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"This was before the heart attack that led him to retire?"
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arm of the Mafia was offered a deal by an Asian group that controlled choice opium fields in Indochina." He had vigorously fought against it within the last two years, when the U.S. His record was too bloody," Hawk continued, "but he had been one of the leaders in opposing Mafia involvement in the international drug traffic. "Frank Abruze was an interesting man, an individualist. The place had been closed up for months but it still seemed to hold the smell of death. Hawk's other bodyguard, whose name was Corbett, opened the door for us. He was a man who was trusted by conflicting factions within the Brotherhood and when they had a touchy errand to be run abroad, they often sent him." Hawk touched my arm. "I'd be interested to know what they had to talk about, an AXE agent and a former Mafia capo." We had learned that Abruze was leaving the country within a few weeks and Kirby had established contact with him." Two hundred thousand a year, as a matter of fact. The pension was somewhat better than a gold watch. The Mafia's board of directors voted to okay his retirement and pay him a small pension for loyal service." Hawk permitted himself a thin smile. He'd suffered a heart attack and decided he wanted to spend his last days in Sicily. One of the few men the Mafia ever agreed to retire with honors. "He came here to talk to the man renting the cottage. The wind buffeted us as we walked toward the house, Smith following silently behind. He broke in the back door and they caught the men inside in a crossfire.
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We found tracks where one of them circled the house to approach it from the rear. At least two were carrying automatic rifles. They took Kirby and the man Kirby had come here to meet completely by surprise, and killed them and two others who were in the cottage at the time." There was a trace of bitterness in his voice as he added, "We still don't know who they were and we can only guess at their motives." Then they approached the house and persuaded someone to admit them, probably on the pretense of checking out the phone. They stopped back there," he pointed, "and cut the telephone wires leading to the house. "We've managed to reconstruct some of the details. "I'm not springing you loose on a vendetta, Nick. "This is the place where the killings occurred," Hawk said, gesturing with a quick, angry chop of his hand toward the house. Smith's carbon copy, the second expressionless operative who could usually be found near Hawk, stood at the door. He was waiting outside the cottage as we pulled in. The Gulf of Mexico shimmered in the distance like colored glass hammered by the sun.Ī wind was blowing in on the island, tousling Hawk's white hair. Beyond the cottage, an empty dock probed out into the quiet bay. The limousine swept around a curve and I saw a lonely cottage perched at the end of a hardpacked road. No one would be unconcerned after losing an agent like David Kirby. The reason for Hawk's unhappiness wasn't difficult to figure out. "I can't remember when I've seen him in such a foul mood." We were racing along a deserted road with the limousine's speedometer needle nudging 70. He spoke all of eighteen words as he drove me toward my rendezvous with Hawk. This proved to be one of Smith's talkative days.
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He was one of the two AXE agents who worked as Hawk's body guards. A car sat waiting with a tall, expressionless man leaning against the hood. The plane delivered me to a private landing strip in the Florida Keys. Finding them was to be my next assignment. Now he had been murdered and AXE didn't know who his killers were. I hadn't forgotten how Kirby, a cool man in a clutch and a skilled helicopter pilot, had picked me off a boat in Cuban waters just before the craft exploded into more small pieces than a jigsaw puzzle. We had worked together on some sticky jobs in Latin America, the kind of jobs that put you to severe tests. Kirby had been one of AXE's best agents, sharp and dependable. Hawk had sufficient pull with the British to get me good doctors, a soft bed, and a pretty nurse. When a belated report of Kirby's death reached me, I was in a British hospital on the north coast of the Malay Peninsula, recuperating.
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I played my role well enough to eliminate one of Mao's key agents and crack an information pipeline he had established, to pick up a couple of bullets in my side, and to receive a coded wire of congratulations from Hawk, the guiding genius of the dirty work division that employs me. I was in Singapore at the time, wearing a beard and glasses and posing as a turncoat missile expert eager to sell American secrets to the Chinese Communists. Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Service of the United States of America