“Still hurts?” He was obviously enjoying himself. “Good. Well now, let’s first see what I have to show you. And then we shall see what we have for the two of us. You always thought it was Verity I wanted, but it’s always been you, Mirabella. From the minute I saw you, I knew what you were like. I knew you were my kind of woman. I know what to expect from you.”
He came and sat next to me. I could smell him he was so close, a faint but heady old-fashioned masculine bay rum cologne that mixed somehow with his own male aroma. In one of those irreverent passing thoughts that came to me while under dire circumstances I bet he’d had it made specially, just for him. No one else in the world would ever be able to buy it. Only he would smell like the Boss. God, I couldn’t even remember now what his real name was. Did anybody, I wondered? He was who he was, and that was enough. His very name, the Boss, reminded everyone of his power.
“Well now,” he said, smiling. “Let’s see the show.”
52
Chad Prescott
Chad hopped a ride from Paris on a private jet carrying a rock group to a concert in Monte Carlo, an event given by the prince to honor some visiting president.
When he got to the hospital, he was told again that Verity had been moved to the Boss’s guesthouse, where she was guaranteed expert medical care. The Boss had told them it would be better than she could get there. And who were they to say no? Of course they’d taken his word for it. A man like that, how could they not? They would have left their own daughters in his care.
Of course they would, Chad thought. Anybody would. A man like that. He was walking out of the hospital when he saw the Colonel, also hurrying for the exit. He hailed him and the Colonel strode back, hand held out.
“My friend,” he said. “I hope I can call you my friend, since we are in this together.”
“And what exactly are we ‘in’?” Chad had a feeling it was bad.
“Mirabella went to look for Verity. They told her she’d gone with the Boss. She has not come back, nor has she communicated with me. I’m on my way to the Villa Mara now. Two squad cars will follow me.”
“Follow us, you mean. I’m coming with you.” We should take a helicopter, get there quicker.”
“Quicker but more noisy. We don’t want to alarm him.”
The Colonel saw Chad’s shocked face and added quickly, “Alarm anyone, I mean. Mirabella also, as well as Verity who is just out of the hospital.”
“And should not be,” Chad added, grimly. “What is the Boss up to, anyway?”
The Colonel shrugged. “We are talking about a man who has everything money and power can buy. With some men this is not enough. There are things they cannot purchase. They feel the need to exert their power, to show it off, earn the kind of ‘respect’ from a woman they feel entitled to. They want the ultimate power, Doctor.”
Chad did not have to ask what he meant. Ultimate power over life or death. He was a doctor, a medical man as he preferred to refer to himself. He was in the business of saving lives. But right then, he wanted a man dead.
The Colonel
The Colonel had disliked hospitals ever since his wife had spent her final hours there. More than dislike, it amounted almost to a phobia. The curtains closing off beds from passersby; the ever-present tick and purr of life-or-death machines, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on nurses’ hurrying feet, the sheer nervous energy of such places. He had not been happy therefore to have to be there to interview the waiter with his entire head bandaged and two blank fear-filled eyes staring back at him.
He knew the actions of criminals like the waiter were not motivated by brain power, by normal logic and reasoning. They were very simple, and motivated purely by need, or greed, or impulse. All three were what had sent the waiter to his—almost—doom, and certainly would end with him in jail. What he wanted from him now, though, was a simple clear statement. A confession, if you will. He wanted the waiter to tell him who had bought him. Who had paid him. And for how much. In the Colonel’s experience it did not take a lot to buy a man like that. Under-the-table money, no tax declaration, then out of there fast as possible. Only this time it had not worked.
But the waiter was not talking. His eyes peered blankly out of those bandages. He did not even bother so much as to shake his head, to indicate he did not know. He simply sealed his lips and shut up.
The Colonel did not blame him; the reward for implicating the Boss would have been severe, and anonymous. This waiter, like the other one, would simply have disappeared.
Of course that possibility still existed but, with a shrug, the Colonel knew it did not matter anymore. What mattered was what Mirabella had to say. And Verity. Once he got her out of that bunker.
53