Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

W ith his Brazilian buyer anxiously awaiting delivery of the prototypes, Rifat was setting his alternate plan in action. He'd recently received verification that Sylvie remained at her brother's bedside in Miami. If he died, she would no doubt return with the body to Germany. But while Egon lived, Sylvie was fixed in Miami, He would need a few days to put together another team.

Timur had flown Ceci home. He was recuperating now in his suite on the second floor of Rifat's villa, feeling remorseful and depressed.

Shakin Rifat, much older than Ceci, was less daunted by failure. Had he been, he never would have survived the coup which ousted him from power and made him an exile from his country.

“Regroup, my boy,” Rifat had explained to Ceci, his fondness for the young officer genuine. “If every general gave up after being outflanked, the map of the world would be considerably altered. Simply attack again, immediately, while the jubilant cheering is still echoing in the enemy camp. We'll merely take the Countess von Mansfeld in Egon's stead. And you may entertain her in her detention.” Rifat's background relegated women to a limited number of functions, the majority of which pertained to service to men. He would offer Sylvie to Ceci as a present. “How is your arm healing?”

The bulletproof vest had saved his life, but Ceci looked very unhappy, his pride buffeted by his failure. Dressed in a silk robe of deep forest green, he lounged on an oversized Renaissance sofa, his left arm bandaged and in a sling. “Well enough, sir,” he replied, unable in the depths of his depression to appreciate the surgeon's skill which had repaired damage so severe, a lesser expertise would have meant the loss of his arm.

“Good. Now, enough self-reproach. I expect you to be fit enough by the end of the week to welcome the countess.”

They landed in Rome near midnight, a day later. Jess had piloted and they unloaded the boxes of tack and saddles themselves. Customs officials barely glanced at the equipment, since Carey was known by reputation and had been coming over for competitions since he was a boy.

He was playing in a polo match, too, he told them, which accounted for his extra gear. His jumpers and polo ponies would be flown over in a few days.

Ant remarked to Luger as they entered the limousine waiting for them: “Don't get too used to this preferential treatment they give counts, Luger. When you get back to Taylorsville, you're going to have to take out the garbage, same as ever.”

“They like horses,” Carey noted. “Every time I come over to compete, they remember my last win.”

“What happens when the horses don't come over?”

“Plans change. A horse isn't sound enough for a race. You cancel out. They understand. Hell, with this ungodly hot weather, I'd decide not to bring my horses over, anyway.” A sultry blanket of heat lay over Rome, even at two in the morning.

When they arrived at the apartment Carey had rented, they quietly unloaded the heavy boxes and carried them up to the second-floor sitting room. After parking the car in the courtyard, Jess joined them at the table where they all sat studying a map of the city.

Ant was to reconnoiter the area immediately adjacent to Rifat's villa, while Luger explored the environs of Rifat's office building. Neither man was familiar to Rifat, and with tourists at their peak, two more men with guidebooks and cameras shouldn't attract notice. Jess and Carey worked on a timetable of escape routes back to the airport, in the event heavy weapons were required. Explosions of that magnitude would attract attention… and the carabinieri. They would have to exit the area swiftly.

When Ant and Luger returned with the details of the buildings, grounds, access points, and security system, they drew up floor plans and argued about methods of attack.

Luger favored his TOW missile fired from the back of a truck parked a block away from Rifat's office. “There's enough heavy traffic near the square so a truck wouldn't be conspicuous. If I can get the angle right, I can blow Rifat and his car to hell.”

“What about the risks to innocent pedestrians?” Carey remarked. “His office is on a busy square, and I'm not out to get anyone but Rifat.”

They discussed the possibility of planting a C-4 bomb in the office, but decided there was no guarantee it would kill only Rifat. Again, innocent people would be endangered.

Everyone knew almost at the onset what would be required, but first they methodically eliminated the less risky procedures. Even if they could plant a bomb on his car, they'd have to wait for a day he was alone to detonate it, increasing the risk of its discovery. In any event, Carey didn't want to wait.

Carey subscribed to Rifat's methodology of attack. He believed in a rapid offensive, for personal as well as logistical reasons. He wanted Rifat dead, and he didn't want time to dwell on the danger to himself and his friends. He particularly didn't want to have time to think about all he had to lose; he couldn't afford to hesitate. He needed his mind unobstructed for action.

They finally decided to go into Rifat's villa the following night from the rooftop across the street, and Ant volunteered to see if he could get inside for a glimpse of Rifat's protection.

Posing as a Mexican reporter, Ant appeared at the villa and tried to get an interview with Rifat. He was ultimately refused as he'd anticipated, but returned with a pleased smile on his face.

“When they heard I was a Mexican reporter, the butler wasn't sure what to do. While I was standing in the entrance hall waiting for Rifat's secretary to be wakened, I had a look at the cameras and surveillance. A guard was monitoring a bank of TV screens in a room off the hall, and since he'd just been delivered his breakfast, the door was open. I gave him a cheerful, ‘good morning, nice weather' kind of greeting. It's about all I know in Italian. He shook his head and slammed the door in my face. But I caught a glimpse of the screens before the door shut, and evidently Rifat doesn't allow cameras in his private rooms.

“And as far as the detection devices at the front door and hall windows, I just happen to have a laser which keeps the beam intact even when it's broken. That alarm won't be set off when we enter the house.”

“Something new?” Carey looked at him intently across the remains of breakfast al fresco. Being able to enter the villa undetected was worth a great number of points for their side.

“Yeah.” Ant smiled. “My retirement fund. Evidently Rifat might have something going in our hemisphere to the south because his secretary was actually polite when he told me, ‘No interview.'”

“We're set, then.” There was a new energy in Carey's voice.

“Everything on track, except…”

“Except?” Carey probed.

“If Rifat doesn't feel the need for camera surveillance in his private apartments, he may have some other defense.”

“We'll find out.”

They napped that afternoon, ate lightly, then geared up while Jess packed the car with all the necessary equipment. The saddles and tack were carefully resettled atop the mortars and assault weapons, the detonators and missile sights hidden beneath one level of the carefully constructed wooden crates.

Jess was to wait for them at a prearranged site, down the hill from Rifat's villa. He would be inconspicuous even if the house exploded in a ball of fire.

“Heaven forbid,” Ant said with a wide smile.

“I haven't fired a baby TOW in a long time,” Luger commented, longing evident in his voice. But at the warning light in Carey's eyes, he quickly added, “Relax… I'm under control.”

Carey didn't relax completely, however. Handing Luger a firing mechanism was a bit like putting a woman in a jewelry shop and saying, “Don't touch.”

Shortly after ten they walked into the area in timed intervals. Dressed in dark cotton shirts and slacks, wearing sneakers and carrying canvas bags, the men resembled tourists out for an evening stroll. Slipping into the building across the street from Rifat's through the back door of an antique shop, they carefully moved up the stairs past two levels of apartments and climbed up onto the roof through a wooden trapdoor at the back of the third-floor hall.

Since there were still sounds of activity in the apartments below they maintained complete silence when they assembled on the roof and waited for darkness to descend. They spent their time preparing their weapons and rappelling equipment. Their rappelling gear was a lightweight aluminum rope with a grappling hook on the end to which special harnesses were attached both for men and weapons.

Shortly after eleven, when a cloud temporarily covered the small quarter moon, Ant threw the grappling hook and caught the roof parapet the first time. Carey led the team across in a smooth routine, without noise or problems.

The roof was a shallow pitch tile. After silently pointing out the beam of light protecting the perimeter, Ant adjusted his laser device to jam the beam to a continuous on position, and they dropped over it onto the tile. They unstrapped their MP5s from their backslings, clipped the explosive packs to their belts, and crept slowly toward the peak.

Typical of many Renaissance villas, Rifat's was built around a central courtyard, quiet and shadowed now under the thin moon, but patrolled by two armed guards. Lying flat on their bellies, Carey's crew peered over the peak searching for Rifat's suite, the private rooms facing on the courtyard.

The second- and third-floor balconies rimming the courtyard shadowed the windows of the villa, partially obscuring the numerous windows. Silently the three men perused the portion of the villa opposite them, searching for some clue to Rifat's rooms. Figures passed by windows occasionally but they were armed guards dressed in fatigues. The guards at least explained the reason Rifat's rooms weren't surveyed by monitor screens. Apparently, he preferred the privacy accorded by hall guards.