按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
l contrast of mitment； a service so demanding that only a handful made the grade。 The SAS。 And Sabat had learned to kill； excellent in a new art； a new challenge。 It frightened her and that fear was still with her now； not of the man himself but of the dangers which had bee the very essence of life to him； those in this world and another who sought to destroy him。
She had guessed his powers long ago； as only a woman who is very close to a man is able to； not the hocus…pocus rigmarole which is often referred to as 'exorcism1 but something much more powerful； one who sought to do battle with the powers of evil； one besotted with an obsession COY revenge against them。 Sabat now had a new zest for life； so meticulous in his own form of warfare that not only had he made an intensive study of the black arts but his own methods of self…protection had been so thorough that he had even been circumcised so that on those occasions when it was necessary for him to seek refuge within a chalked pentagram there was no possibility of him carrying an evil entity in the form of a speck of dirt beneath his foreskin。
Ilona knew also of his possession by Quentin's soul； the periods of mental anguish； the way he fought through and won because he was Sabat。 And there was only one Sabat。
Her train of thought went round in a circle and came back to killings。 Was this a senseless campaign of terror or was there a more insidious motive？ Only Sabat would find that out and all she could do was to wait。 A prisoner in her own brothel； all except two of her girls gone； afraid to go outside her own door after dark until it was all over。
Suddenly the telephone rang； a harsh sound that jangled her nerves and as she reached for the receiver she was praying that it might be Sabat。 But her female intuition told her it wasn't； he would not be back just yet。
'Ilona speaking。' The deep cultured voice on the other end of the line put her on her guard； clients sometimes remended her to friends but there was always the possibility of a police trap。 It was a chance one had to take with an expanding business。
'My name is Lassiter；' the other went on； it could have been been a pseudonym； someone who thought that Jones or Smith was being a little hackneyed。 '1 heard of you from one of your clients； Richard Baynham。'
Ilona relaxed a little； Richard Baynham was a wealthy businessman who called on her once or twice a month and doubtless he had many contacts。 She could always check with…him。 'Yes； 1 know Richard well。'
'I was wondering if you were free later this evening。'
'Yes。' At least it would be nice to have a man in the house for an hour or two。 I'll be free around ten。'
'Excellent。 Shall we make that a firm date then？'
She answered again in the affirmative； and immediately upon replacing the receiver she dialled the number of Baynham's office。 Like Sabat； she was learning to be thorough。
Tm sorry； Mr Baynham won't be in for the rest of this week；1 the secretary's voice was almost hostile； maybe her intuition sensed the caller was a whore； or else she was having an affair with her boss and resented the possibility of a rival。 'He's in Belgium and won't be back in the office until Monday。 Would you care to leave your name？'
Ilona dropped the phone back on its cradle； sighed。 That was that； there was no way of checking out on Lassiter； and the caller had not left a number in case of a cancellation。 Her nerves were getting the better of her； and if she conceded to them she'd lose her business within six months。 Customers were customers and there was always an element of risk； Ilona would just have to keep on taking risks。 Probably a stranger would do her good； put her mind at rest。 All the same； she felt uneasy。
Her fears increased as dusk came； seeped into the darkness of another night。 She considered going upstairs and calling on either Jackie or Emma but decided against it； it would be an invasion of their privacy。 They had their own bedsits； their homes； and if they wanted her pany they would have invited her。 In all probability they just wanted to be alone and she respected their wishes as she did with all the girls who worked for her。 She glanced at the blank television screen； the news would be on now but she didn't want to watch it； didn't want to be reminded of these horrific events。 In all probability this man Lassiter would be a genuine client and his pany would erase her fears。 She didn't feel in the mood for much more than talking to somebody； but as a hardened professional she knew that she had to disguise her own feelings； create a facade of vivaciousness。
At nine…fifteen she began putting on her make…up； a portrayal of what a client expected。 Sophisticated； sexy but not cheap； the model mistress。 She had no idea what he had in mind and it was pointless trying to guess。 Black bra and French knickers to match beneath a thin； long green dress that just showed the outline of her underwear； a prelude to a slow strip。
She was finished by ten minutes to ten； sensed her unease returning now that she was idle again； lighting a cigarette and drawing quickly on it； flicking the ash into the empty fireplace。 If only Sabat could be here。 But he wasn't； nor was he likely to e because he would be preparing for yet another night of battle with these devilish murderers。
The grandmother clock in the hall was just striking ten when the front door bell shrilled； tautening every nerve in Ilona's body； her stomach muscles contracting into a tight ball。 So prompt 。。。 so clinical。 She shivered。 Her legs trembled； wanted to buckle under her as she walked down the hall。 The lock was stiff； unyielding； and she had to force it … another omen； a warning not to admit her caller？ She ignored it。
'Good evening。' The man on the threshold was tall； with sleek dark hair that looked and smelled oily； a short clipped moustache that bore evidence of once having adorned the whole upper lip by a line of shaved stubble。 It was the eyes that had Ilona's heart thumping faster； so cold and 。 。 。 penetrating。 She didn't want to look at them but felt she had to。 She stepped back； holding the door wide although her instinct was to slam it in this stranger's face。
As she closed the door she had a feeling that she had succumbed to her fate； that she had been deprived of shutting her visitor out in the street by some strange inner force which was dominating her will。 With automaton…like movements she led the way into the lounge； heard her own voice somewhere asking 'would you like a drink？'
'Brandy； please。' His voice had a hollow ring to it； seemed to echo repetitively in her brain as though ensuring that she did not forget his words。
Somehow she poured a measure of brandy into a glass； handed it to him； noted the almost skeletal long fingers which grasped it。 Then she was looking into his eyes again。
'You are alone in the house？' His tone conveyed that he knew she wasn't； a subtle means of interrogation。
'No。 Jackie and Emma are in their rooms upstairs。'