THE PERFECT KILL by A. J. Quinnell Read Free Book Online Page B

beat him over two lengths or four lengths or over any distance.
    Leonie Meckler spent some of her expense money. It had been many years since she had been on a shopping spree. She had checked out the climatic conditions of Gozo over the next six months. She knew that it would be mostly hot and bought a selection of brightly-coloured sarongs and swimsuits, and loose shorts and T-shirts for the day. For the night she chose long and flowing cotton dresses, mainly backless, but fitting only at the waist. She then went to her favourite French cosmetics counter, Lancome, and bought face creams and make-up, choosing only natural colours, peaches and beiges.

Chapter 07
    When in Washington Senator James S. Grainger was always at his desk by eight a.m., and always worked steadily through the morning until one p.m. On this morning his direct private telephone rang at precisely nine a.m. He heard the crackle hum of an overseas call. The voice said, “Loccurbie, May 15th.”
    The Senator glanced at his Rolex. The date window showed May 25th.
    “Go ahead,” he said.
    “At ten o’clock a package will be delivered to your office by a DHL courier whose name is Harry White; he will insist on delivering it to you personally. The package is from me. Do not let that package go through the normal security checks. Open it when you’re on your own. It contains the proof you asked for, and something else. I’ll be in touch within a couple of weeks.”
    The telephone went dead. The Senator called the head of security.
    At four minutes past ten, his secretary rang through that a DHL courier was in the outer office with a package for him, accompanied by a security guard. He told her to show them through.
    The courier was big and burly, the security guard small and puny. The Senator asked the smaller man, “Did you check his identity?”
    “Yes, Senator, he is Harry White no middle initial.”
    The courier held a heavy metal briefcase. He laid it on the broad desk in front of the Senator, and then placed a piece of paper on top of it. Both men left, and the Senator picked up the piece of paper. On it were written six numbers. The Senator glanced at the briefcase. It had two, three-digit combination locks. He pulled the briefcase towards him, set the numbers and opened it.
    Inside were two very thick wads of hundred dollar bills held together with elastic bands, a small heavy metal box, and an open typewritten sheet of paper.
    He picked up the piece of paper and read the words. “I met up with Joe Rawlings and recovered one hundred and sixty thousand bucks of your money. I left him ten thousand dollars Tap City Money. If you don’t know the expression, ask a serious poker player. I should have smeared the SOB, but that would have started an investigation which neither of us needs. I also enclose proof of his real identity. Have your pals at the FBI verify it and also verify my print on the glass in your safe. And the print on this note.”
    There was no signature.
    Apart from the money and the letter there was nothing else in the briefcase except the small heavy metal box. Set into the lock was a small key. The Senator picked the box up and then instantly dropped it. It was freezing cold. For a moment he contemplated calling Security, then he reached out and turned the lock and flipped up the lid. A white mist engulfed the briefcase and the Senator jerked back into his heavy chair. Slowly the mist cleared, only a few traces rising from the box itself. The Senator peered into the box. He saw a white piece of cloth, and on it a finger. There was blood on the cloth. He stared, mesmerised, for a few seconds, then flicked the lid closed and reached for the telephone.
    The Senator’s Washington apartment also reflected Harriot’s taste for grandeur. Heavy European furniture, Persian carpets, and paintings by failed old great masters. He had decided a few days before that he would sell that particular abode, and buy something smaller.
    Curtis