Top Ten by Ryne Douglas Pearson Page B

swelter. There was the familiar table in the center, long and rectangular, it had been crafted out of scrap who knew how many years before, and bore the marks of much use. Mills had often wondered what things had been discussed at this table in his absence. What deals had been done.
    And the deal now being done. He wondered about that, too. Wondered as he put the large duffel on the table and unzipped it lengthwise along its top. He spread the opening wide to reveal the contents.
    The Fat Russian smiled.
    Yves, too, though to the expression he added a satisfied little nod.
    Mills gave it a look, though he had already seen it. In-flight he had opened the duffel and made a rudimentary assessment of the contents. Stacks of hundred dollar bills. A hundred to a bundle. Two hundred bundles. Two million dollars, give or take. And that was just this duffel.
    “Four more like this one still in the plane, gentlemen, compliments of Mr. Hoag.” Mills smiled with them now. Ten million dollars was a lot to smile about.
    “Excellent,” Costain said. “Beautiful.”
    How many dozens of payments like this one had been made already to Costain? Seven that Mills knew of, having made those flights personally. Not all had transferred moneys in this amount, though one had involved nearly fifteen million. And none of that counted the flights Skunky or Lane had made. Yes, Yves Costain was being made an even richer man here. He was being paid handsomely.
    The question that nagged Mills was, for what ?
    Costain reached for the duffle and zipped it slowly up, patting it once when it was closed. “You will convey my thanks to Mr. Hoag for following the payment schedule.”
    “I will,” Mills said. Costain smiled wistfully at him over the bag of money.
    “One more payment, Mills. Then I shall see you no more.”
    One more , Mills thought. Gareth hadn’t just been dramatic. It was close. Things were winding down. But down to what?
    “Unless...” Costain began. “Unless you wish to work for me...”
    “Yves...”
    “I can always use a pilot like you. Have you flown in Africa? A large continent with few radars and a refreshing tolerance toward bribery. You would like it.”
    “You’re kind, Yves.” Mills looked to the Fat Russian. He had stopped smiling.
    “Refreshments by the lagoon?” Costain suggested. “And more talk of your future.”
    “You’re a persistent man, Yves.”
    “It is one of my more charming qualities,” Costain admitted jokingly. He went to the door and let Mills and the Fat Russian out, following them into the thin shade of the date palms. “Mills, you will stay for the day, won’t you. We are roasting a pig.”
    “I should go, Yves.”
    “Should nothing. You will stay and have a meal with us.”
    What was he to do? In no way did he want to offend this man, because to offend him might sully his relationship with Gareth Dean Hoag. And that was a relationship he would not jeopardize. “All right, Yves.”
    “Yes,” Costain said, pleased. “You see—I am not only persistent, but persuasive.”
    Mills agreed wholeheartedly with a laugh.
    “Refreshments, then. Come.”
    Mills gestured to the Beech resting at the end of the runway. “Let me get the rest of the bags.”
    “Raoul will get it,” Costain told him, but Mills shook his head.
    “They’re my responsibility until they’re off that plane. I’ll only be a minute.”
    Mills jogged off toward the Beech. Costain and the Fat Russian watched him.
    “I don’t trust him,” the Fat Russian said in his native tongue.
    “ Ni moi non plus ,” Costain agreed in his.
    *   *   *
    At nine a.m., heeding the ring of her doorbell, Deandra Waley, fifty nine, opened the front door of her small house on East Twelfth Street in Raven Cloud, Minnesota, and found a man standing on the leaning porch with a pumpkin under his arm.
    She stared at him and kept the screen door shut, her hand on its inner latch.
    “Good morning,” the man said, smiling. “Would you