welling blood from the lacerations. His head began to flatten, though not that much, as his pleading eyes bulged from their sockets. Slowly the pressure increased through five more turns, until his face split down the middle, fracturing his jaw. Blood gushed from his nose as St. Martin's came into view, then like an erupting volcano, his skull sutures sprung. The head didn't explode, it collapsed in on itself, squashing the crumpled face in a black-holed scream. Brain tissue squeezed from each orifice us the screen went fuzzy gray.
"Nice work," Skull said, gleefully clapping his hands.
"How'd he fuck you over?" Corkscrew asked.
"He reviewed a book I wrote for Publishers Weekly. I didn't like the review. I think it hurt sales."
"You mentioned another mission? Who?" the American asked.
"A Mountie named DeClercq," the Canadian replied.
Jolly Roger
Vancouver
4:15 P.M.
The youth sitting on the bench outside DeClercq's office was your quintessential nerd. He didn't have tape on his glasses or a plastic pocket-protector, but three different-colored pens protruded
"Hello."
"Code word?"
"Psalm 69."
"Were you followed?"
"Uh uh."
"My conclusion, too. In this business, you can't be too safe."
"Now what?"
"See the door opposite the bed? Shove your half of the hundred into the next suite."
Skull crossed the room and did as he was told.
"Next?"
"Pull the middle pillow slip over your head. You'll find eyeholes on the underside."
Dumping out the pillow, Skull donned the mask.
"Done."
"Okay, back to the same door. Open it wide and lock both hands behind your head."
No sooner had Skull cracked the door than a Bowie knife jabbed his belly. The man in the next suite wore a similar mask, making this look like a gathering of the Klan. He held the blade edge-up in the proper manner, ready to thrust and rip Skull open if he so much as blinked.
"Got the money?"
"I brought diamonds instead."
"Fifty K's worth?"
"Double that. If you did the job right, there's another mission."
The knifeman motioned toward his bed. On it were both halves of the hundred-dollar bill and a folded copy of Foreign Legion magazine. The magazine contained the ad Skull had used last month, on top of which lay a videocassette. The ad read:
Mercenary. Vietnam vet. Action in Africa.
Available for missions, no questions asked.
Half up front, half on completion.
Tortured in Angola, secrecy guaranteed.
Write "Corkscrew," Box 106,
Rattlesnake, Nevada.
"What do I call you?" Corkscrew asked.
"Skull," the Canadian said.
"Why'd you front the money without meeting me?"
"In this business, you can't be too safe."
"And if I ripped you off?"
"Then you'd be out fifty grand and I'd find someone else."
"Play it," the American said, indicating the tape. He'd hooked a VCR up to the TV.
The tape was shot with a camcorder mounted on a tripod. On-screen, the image tilted with the rocking of a boat off Barbados. Sam Lord's Castle, where the pirate had kept his wife imprisoned in a cage, throwing her scraps to amuse his guests, loomed beyond the porthole used as a backdrop. This side of the porthole, a man sat in a chair, bond, gagged, and terrified by the vise fitted over his head. Soon the palms beyond Cobblers Reef passed by, trees in which Lord's slaves had hung night lanterns to lure ships approaching Bridgetown onto the coral so he could loot their cargoes. This side of the porthole, a gloved hand turned the vise.
The vise plates were flat against the bald man's ears, the mechanism crowning his pate like stereo headphones. Once, twice, three times, the vise handle turned, while Beachy Head, Crane Beach, and Foul Bay slipped by. First the skin around his compressed ears tore, welling blood from the lacerations. His head began to flatten, though not that much, as his pleading eyes bulged from their sockets. Slowly the pressure increased through five more turns, until his face split down the middle, fracturing his jaw. Blood gushed from his nose as St. Martin's came into view, then like an erupting volcano, his skull sutures sprung. The head didn't explode, it collapsed in on itself, squashing the crumpled face in a black-holed scream. Brain tissue squeezed from each orifice us the screen went fuzzy gray.
"Nice work," Skull said, gleefully clapping his hands.
"How'd he fuck you over?" Corkscrew asked.
"He reviewed a book I wrote for Publishers Weekly. I didn't like the review. I think it hurt sales."
"You mentioned another mission? Who?" the American asked.
"A Mountie named DeClercq," the Canadian replied.
Jolly Roger
Vancouver
4:15 P.M.
The youth sitting on the bench outside DeClercq's office was your quintessential nerd. He didn't have tape on his glasses or a plastic pocket-protector, but three different-colored pens protruded
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