circular switch. There was a brief burst of static; the agent reduced the volume. Several nearby tourists looked curiously; Alexander smiled foolishly at them. Outside on the corner, underneath the sign, the Corsican suddenly brought his radio to his ear. Holcroft looked at McAuliff. 'They've just reached your room.'
'How do you know?'
'They report a cigarette still burning in the ashtray. Nasty habit. Radio on... I should have thought of that.' The Englishman pursed his lips abruptly; his eyes indicated recognition. 'An outside vehicle is circling. The... WIS claims the signal is still inside.'
'WIS?'
Holcroft replied painfully. 'West Indian Specialist. One of my men.'
'Past tense,' corrected Alex.
'They can't raise the Mercedes,' said Holcroft quickly. 'That's it.' He swiftly shut off the radio, jammed it into his pocket, and looked outside. The Corsican could be seen listening intently to his instrument. Holcroft spoke again. 'We'll have to be very quick. Listen and commit... When our Italian finishes his report, he'll put the radio to his side. At that instant we'll break through at him. Get your hands on that radio. Hold it no matter what.'
'Just like that?' asked McAuliff apprehensively. 'Suppose he pulls a gun?'
'I'll be beside you. He won't have time.'
And the Corsican did not.
As Holcroft predicted, the man under the sign spoke into the radio. The agent and Alex were beneath the low awning on the street, concealed by the crowds. The second the Corsican's arm began to descend from the side of his head, Holcroft jabbed McAuliffs ribs. The two men broke through the flow of people towards the professional killer.
Alexander reached him first; the man started. His right hand went for his belt, his left automatically raised the radio. McAuliff grabbed the Corsican's wrist and threw his shoulder into the man's chest, slamming him against the pole supporting the sign.
Then the Corsican's whole face contorted spastically; a barking, horrible sound emerged from his twisted mouth. And McAuliff felt a burst of warm blood exploding below.
He looked down. Holcroft's hand held a long switchblade. The agent had ripped the Corsican's stomach open from pelvis to rib cage, severing the belt, cutting the cloth of the brown gabardine suit.
'Get the radio!' commanded the agent. 'Run south on the east side of the street. I'll meet you at the next corner. Quickly now!'
Alex's shock was so profound that he obeyed without thought. He grabbed the radio from the dead hand and plunged into the crowds crossing the intersection. Only when he was halfway across did he realize what Holcroft was doing: He was holding up the dead Corsican against the pole. He was giving him time to get away!
Suddenly he heard the first screams behind him. Then a mounting crescendo of screams and shrieks and bellowing roars of horror. And within the pandemonium, there was the piercing shrill of a whistle... then more whistles, then the thunder of bodies running in the steaming-hot street.
McAuliff raced... was he running south? was he on the east side?... he could not think. He could only feel panic. And the blood.
The blood! The goddamn blood was all over him! People had to see that!
He passed an outdoor restaurant, a sidewalk cafe. The diners were all rising from their seats, looking north towards the panicked crowds and the screams and the whistles... and now the sirens There was an empty table by a row of planter boxes. On the table was the traditional red-checked tablecloth beneath a sugar bowl and shakers of salt and pepper.
He reached over the flowers and yanked the cloth, sending the condiments crashing to the cement deck, one or all smashing to pieces; he did not, could not, tell. His only thought was to cover the goddamn blood, now saturated through his shirt and trousers.
The corner was thirty feet away. What the hell was he supposed to do? Suppose Holcroft had not got away? Was he supposed to stand there with the goddamn tablecloth over his front looking like an imbecile while the streets were in chaos?
'Quickly now,' came the words.
McAuliff turned, grateful beyond his imagination. Holcroft was directly behind him, and Alex could not help but notice his hands. They were deep red and shining; the explosion of Corsican blood had left its mark.
The intersecting street was wider; the sign read 'QUEEN'S DRIVE.' It curved upward towards the west, and Alex thought he recognized the section. On the diagonal corner an automobile pulled to a stop; the driver peered out the window, looking north at the racing people and sounds of riot.
Alex