‘No, Manny, you’re wrong. The quickest way to Mesa Verde is to the right.’
‘I know that, lovely thing, but I still want you to turn left.’
‘Manny, if you’re trying to pull something at your age I’m going to be furious!’
‘Just turn left, drive around the curve, and stop.’
‘Mister Weingrass, if you think for an instant—’
‘I’m getting out,’ broke in the old architect quietly. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, and I’ll explain everything later, but right now you’re going to do exactly as I tell you… Please. Drive.’ The astonished nurse did not understand Manny’s soft-spoken words but she understood the look in his eyes. There were no theatrics, no bombast; he was simply giving her an order. ‘Thank you,’ he continued, as she drove out between the wall of tall hedges and swung left. ‘I want you to take the Mancos road back into Verde—’
‘That’ll add at least ten minutes—’
‘I know, but it’s what I want you to do. Go directly to Gee-Gee’s as fast as you can and tell him to call the police—’
‘Manny!’ cried the nurse, interrupting as she tightly gripped the wheel.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing at all,’ said Weingrass quickly, reassuringly. ‘Probably just someone whose car broke down or a hiker who’s lost. Nevertheless, it’s better to check these things out, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think but I’m certainly not letting you out of this car!’
‘Yes, you will,’ disagreed Manny, casually raising the automatic as if studying the trigger housing, no threat at all in his action.
‘Good God!’ yelled the nurse.
‘I’m perfectly safe, my dear, because I’m a cautious man to the point of cowardice… Stop here, please.’ The near panicked woman did as she was told, her frightened eyes shifting rapidly back and forth between the weapon and the old man’s face. ‘Thank you,’ said Weingrass, opening the door, the sound of the wind sudden, powerful. ‘I’ll probably find our harmless visitor inside having coffee with the girls,’ he added, stepping out and closing the door by pressing it shut. Wheels spinning, the Saab raced away. No matter, thought Manny, the gusts of wind covered the sound.
As it also covered whatever sound he made heading back towards the house, unavoidable sounds as he stayed out of sight on the border of the road, his feet cracking the fallen branches at the edge of the woods. He was as grateful for the racing dark clouds above in the sky as he was for the dark overcoat; both kept his being seen to a minimum. Five minutes later and several yards deeper into the woods, he stood by a thick tree at midpoint opposite the wall of hedges. He again shielded his face from the wind and, squinting, peered across the road.
They were there! And they were not lost. His disturbing thoughts had been valid. And rather than being lost the intruders were waiting—for something or someone. Both men wore leather jackets and were crouched in front of the hedges talking rapidly to each other, the man on the right constantly, impatiently glancing at his wristwatch. Weingrass did not have to be told what that meant; they were waiting for someone or more than someone. Awkwardly, feeling his age physically but not in his imagination, Manny lowered himself to the ground and began prowling around on his hands and knees, not sure what he was looking for but knowing he had to find it, whatever it was.
It was a thick, heavy limb newly blown down by the wind, sap still oozing from the shards where it had been snapped from a larger source in the trunk. It was about forty inches long; it was swingable. Slowly, more awkwardly and painfully, the old man rose to his feet and made his way back to the tree where he had been standing, diagonally across the road from the two intruders no more than fifty feet away.
It was a gamble, but then so was what was left of his life and the odds were infinitely better than they were at roulette or chemin de fer. The results, too, would be known more quickly, and the gambler in Emmanuel Weingrass was willing to place a decent bet that one of the intruders would stay where he was out of basic common sense. The aged architect moved back in the woods, selecting his position as carefully as if he were refining a final blueprint for the most important client of his life. He was; the client was himself. Make total use of the natural surroundings had been axiomatic with him all his professional life; he did not veer from that rule now.
There were two poplars, both wide and about seven feet apart, forming an abstract forest gate. He concealed himself behind the trunk on the right, gripped the heavy limb and raised it until it leaned against the bark above his head. The wind careened through the trees, and through the multiple sounds of the forest he opened his mouth and roared a short singsong chant, one-third human, two-thirds animal. He craned his neck and watched.
Between the trunks and the lower foliage he could see the startled figures across the road. Both men spun around in their crouching positions, the man on the right gripping his companion’s shoulder, apparently—hopefully, prayed Manny—issuing orders. He had. The man on the left got to his feet, pulled a gun from inside his jacket and started for the forest across the road to Mesa Verde.
Everything was timing now. Timing and direction, the brief, seductive sounds leading the quarry into the fatal sea of green as surely as the sirens lured Ulysses. Twice more Weingrass emitted the eerie calls, and then a third that was so pronounced that the intruder rushed forward, slapping branches in front of him, his weapon levelled, his feet digging into the soft earth—towards and finally into the forest gate.
Manny pulled back on the thick, heavy limb and swung it with all his strength down and across into the head of the racing man. The face was shattered, blood spurting out of every feature, the skull a mass of broken bone and cartilage. The man was dead. Breathlessly, Weingrass walked out from behind the trunk and knelt down.
The man was an Arab.
The winds from the mountains continued their assault. Manny pulled the gun from the corpse’s still warm hand and, even more awkwardly, far more painfully, edged his way back towards the road. The dead intruder’s companion was a wild core of misdirected energy; he kept spinning his head towards the woods, towards the road from Mesa Verde and down at his watch. The only thing he had not done was display a weapon, and that told Weingrass something else. The terrorist—and he was a terrorist; both were terrorists—was either a rank amateur or a thorough professional, nothing in between.
Feeling the pounding echo in his frail chest, Manny permitted himself a few moments to breathe, but only moments. The opportunity might not come again. He moved north, from tree trunk to tree trunk, until he was sixty feet above the anxious man, who kept glancing south. Again timing; Weingrass walked as fast as he could across the road and stood motionless, watching. The would-be killer was now close to apoplectic; twice he started into the road towards the woods, both times returning to the hedges and crouching, staring at his watch. Manny moved forward, his automatic gripped in his veined right hand. When he was within ten feet of the terrorist, he shouted.
‘Jezzar!’ he roared, calling the man a butcher in Arabic. ‘If you move, you’re dead! Fahem?’
The dark-skinned man spun round, clawing the earth as he rolled into the hedges, loose dirt flying up into the old architect’s face. Through the hurling debris, Weingrass understood why the terrorist had not displayed a weapon; it was on the ground beside him, inches from his hand. Manny fell to his left on the road as the man grabbed the gun, now lunging backwards, enmeshing himself in prickly green web, and fired twice; the reports were barely heard! They were two eerily muted spits in the wind; a silencer was attached to the terrorist’s pistol. The bullets, however, were not silent; one shrieked through the air above Weingrass, the second ricocheted off the cement near his head. Manny raised his automatic and pulled the trigger, the calm of experience, despite the years, steadying his hand. The terrorist screamed through the rushing wind and collapsed forward into the hedge, his eyes wide, a rivulet of blood trickling from the base of his throat.
Hurry up, you decrepit bastard! cried Weingrass to himself, struggling to his feet. They were waiting for someone! You want to be a senile ugly duck in a gallery? Your meshuggah head blown off would serve you right. Shush! Every bone is boiling in pain! Manny lurched towards the body wedged in the hedge. He bent down, pulled the corpse forward, then gripped the man’s feet and, grimacing, using every iota of strength that was in him, dragged the body across the road and into the woods.