(15) Crucia

Tragos was awakened from his deep stupor by the opening of the library door.

It took a moment for him to realize where he was: seated by a dim lamp in the library; and another moment to recognize the man in the doorway.

"I, my assistant, and Fredrico are going back to the city," Sanguineus said, his coat over an arm. "This is the twenty-first. I'll get in touch with you at noon on the twenty-third. I would prefer you stay here during this interval. But if you wish to cancel the contract, let me know now."

Tragos sat on the edge of the chair, elbows up, his hands on the ends of the armrests, staring over at Sanguineus with a strangely blank expression.

"Who is the target?" he asked.

This surprised Sanguineus. "It is not Ambrosia," he said.

There was a faint look of intrigue on the old philosopher's face. But whether this was the reaction from hearing an unexpected name, or from a disillusionment, Sanguineus could not determine.

Tragos sat back, rubbing one side of his nose. "No, I am not cancelling the contract," he said. "And yes, I will stay here at the villa."

He closed his eyes. But when he heard the door shut he pushed himself to his feet, feeling the hem of his broadcloth robe sway against his bare ankles and slowly settle on his sandals. He felt slightly dizzy and numb from lack of sleep. But he could not rest until that one effervescent thought that motivated him was satisfied. And now, at last, was the time for it.

He waited until he heard a vehicle start up and varoom away down the dirt road toward Poseidonos. Then he went out and down the short hall with its framed paintings of Greek gods, and stopped at the door of the den where Fabienne supposedly lay sleeping.

He did not know if that Medusa look of hers that afflicted the tall blond had actually occurred or if he had only dreamed it. That one thought of his pressed heatedly against his mind. Had he only known about her before he signed the contract! Was she the baby that dear Marianne brought with her to his hermitage those nine years ago?

He was worried. He knew that Agape had taken Marianne away and he thought he might know the reason. The hitman whom he had hired through Darren Smirnis to plug Pella was accompanied by Marianne. Had she been the shooter? The one witness had said the shooter was a woman.

Tragos could not accept that Marianne was the killer, but the fact that she was there in the car with the hitman made this denial difficult to sustain.

He pulled nervously on his white beard. He did not want to risk being connected to the hitman should the authorities re-open the case. This had been his incentive to arrange for the killer's own destruction, through Fredrico's contacts.

He fingered the doorknob indecisively. How horrible, he thought, if the hitman had been shot by Marianne after the killing of Pella, when the car had returned to wherever she was to be dropped off. The police were not aware of any such thing. No car, no body, had been found during the brief investigation. Did Agape know the true story? Had he bribed certain officials to let the matter stand unresolved?

Why would Agape be concerned about him (Tragos), or about Marianne? Two reasons, he thought as he slowly opened the door. One, Ambrosia was fond of her foster father and she had a good friend in Marianne. Two, Agape would not want to see her distressed, or in any way connected to the death of Pella. Well, it might very well be, he considered, stepping into the den, that it was Marianne who convinced the ICS investigator to finger Ambrosia as the killer. That would not set well with Agape should he find out about it. And apparently he had. So he takes Marianne for a ride.

Tragos stood by the cot staring down at the sleeping Fabienne, at the child Medusa; at the closed eyes that when opened on the full moon, in the olive grove where the crosses would be set up, an invisible light would shine... would shine on the two victims.

Was one of the victims to be Marianne? And who, he wondered, would be the other?

"How far can you trust her?" asked Rolgo, patting the armrests of his wooden roundback chair at the outdoor dining area of the Ephira Hotel.

"About as far as I can piss," Sanguineus replied.

He turned his vodka tonic around on the small glass-top table while gazing down the avenue with its jumble of white buildings and stiff awnings shading their windows from the late morning sun. It was a Saturday and the traffic was a leisurely clutter. He liked the hotel's location, in the thick of city life but close to the beach where he would be meeting Ambrosia for lunch.

It was the hotel he had stayed at on his way to Istanbul. The smallish rooms with their shabby fixtures, and the crickets swarming over the floor in the evenings, was par for the course. But it was cheap, just $49 a night. Bear Claus would not grumble too much over that, considering the assignment was longer than most, and certainly longer than expected.

"There's something Ambrosia wants me to do for her," Sanguineus added, glancing at Sally Anne, "if our newest operative is correct in seeing in Ambrosia a fear for her own safety."

Sally Anne was flipping through LiFO magazine, wearing dark shades, a wide brimmed floppy hat, a sleeveless pullover of blue and green, and white Bermuda shorts. She looked up and smiled at Sanguineus. "Do you see the worry in my smile? I've been trying to forget about the scary thing I went through last night. That beastly girl. Well, Miss Kastri was worried too, about herself, when the horse was lying on the ground all stiff and quivering. Whatever Dr Wingate injected it with, the effect was like a paralysis, like what I felt when what's-her-name was glaring at me."

Rolgo and Sanguineus exchanged inquiring looks. The mystery of Fabienne had been a subject they discussed last night before finally retiring to their respective beds. They had reached no conclusions.

"It might be," said Rolgo, "that Ambrosia is responsible for the well-being of Pegasus, a responsibility that Agape has saddled her with. But this would be only if he regarded the horse as more valuable to him than is Ambrosia. What is it about Pegasus that is worth more to him than his lover?"

Sanguineus lit a Sultan and stretched out his legs. He had not much sleep under his belt. He was feeling grouchy. He reminded himself not to be short tempered with Ambrosia. He hoped the salty breeze off the gulf would refresh him.

"We need more information about this super-horse drug," he remarked. "But all that really matters is zeroing in on the killer of Pella and fulfilling the contract. At the moment I see the killer as Marianne Limani. I'd like to be sure about that beyond a reasonable doubt."

"Hm." Sally Anne tossed down the magazine and picked up her Long Island tea. "My classes on 'Establishing the Case' didn't put a lot of emphasis on proven guilt. We were taught to go with the best evidence and not sweat the unanswered questions. If it satisfies the client, that's good enough."

"No," Sanguineus said, irritated, "it has to satisfy your own sense of justice. Two people have to live with the outcome: the client, and you. Which is the more important on the personal level? I'm assuming you have a sense of right and wrong, that you prefer to do the right thing, not the easy thing or the thrill thing. Even psychopaths have a sense of justice, granted without the least trace of empathy. But it's not about caring for the innocent. It's about nailing the guilty. That's how the game is supposed to be played."

Immediately he felt a keen hypocrisy. How often had he killed a person in the course of an assignment who was not the target? More than he cared to remember. A recent example was Darren Smirnis. He had popped him for the sake of shutting a mouth, and to send a message to Agape that Red Rum operatives were not to be trifled with or put off their stride. Was that grounds for a murder?

There were other, more damning, examples. The usual rationale was that any obstacle to the fulfillment of a contract was disposable, whether sentient or otherwise. The question that was too easily ignored was whether the person was truly an obstacle or just an inconvenience.

Rolgo glanced at his watch. He scooted back his chair and stood.

"Time for Sally and I to scout out your rendezvous site," he announced, rubbing his hands together. "Give us thirty minutes, Rick. If I don't call you, figure the coast is clear."