“I need money. I read an article in a magazine about Churchill and Mussolini that speculated about the letters. I decided, why speculate. I have them. So I called the British.”
“What was to be your price?”
“Five million euros.”
For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pangs.
The Bible was right.
He hated greed.
Enough.
This endeavor had run its course.
He raised his arm and shot the owner in the head.
A sound suppressor at the end of the barrel made sure the round drew no attention. Just a pop that could not be heard beyond a few meters. This fool should have realized that the only bargaining chip he had was the hiding place. But fear stymied reason, and people always thought they could talk their way out of things.
“Do it,” he said to his associate.
The body was hauled up, the dead man’s arms wrenched hard backward. He heard a crack as the shoulders separated. Then the rope was tied around the trunk, the corpse dangling awkwardly in the air, as a reminder, just as had been done centuries ago.
Deuteronomy was right.
Vengeance is mine, and retribution. In due time their foot will slip. For the day of their calamity is near, and the impending things are hastening upon them.
He grabbed the binoculars and stepped back to where he could again see the villa below. The only disturbance came from the morning breeze hissing through the conifers, tugging at his clothes. His second problem was still perched on the third-floor ledge.
The bear was not in sight.
He lowered the binoculars.
That animal was about to be the least of Harold Earl “Cotton” Malone’s concerns.
CHAPTER THREE
Cotton stood rock-still on the ledge. The bear had disappeared back inside the villa, but he could hear the animal rustling around. There was a second open window, beyond the one from which he’d escaped, that offered an opportunity to flee his perch and go back inside. But that would mean passing by the bear’s window, which did not seem like a good idea.
He strained his weight back on the balls of his feet, hands pressed tight to the wall, trying not to lose his balance. To his left, the tip of a gabled roof from a first-floor offshoot rose to a pitch. The jump down was about eight feet. He could make that. Since it seemed the only course available he sidestepped his way across the cornice, reaching a clawing hand around the corner and making the turn, keeping his body flat against the exterior wall.
He sucked in a few deep breaths.
Good thing Cassiopeia wasn’t here. She hated heights as much as he hated enclosed spaces. He used thoughts of her to take his mind off his current predicament. He missed her. Their relationship was in a good place. They’d finally made peace with all of their demons. She was in France, working on her 13th-century castle reconstruction. They were scheduled to get together next week for a few days of fun in Nice. In the meantime he’d agreed to this supposed cakewalk of a job—an easy 50,000 euros—that had turned into anything but.
He stopped his creep along the edge above the gable.
The one thing he could not do was land directly on the ridge.
That would be life changing.
He jumped, angling for one of the sides, and his feet found hard slate. He had only a moment to secure a grip before he rebounded and slid off. His fingernails tore against the warm stone, then his hands caught on the ridge where he held on tight.
Releasing his grip, he scuttled down the slope of the slate toward guttering, his legs extended, using the soles of his shoes as brakes until he found the copper. The gutters squeaked in protest and shifted from his weight, but held. He lowered himself over the edge, clinging to it, wincing at every groan of protest the metal supports uttered. From there he dropped to the ground, landing in the grass near a copse of shrubbery.
Unfortunately, he had to go back inside the villa.
He could wait until the bear moved on, but that could take a while. The owner might return and find the body. The police would then be called and this would become a crime scene, preventing any attempt at finding those letters.