In the basement, the needle was climbing upward to 300. The room was becoming unbearably hot. She tried to free her hands again and her wrists were rubbed raw, but the rope stayed tight.
He turned into Oxford Street, speeding through a pedestrian lane with two old women crossing. In back of him he heard a shrill police whistle. For an instant, he was tempted to stop and enlist help. But there was no time to explain. He kept driving.
At an intersection, a huge truck pulled out, blocking his way. Alan Hamilton honked impatiently. He leaned his head out the window. “Move it!”
The truck driver turned to look at him. “What’s the matter, mate, you going to a fire?”
The traffic had become a snarl of cars. When it finally cleared, Alan Hamilton started to drive again, racing toward Bond Street. A trip that should have taken ten minutes had taken him almost half an hour.
In the basement, the needle climbed to 400 degrees.
Finally, blessedly, the building was in sight. Alan Hamilton pulled his car over to the curb across the street and slammed on the brakes. He threw the door open and hurried out of the car. As he started to run toward the building, he stopped in horror. The ground shook as the entire building exploded like a giant bomb, filling the air with flame and debris. And death.
Chapter Thirty-one
Atanas Stavich was feeling terribly aroused. Taking care of a contract always did that to him. He made it a rule to have sex with his victims, male or female, before he killed them, and he always found it exciting. Now he was frustrated because there had been no time to torture Catherine or to make love to her. Atanas looked at his watch. It was still early. His plane didn’t leave until eleven o’clock that evening. He took a taxi to Shepherd Market, paid the driver, and wandered into the labyrinth of streets. There were half a dozen girls standing on street corners calling out to the men passing by.
“Hello, love, would you like a French lesson tonight?”
“How about a little party?”
“Are you interested in Greek?”
None of the women approached Atanas. He walked up to a tall blonde wearing a brief leather skirt and blouse and stiletto-heeled shoes.
“Good evening,” Atanas said politely.
She looked down at him, amused. “Hello, little boy. Does your mother know you’re out?”
Atanas smiled shyly. “Yes, ma’am. I thought if you weren’t busy…”
The prostitute laughed. “Did you, now? And what would you do if I wasn’t busy? Have you ever made love to a girl before?”
“Once,” Atanas said softly. “I liked it.”
“You’re the size of a minnow,” the girl laughed. “I usually throw the little ones back, but it’s a slow night. Have you got ten bob?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All right, love. Let’s go upstairs.”
She led Atanas through a doorway, and up two flights of stairs to a small one-room apartment.
Atanas handed her the money.
“Well, let’s see if you know what to do with it, love.” She stripped off her clothes and watched Atanas undress. She looked at him in astonishment. “My God! You’re enormous.”
“Am I?”
She got into bed and said, “Be careful. Don’t hurt me.”
Atanas moved toward the bed. Ordinarily, he enjoyed beating up whores. It increased his sexual satisfaction. But he knew that this was no time to do anything suspicious or to leave a trail that the police might want to follow. So Atanas smiled down at her and said, “This is your lucky night.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He climbed on top of her and closed his eyes and plunged into her, hurting her, and it was Catherine screaming for mercy, begging him to stop. And he pounded her savagely, harder and harder, her screams exciting him until finally everything exploded and he sank back satisfied.
“My God,” the woman said. “You’re unbelievable.”
Atanas opened his eyes and he wasn’t with Catherine. He was with some ugly whore in a dreary room. He got dressed and took a taxi to his hotel room, where he packed and checked out.
When he headed for the airport, it was nine-thirty. He had plenty of time to catch his plane.