peering up like a curious ferret's.
"Sit down," said the dour skipper. "I thought you'd be here before this."
"You said between nine and eleven. It's quarter to eleven."
"You stretch the time, you can pay for the whiskey."
"Be glad to. Order something decent if they've got it."
The thin, pale-faced man smiled. Things were going to be all right. They were. The passport in question was, naturally, one of the most difficult in the world to tamper with, but with great care, equipment, and artistry, it could be done.
"How much?"
"These skills--and equipment--do not come cheap. Twenty-five hundred francs."
"When can I have it?"
"The care, the artistry, they take time. Three or four days. And that's putting the artist under great pressure; he'll scream at me."
"There's an additional one thousand francs if I can have it tomorrow."
"By ten in the morning," said the pale-faced man quickly. "I'll take the abuse."
"And the thousand," interrupted the scowling captain. "What did you bring out of Port Noir?
Diamonds?"
"Talent," answered the patient, meaning it but not understanding it.
"I'll need a photograph," said the connection.
"I stopped at an arcade and had this made," replied the patient, taking a small square photograph out of his shirt pocket. "With all that expensive equipment I'm sure you can sharpen it up."
"Nice clothes," said the captain, passing the print to the pale-faced man.
"Well tailored," agreed the patient.
Page 34
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
The location of the morning rendezvous was agreed upon, the drinks paid for, and the captain slipped five hundred francs under the table. The conference was over; the buyer left the cubicle and started across the crowded, raucous, smoke-layered barroom toward the door. It happened so rapidly, so suddenly, so completely unexpectedly, there was no time to think. Only react
.
The collision was abrupt, casual, but the eyes that stared at him were not casual; they seemed to burst out of their sockets, widening in disbelief, on the edge of hysteria.
"No! Oh my God, no! It cannot --" The man spun in the crowd; the patient lurched forward, clamping his hand down on the man's shoulder.
"Wait a minute!"
The man spun again, thrusting the V of his outstretched thumb and fingers up into the patient's wrist, forcing the hand away. " You! You're dead! You could not have lived!"
"I lived. What do you know ?"
The face was now contorted, a mass of twisted fury, the eyes squinting, the mouth open, sucking air, baring yellow teeth that took on the appearance of animals' teeth. Suddenly the man pulled out a knife, the snap of its recessed blade heard through the surrounding din. The arm shot forward, the blade an extension of the hand that gripped it, both surging in toward the patient's stomach. "I know I'll finish it!"
whispered the man.
The patient swung his right forearm down, a pendulum sweeping aside all objects in front of it. He pivoted, lashing his left foot up, his heel plunging into his attacker's pelvic bone.
"Che-sah." The echo in his ears was deafening.
The man lurched backward into a trio of drinkers as the knife fell to the floor. The weapon was seen; shouts followed, men converged, fists and hands separating the combatants.
"Get out of here!"
"Take your argument somewhere else!"
"We don't want the police in here, you drunken bastards!"
The angry coarse dialects of Marseilles rose over the cacophonous sounds of Le Bouc de Mer. The patient was hemmed in; he watched as his would-be killer threaded his way through the crowd, holding his groin, forcing a path to the entrance. The heavy door swung open; the man raced into the darkness of rue Sarrasin.
Someone who thought he was dead--wanted him dead--knew he was alive. 4
Page 35
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
The economy class section of Air France's Caravelle to Zurich was filled to capacity, the narrow
"Sit down," said the dour skipper. "I thought you'd be here before this."
"You said between nine and eleven. It's quarter to eleven."
"You stretch the time, you can pay for the whiskey."
"Be glad to. Order something decent if they've got it."
The thin, pale-faced man smiled. Things were going to be all right. They were. The passport in question was, naturally, one of the most difficult in the world to tamper with, but with great care, equipment, and artistry, it could be done.
"How much?"
"These skills--and equipment--do not come cheap. Twenty-five hundred francs."
"When can I have it?"
"The care, the artistry, they take time. Three or four days. And that's putting the artist under great pressure; he'll scream at me."
"There's an additional one thousand francs if I can have it tomorrow."
"By ten in the morning," said the pale-faced man quickly. "I'll take the abuse."
"And the thousand," interrupted the scowling captain. "What did you bring out of Port Noir?
Diamonds?"
"Talent," answered the patient, meaning it but not understanding it.
"I'll need a photograph," said the connection.
"I stopped at an arcade and had this made," replied the patient, taking a small square photograph out of his shirt pocket. "With all that expensive equipment I'm sure you can sharpen it up."
"Nice clothes," said the captain, passing the print to the pale-faced man.
"Well tailored," agreed the patient.
Page 34
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
The location of the morning rendezvous was agreed upon, the drinks paid for, and the captain slipped five hundred francs under the table. The conference was over; the buyer left the cubicle and started across the crowded, raucous, smoke-layered barroom toward the door. It happened so rapidly, so suddenly, so completely unexpectedly, there was no time to think. Only react
.
The collision was abrupt, casual, but the eyes that stared at him were not casual; they seemed to burst out of their sockets, widening in disbelief, on the edge of hysteria.
"No! Oh my God, no! It cannot --" The man spun in the crowd; the patient lurched forward, clamping his hand down on the man's shoulder.
"Wait a minute!"
The man spun again, thrusting the V of his outstretched thumb and fingers up into the patient's wrist, forcing the hand away. " You! You're dead! You could not have lived!"
"I lived. What do you know ?"
The face was now contorted, a mass of twisted fury, the eyes squinting, the mouth open, sucking air, baring yellow teeth that took on the appearance of animals' teeth. Suddenly the man pulled out a knife, the snap of its recessed blade heard through the surrounding din. The arm shot forward, the blade an extension of the hand that gripped it, both surging in toward the patient's stomach. "I know I'll finish it!"
whispered the man.
The patient swung his right forearm down, a pendulum sweeping aside all objects in front of it. He pivoted, lashing his left foot up, his heel plunging into his attacker's pelvic bone.
"Che-sah." The echo in his ears was deafening.
The man lurched backward into a trio of drinkers as the knife fell to the floor. The weapon was seen; shouts followed, men converged, fists and hands separating the combatants.
"Get out of here!"
"Take your argument somewhere else!"
"We don't want the police in here, you drunken bastards!"
The angry coarse dialects of Marseilles rose over the cacophonous sounds of Le Bouc de Mer. The patient was hemmed in; he watched as his would-be killer threaded his way through the crowd, holding his groin, forcing a path to the entrance. The heavy door swung open; the man raced into the darkness of rue Sarrasin.
Someone who thought he was dead--wanted him dead--knew he was alive. 4
Page 35
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
The economy class section of Air France's Caravelle to Zurich was filled to capacity, the narrow
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