The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,24

the pain of fear.

'A lesta chi!... Keep movin'!' said the man, poking a revolver into Canfield's ribs.

'Listen to me.' Gone was Canfield's attempt to roughen his voice. 'I'm a government man! You do anything to me, they'll get you! You won't get any protection from your friends when they find out...'

'Keep movin'!'

A ship's horn sounded from the middle of the river. Another responded.

Then came a long, screeching, piercing whistle. It came from the Genoa-Stella. It was a signal, a desperate signal, which did not let up. The pitch of its scream was ear shattering.

It distracted - as it had to - the man with the gun beside Canfield.

The field accountant lashed out at the man's wrist and held it, twisted it with all his strength. The man reached up to Canfield's face and clawed at the sockets of his eyes while pushing him toward the steel wall of the building Canfield gripped the wrist harder, harder, and then with his other hand clutched at the man's overcoat and pulled him toward the wall - the same direction the man was pushing - turning at the last second so that his executioner slammed into the steel.

The gun flew out of the Sicilian's hand and Canfield brought his knee crashing up into the man's groin.

The Italian screamed a guttural cry of anguish. Canfield threw him downward and the man lunged, writhing, across the deck to the edge of the pier, curled up in agony. The field accountant grabbed his head and slammed in repeatedly against the thick wood. The skin broke and blood came pouring out of the man's skull.

It was over in less than a minute.

Matthew Canfield's executioner was dead.

The shrieking whistle from the Genoa-Stella kept up its now terrifying blast. The shouting from within the pier's loading area had reached a crescendo.

Canfield thought that the ship's crew must have openly revolted, must have demanded orders from their captain, and when they did not come, assumed him murdered - or at least held captive.

Several gunshots followed one after the other. The staccato sound of a submachine gun - more screaming, more cries of terror.

The field accountant couldn't return to the front of the building, and undoubtedly someone would come out looking for his executioner.

He rolled the body of the dead Sicilian over the edge of the dock and heard the splash below.

The whistle from the Genoa-Stella stopped. The shouting began to die down. Someone had assumed control. And at the front end of the pier two men came in sight. They called out.

'La Tona! Hey, La Tona! La Tona - '

Matthew Canfield jumped into the filthy waters of the Hudson and started swimming, as best he could in his heavy customs uniform, toward the middle of the river.

'You're a very lucky fellow!' said Benjamin Reynolds.

'I know that, sir. And grateful it's over.'

'We're not called on for this sort of thing, I realize. You take a week off. Relax.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Glover will be here in a few minutes. It's still a bit early.'

It was. It was six fifteen in the morning. Canfield hadn't reached Washington until four and he was afraid to go to his apartment. He had phoned Benjamin Reynolds at home and Reynolds had instructed the field accountant to go to the Group Twenty offices and wait for him

The outer door opened and Reynolds called, 'Glover? That you?'

'Yes, Ben, Jesus! It's not six thirty yet. A lousy night. My son's kids are with us.' The voice was weary and when Glover reached Reynolds's door, it was apparent that the man was wearier.

'Hello, Canfield. What the hell happened to you?'

Mathew Canfield, field accountant, told the entire story.

When he had finished, Reynolds spoke to Glover. 'I've phoned Lake Erie Customs - his personnel file's been removed. The boys in New York cleared out his room there. It hadn't been touched. Is there any other backup we should worry about?''

Glover thought for a moment. 'Yes. Probably. In case the Lake Erie employment file's gone after - and it will be - put out a rumor on the docks that Canfield Cannon was a fake name for a hit man. That he was caught up with in Los Angeles or San Diego or someplace, and was shot. I'll take care of it.'

'Good. Now, Canfield, I'm going to show you several photographs. Without any comments on my part see if you can identify them.' Benjamin Reynolds walked to a file cabinet and opened it. He took out a folder and returned to his desk. 'Here.'