Mark Sanderson loves women.It's the same way he likes an Aberdeen Angus sirloin steak medium-rare, tossed with lettuce salad—he appreciates both.If he was hungry, he would call a suitable restaurant and have the dish he wanted delivered to his penthouse.He could afford it because he was a multi-millionaire, and it was in pounds—a pound was worth two dollars even in a bad economy. Like most wealthy and successful men, he had a triple life: his public professional life as a City of London success and diamond kingpin; Likes to expose his private life to the public; and his secret life. His First Life is a regular feature in major newspaper columns and television shows.He has no formal education, but he has a bright mind.He started working as an estate agent in London's West End in the sixties, and within two years he had learned the rules of the game and, more importantly, the loopholes of the law.At twenty-three he made his first business on his own, securing a house in St John's Wood in just twenty-four hours for a £10,000 profit.Thereafter he founded the Hamilton Stock Company, which for sixteen years had been his principal wealth.It was so named because his first traded property was on Hamilton Street.This was the last time he got emotional.In the early 1970s, after earning a million pounds, he stopped engaging in residential sales and turned to office building development.By the mid-1970s, his fortune was close to £5 million and he began to diversify.As if he had a golden touch, his financial, banking, chemical and Mediterranean holiday tourism projects were as prosperous as the real estate business in St. John's Wood.The newspapers reported it, and people believed it, and the stock prices of Hamilton's ten properties continued to rise.

On other pages of the same newspaper, his private life can be read.Penthouses in Regent's Park, Elizabethan manors in Worcestershire, castles in the Loire Valley, villas in Quintibes, yachts, Lamborghinis and Rolls-Royce cars, and young and beautiful new female stars Take a photo with him, or share the four-meter-wide bed.Such a person will inevitably become the figure that readers of newspaper gossip columns pay attention to.If this was fifty years ago, scandals like the million-dollar actress's divorce hearing and the lawsuit by the biological father of a beauty pageant could have ruined his career once it hit the papers, but in this day and age, the eighties , these reports only prove that he is capable of pulling off such a thing, which is considered enviable even among West End hipsters.He's quite the public figure.

The Secret Life of Mark Sanderson is another story that can be summed up in one word: boredom.He was bored with it all from the bottom of his heart.One of his famous quotes, "Mark has what he wants," has become a sour joke.He was thirty-nine, strong, not ugly, a bit like Marlon Brando, but still alone.He knows he needs someone, not many, just one.They can have several children together and have a common home in the country.He also knew that it would be difficult for him to find this person, because he knew exactly what kind of person he needed, and he had never met even one such person in ten years.Like most rich men who like women, he will only like women who don't value his status, money, power, or fame.Unlike most rich men who pursue women, he was able to maintain enough self-analysis and self-vigilance to this point-it would be an ugly death to declare so publicly.

He decided he would never meet her again, but one day in early summer, he did.It was a dull night at a charity gala, and the little money left over from the entrance fee was only enough to send bowls of milk to children in Bangladesh.She was on the other side of the room, listening to a stocky man with a large cigar.She listened quietly, smiling, not sure if she was interested in the anecdote or intrigued by Humpty Dumpty's antics.The man was trying to please her. With a nod to the pudgy filmmaker, Sanderson strolled over and introduced himself.Her name was Angela Summers, and the hand that held him was cool and long, with perfect nails.In her other hand she held what appeared to be a gin and tonic—it was, he later discovered, just tonic, no alcohol added—but on her ring finger was a slender gold ring.Sanderson didn't mind that—some married women were more likely to be seduced.He put the film producer aside and led the woman aside for a conversation.It was a little unusual that her appearance impressed him, and it was even more unusual that it thrilled him at the same time.

Mrs. Summers was tall and straight, with a face that was not fashionable but pretty.Her figure is definitely not fashionable by the standards of skinny beauties in the 1980s: she has ample breasts, a slender waist, and slender legs.Her shiny chestnut hair, pulled back, looked healthy rather than regal.She was wearing a plain white dress that set off her lightly tanned golden skin.She wore no jewellery, and just a touch of powder around her eyes set her apart from the other social ladies in the room.He guessed her age was thirty, and later learned that she was thirty-two. He speculates that the tanned skin may be from frequent skiing in the Alps in winter, or traveling in the Caribbean in spring, which means that she or her husband is rich enough to live this kind of life, like most women in this room .Both guesses were wrong.He later learned that she lived with her husband in a farmhouse on the coast of Spain, subsisting on the meager income he earned from his books on birds and from her own teaching English.

For a moment he thought that the dark hair and eyes, the blond skin and the way she carried herself might mean she was born in Spain, but she was actually British, like him.She told him that she was visiting her parents in the Midlands, and that an old school friend of hers had suggested that she should stop in London for a week before going back. She is an easygoing person.She wasn't flattering him, which was exactly what he wanted, and she didn't flatter him with exaggerated laughter when he said something mildly funny. "What do you think of our social life in the West End?" he asked as they leaned against the wall to watch the evening.

"Probably not the life I should be living," she replied thoughtfully. "They're like a bunch of parrots in a cage," he said tartly. She raised her eyebrows. "I thought Mark Sanderson was a pillar here." She was sneering at him, softly but firmly. "Has all the gossip about our social events reached Spain?" he asked. "Even on the Costa Blanca we have the British Daily Express," she said flatly. "Includes coverage of Mark Sanderson's personal life as well?" "Yes." She said quietly. "Are you interested?"

"Should I be interested?" "That's not necessary." "Then I'm not interested." He was relieved by her answer. "I'm glad," he said, "but may I ask why?" She thought about it. "It's really hypocritical," she said. "Including me?" He was looking down at her slowly rising breasts in the plain cotton fabric when she looked back at him. "I don't know," she said earnestly, "I think there is a certain possibility that you will be a pretty good person." The answer took him by surprise.

"You could be wrong too," he retorted.But she just smiled indulgently, as if she were dealing with a quarrelsome little boy. After a while, her friends called her, and she greeted Sanderson with a few words and prepared to leave.As he made his way to the lobby, he asked her softly if he could take her out to dinner tomorrow.It had been years since he had extended an invitation to a lady like this.She didn't ask him if he was afraid of being seen by others, maybe she thought he would definitely find a place without paparazzi.She considered it for a moment, then said, "Okay, I think I'm good to go."

He kept thinking about her that night, paying no attention to the skinny model he'd picked up from Annabelle for the rest of the night and now lying beside him.Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, all he could think about was her shiny chestnut hair, as if she were lying next to him and he was touching her golden skin.He was convinced that she must have slept soundly and peacefully, as she did everything else.In the dark, he reached for the model's breasts, but only found breasts stunted by diet like puppy ears.He went into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and sat down in the dark living room to drink slowly.Until the sun came up over the Wanstead Moor in the distance, he still sat looking out at the trees in the park.

A week doesn't seem like a long time for an affair, but it's enough to change one life, or two, or even three.The next night, when he picked her up, she came to his car.Her hair was tied up high on her head, and she wore a ruffled white blouse with narrowed sleeves and lace cuffs, a long black skirt, and a wide belt.There was a retro Edwardian quality to the outfit, which he liked because it was the exact opposite of how he had privately imagined her last night. She spoke intelligently and easily, and listened patiently to his business affairs.He rarely talked about these things with women.As time went by, it became clear to him that the feelings he felt for her were not spur-of-the-moment or outright lust.He appreciates her.She has an inner demure and poise.This calm feeling made him feel at ease and relaxed. He found that he was talking to her more and more about topics that he would not normally share with others: his financial situation, his distaste for this pessimistic society - which he despised, but at the same time preyed like a bird of prey. eat, use it.Rather than saying that she is well-informed, she is actually more understanding, but for a woman, this quality is more valuable than knowledge.They were still talking at the corner table after midnight, when the restaurant was closing.He invited her to have another night drink in his penthouse suite, but she politely declined.This hasn't happened in years. By the fourth day of the week, he admitted that he was as smitten with her as a seventeen-year-old boy.He asked her what her favorite fragrance was, and she said Mademoiselle Dior, which she sometimes bought a quarter ounce in duty-free on the plane.He sent his men down to Bond Street to buy the biggest bottle, which he gave to her that evening.She happily accepted, but immediately complained that the bottle was too big. "It's too extravagant," she told him. He felt a little embarrassed. "I just wanted to give you something special." "It must be expensive," she said earnestly. "I can afford it." "That's true. It's a nice perfume, but you'll never buy me anything like that again. It's too much," she told him firmly. The day before the weekend, he called to his Worcestershire estate to have the swimming pool heated in advance.On Saturday, they drove there to swim.The May wind was still a little chilly, and he had to draw screens on three sides of the pool.She came out of the dressing room in a one-piece swimsuit wrapped in a towel.Seeing her like this, he could hardly breathe.In every way, he said to himself, she was a wonderful beauty. Their last night together was the night before she returned to Spain.He parked his Rolls-Royce on a side street next to her apartment, and in the dark they kissed for a long time.But when he tried to get his hand under her dress, she gently but firmly pushed his hand back into his lap. He begs her to leave her husband, get a divorce, and they marry.Because he said it seriously, she thought about his proposal seriously, and then she shook her head. "I can't do that," she said. "I love you. It's not impulsive, it's with all my heart. I'd do anything for you." She stared out the windshield at the dark street. "Yes, you love me, Mark. We shouldn't have gotten to this point. I should have noticed your feelings sooner and just stopped seeing you." "Do you love me? Even just a little bit?" "It's a bit premature to say that. I can't be that impulsive." "But will you love me? Now or in the future?" Again she showed womanly reserve, taking the matter seriously. "I think I'd love you, or rather, I might love you. You're not what you look like, your reputation. Beneath the cynicism, you're actually vulnerable, and that's fine." "Then leave him and marry me." "I can't do that. I'm married to Archie and I can't leave him." Sanderson felt a pang of anger. He hated the unknown man in Spain who stood in his way. "What is he better than me?" She smiled wryly. "Oh, there's nothing better than you. He's weak and he's not capable..." "Then why don't you leave him?" "Because he needs me," she said simply. "I need you." She shook her head. "No, that's not true. You want me, but you can get by without me. He can't. He doesn't have the ability." "It's not just that I want you, Angela. I love you more than I've ever loved in my life. I admire you and I long for you." "You don't understand," she said after a pause, "that women like to be loved, want to be admired, want to be desired, but more than that, women need to be wanted. Archie needs me , like air." Sanderson stubbed out the Longevity cigarettes in the ashtray. "Then, you stay with him...'until death'." He gritted his teeth. For his ridicule, she was not angry, but nodded, turned around and stared at him. "Yes, it is. To my death. I'm sorry, Mark, but that's who I am. At another time, on another occasion, things might have been different, probably different, if I hadn't married Archie. Yes. But I am married to my husband, so there will be no result between us." She left the next day.He asked the driver to drive her to the airport to catch the plane to Valencia. There is a fine line between love, need, longing, and lust, and any emotion can captivate a man.In Mark Sanderson's case, all four emotions are intertwined.From May to June, as his loneliness grew stronger, so did his obsession.He has never encountered any setbacks before, and like most powerful people, he has already thrown morality out of the sky for more than a decade.For him, there are only strict logic and precise steps from desire to determination to vision to plan to execution, and these things always succeed in the end.In early June, he decided he wanted Angela Summers.In the stage of imagining how to implement it, the word in the "Book of Common Prayer" has been lingering in his mind: "until death".If she was another woman who was easily swayed by wealth, luxury, power, and social status, there would be no problem.He could use money to confuse her and get her; but then again, such a woman would not make him obsessed to this extent.He has been spinning around this problem for a long time, and he is going crazy. There is only one way to break out of this vicious circle. He contacted a real estate agent on the phone and rented a small apartment by the name of Michael Johnson, paying a month's rent and a month's deposit in cash, sent by registered mail.He explained that he would be arriving in London in the early hours of the next day and so wanted the agent to put the key under the door mat. Using the apartment as a base, he called a private detective agency in London—the kind that never asked whether the business was legal, of course—and explained what he wanted.Hearing the client's request for anonymity, the firm offered to pay up front.He sent five hundred pounds in cash by courier. A week later, a letter was written to Mr. Johnson stating that the task had been completed, but there was still a shortfall of £250.He sent the money, and three days later, he received the information he asked for.There was a resume, and he glanced at it roughly.A head cut from the title page of a book on Mediterranean birds that had sold poorly and was long out of print.There are also a few photos taken with a long lens.It showed a small, narrow-shouldered man with a toothbrush mustache and a thin chin.Major Archibald Clarence Summers ("Still a major!" he thought maliciously) was an expatriate British officer living in a small town between Valencia and Alicante, Spain. In the villa, half a mile from a backward seaside village.There are several photos of the villa in the file, and there is also a document recording the daily activities of the villa: drinking morning coffee in the small courtyard; the wife goes to the Countess's house in the morning to tutor the three children; He would go to the beach to bask in the sun and swim, and during this time the major would be doing research on the birds of the White Coast. He started the second phase of operations.He informed the company employees that he would stay at home for a period of time, during which time he could be contacted by phone.Next, he will change his appearance. In this regard, a small hair salon that was advertised in a magazine helped.There, Sanderson cut her long hair into a crew cut and dyed her naturally dark chestnut hair a light yellow.It took an hour to do the hair, the effect lasted for two weeks, and his haircut has won compliments from the barber. Sanderson then drove directly into the basement parking garage of his apartment building and took the elevator back to his penthouse suite, avoiding the caretaker in the foyer.From his apartment he called an acquaintance in Fleet Street and asked for the name and address of a large library in the top of London.It specializes in the collection of contemporary events, with top-notch monographs and a large number of newspaper clippings and magazines.Three days later, he got a library card signed by Michael Johnson. He began his research with the headline "Mercenaries."The dossier has sub-categories labeled "Mike Hall," "Robert Denard," "John Peters," and "Jacques Shrammy."There are also subdirectories that start with place names, such as Katanga, Congo, Yemen, Nigeria/Biafra, Rhodesia and Angola.He went through them all, including news reports, magazine features, reviews, book reviews, and interviews.Every time a book is mentioned in the article, he writes down the title of the book and goes to the public reading room to find that book and read it.These include Anthony Mockler's History of the Mercenary, Mike Hall's Congolese Mercenaries, and The Power of Fire, which is devoted to Angola. A week later, a name finally emerged from the materials.The man fought three campaigns, and even the most daring authors are wary of referring to him.He does not give interviews and there is no picture of him on file, but he is British.Sanderson guessed he was still living somewhere in London. In taking over a blue-chip company a few years ago, Sanderson acquired a list of other companies, including a cigar company, a film converter and a literary agency.In a literary agency file, Sanderson found a private address for the author of one of the memoirs he had read in the library. The author's original publisher had no doubts and confirmed that this was the correct address, to which they sent their meager royalties checks. When Regal Sanderson visits the mercenary and author in the name of a publisher, he finds that the other party has gone downhill and is wallowing in alcohol and memories of the past.The former mercenary, who had hoped that visitors might be able to republish his book for another paycheck, was disappointed to learn that wasn't the case.But when he heard that he could earn referral fees, his eyes lit up again. Sanderson, who identified himself as Mr. Johnson, said his firm had heard that a fellow ex-mercenary wanted to publish his memoir.They don't want other companies to get the copyright.The only problem is not knowing the man's whereabouts... The ex-mercenary snorted upon hearing that name. "Oh? He wants to be lenient, doesn't he?" he said. "That's really new." He refused to help until after he had drunk six large glasses of whiskey and received a wad of banknotes, he scribbled an address on a slip of paper. "If the guy is in town, he's always drinking there," he said. That night, Sanderson found the place, a quiet club behind the Earl's Hotel.The next night, the man came.Sanderson had not seen a photograph of him, but read a description of him in his memoir that mentioned a scar on his jaw.When the barman greeted him, he called him by the same name.He was lanky, broad-shouldered, and looked solid.In the mirror behind the bar, Sanderson saw a man with dark eyes and a stern mouth, drinking a glass of beer.He followed the man home, to an apartment building four hundred yards away. Ten minutes later, he saw from the street that the lights in the room had been lighted up, and knocked on the door.The mercenaries wore singlets and dark slacks.Sanderson noticed that the man had turned off the light in the hallway before opening the door, allowing himself to stand in the shadows.Lights in the corridor illuminate the visiting guests. "Mr. Hughes?" Sanderson asked. The man raised his eyebrows. "Who are you?" "I'm Michael Johnson," Sanderson said. "Show your police officer ID." Hughes demanded in an orderly tone. "No kidding," Sanderson said, "I'm a private citizen. Can I come in?" "Who told you to come here to find me?" Hughes asked back. Sanderson gave the name of the informant. "He'll forget it within twenty-four hours. He's been so drunk these days I'm afraid he can't even remember his own name." Hughes' mouth curled into a slight smile, but not because he appreciated the humor. "Well, that's what it is," he said, and turned his head inward.Sanderson brushed past him and into the living room.It was sparsely furnished and rather shabby, the most common kind of rental in London, with a desk in the center of the room.Hughes followed and gestured for Sanderson to sit at the table. After Sanderson sat down, Hughes dragged a chair across from him. "What's the matter?" "There's a job to do. A contract. To kill a man, I suppose." Hughes stared at him, the expression on his face unchanged. "Do you like music?" he asked at last.Startled, Sanderson nodded. "Let's have some music," Hughes said.He got up, went to a nightstand next to the bed in the corner, turned on a portable radio on it, and groped under the pillow.When Hughes turned back, Sanderson saw the muzzle of the Colter .45 pointed at his head.Startled, he took a nervous breath.Hughes adjusted the volume, and the music grew louder.The mercenary reached into a drawer beside the bed, his eyes still fixed on Sanderson above the muzzle of the gun.He took out a pen and a pad, returned to the table, scribbled two words on the paper with one hand, and pushed it in front of Sanderson.The only thing written on the paper was: "Take off." Sanderson's stomach churned.He had heard that such a person could be evil.Hughes motioned Sanderson away from the table at gunpoint.He complied, took off his jacket, undid his tie and shirt, and threw them on the floor—he had no vest on.The muzzle moved again, pointing down.Sanderson unzipped the pants, letting them drop to the floor.Hughes watched blankly, then spoke. "Okay, put it on," he said.He still has the gun in his hand, but the muzzle is pointed at the ground.He walked over, turned the volume down, and went back to the table. "Throw me the coat," he said.Sanderson had already put on his pants and shirt, and he put his coat on the table.Hughes patted the limp suit. "Put it on," he said.Sanderson complied, and sat down, as he felt he needed to.Hughes sat across from him, put his automatic on the table near his right, and lit a French cigar. "What do you mean?" Sanderson asked. "You think I'm armed?" He shook his head slowly. "I can tell you're not armed," he said, "but if you have a recording device, then I'll strap a microphone to your balls and send the tape to your employer." "I get it," Sanderson said, "no weapons, no tapes, no employers. I hire myself, and I sometimes hire people, and I mean it. Also very cautious, I have to." "It wasn't prudent enough for me," Hughes said. "A lot of the tough guys in Parkhurst got in because the client had too big a mouth and a small brain." "I don't need you," Sanderson said quietly.Hughes raised his eyebrows again.Sanderson continued: "I don't want someone who lives in the UK, or has anything to do with the UK. I live here myself, and that's enough. I want a foreigner, to work in a foreign country. I need a name .I'm ready to pay for the name." From his inside pocket he took a stack of fifty new twenty-pound notes and placed them on the table.Hughes watched quietly.Sanderson divided the money into two piles, pushed one toward Hughes, and carefully tore the other in half.The twenty-five half-notes were put back into his pocket. "The first five hundred pounds is an upfront payment, and the other half is paid when everything is done. The 'name' I say has to meet me and agree to do it. Don't worry, it's not complicated. The target is not a celebrity, it's totally An insignificant little man." Hughes looked at the five hundred pounds in front of him.He didn't reach for it. "I might know a guy," he said, "that I worked with years ago. I don't know if he quit. I've got to find out." "You can call him," Sanderson said.Hughes shook his head. "I don't like international calls," he said, "too much bugging, especially on the Continent at the moment. I'll have to go see him myself, and that'll cost another two hundred pounds." "Okay," Sanderson said, "pay when you find that person." "How do I know you won't lie to me?" Hughes asked. "You can't know," said Sanderson, "but if I lie to you I think you'll come after me. I really don't want that to happen, for seven hundred pounds." "Then how do you know I'm not lying to you?" "Again, I have no way of knowing," Sanderson said. "I'm going to be able to find a brave man eventually. It's just one contract turned into two contracts, but I have money. I don't like being cheated. That's the principle." , you should understand." For a long time, the two of them stared at each other.Sanderson thought he might have gone a little too far.After a while, Hughes smiled, brightly this time, showing that he really appreciated the words.He gathered before him the full note of five hundred pounds and the other half notes of five hundred. "I'll give you the name you want," he said, "and fix the meeting point. After you've seen him and agreed to the deal, send me the other half of the money, plus a fee of two hundred pounds. Post by post." To be collected, Earls Court Post Office, address to Hargreaves. Ordinary mail, not registered, but sealed tightly. If you do not send me money within a week after the rendezvous, my partner will think you are a liar, He will terminate the contract. How?" Sanderson nodded. "When can I get that name?" "A week from now," said Hughes, "where can I find you?" "You don't have to look for me," Sanderson said, "I'll look for you." Hughes was not unhappy, he said: "Call the bar I went to tonight. Ten o'clock in the evening." A week later, Sanderson called at the agreed time.The bartender answered the phone, and then Hughes took over. "There's a café in rue Miollis in Paris where the people you're looking for meet," he said. "Go there at noon next Monday. The man will recognize you. Get a copy of that day's Le Figaro ", put the headlines out of the way, and he'll know you're Johnson. After that, it's up to you. If you don't show up on Monday, he'll be there on Tuesday and Wednesday at noon. If you don't, it's going to blow up. You want Bring cash." "How much?" Sanderson asked. "To be on the safe side, about five thousand pounds." "How do I know I won't be robbed directly?" "You don't know," the voice said, "but he doesn't know if you've got a bouncer hiding somewhere in the bar." There was a click on the line and a beep on the receiver. At 12:05 on Monday, in the bar on Via Mioli, Sanderson was reading the last edition of Le Figaro with his back to the wall when the chair in front of him was pulled away. , a man sat down.This guy was in the bar before, chatting with a bunch of guys. "Mr. Johnson?" Sanderson put down the newspaper, folded it and set it aside.He was tall and thin, with black hair, black eyes, and a protruding chin. He was a Corsican.The two talked for half an hour.The Corsicans only say their name is Calvi, which is actually the name of the town in which he was born.Twenty minutes later, Sanderson handed over the two photos.One is a mugshot of a man with the inscription on the back: Major Archie Summers, Villa San Crispin, Playa Caldera, Ondara, Alicante, Spain; A small white villa with bright yellow shutters.The Corsican nodded slowly. "It must be done between three and four in the afternoon." The Corsican nodded. "No problem," he said. They talked for another ten minutes about the price, and Sanderson handed over five stacks of five-hundred-pound notes.Working abroad is expensive, the Corsican explains, and the police in Spain are rude to certain tourists.Finally, Sanderson got up to leave. "How long?" he asked. The Corsican looked up and shrugged. "One week, two weeks, maybe three weeks." "I want to get the news as soon as the work is done. Do you understand?" "Then you have to give me the contact information." The killer said.The British write down a number on a slip of paper. "For three weeks starting a week later, you call this number in London between 7.30am and 8am. Don't try to track down that number and don't mess it up." The Corsican smiled slightly. "I'm not going to screw it up because I want the other half." "And one last thing," said the client, "no traces to be left, no clues that could be traced to me. Make it look like a burglar made a mistake." The Corsican is still smiling. "You're thinking about your reputation, Mr. Johnson. But I'm thinking about my life, or whether I'm going to spend at least thirty years in the Toledo jail. Don't worry, there will be no trace, nothing will happen." After the Englishman left, Calvi also left the café.He checked to see if he was being followed before lingering for two hours on the terrace of another café in the city centre.He was lost in thought in the early July sun, thinking about the job.The content of the contract itself is not troublesome, just shoot an unsuspecting person directly.The problem was how to bring the firearms safely into Spain.He could take the train from Paris to Barcelona with a gun and try his luck at customs, but if he got caught, he would have to face the Spanish police, not the French, and the Spaniards have some old-school ideas about professional gunmen.Airplanes are also not acceptable - due to rampant international terrorist activities, every flight departing from Orly Airport in the southern suburbs of Paris will be strictly searched for weapons.He had a few acquaintances in Spain, former colleagues of his in the French Secret Service—people who now lived on the coast between Alicante and Valencia and would not venture back to France—and he thought it might be possible. Borrow a gun from one of them.But he decided not to disturb them, because the group of people who had left their hometown had nothing to do, and they might just say it. Finally the Corsican gets up, pays the bill and goes shopping.他在西班牙旅游问讯处花了半个小时，又在伊比利亚航空公司待了十分钟。最后他在里沃利街的书店和文具店里买了几样东西，就返回了他的郊区公寓。 那天晚上，他打电话到巴伦西亚最豪华的都市宾馆，预订了两周后的两个单人房间，各住一夜，一个入住客人是卡尔维，另一个是他护照上的名字。在电话里，他自称是卡尔维，并同意立即写信确认房间预订。他也预订了巴黎到巴伦西亚的往返机票，抵达的时间正是他入住预订宾馆的那个晚上，第二天返回巴黎。 打完给巴伦西亚的电话，他写了房间预订的确认信。信件内容简单扼要，确认预订这两个房间，并补充说卡尔维先生抵达巴伦西亚之前一直在旅行。他订购了一本关于西班牙历史的图书，准备从巴黎寄过去，由都市宾馆代收转交卡尔维，请求宾馆代为保管，直至他抵达。 卡尔维估计，这本书万一被查获并打开，当他以自己的真名去询问时，服务员肯定会露出出事的表情，他可以借机逃走。即使被抓住，他也可以声称自己是无辜的，只是为朋友帮个忙，受没露面的卡尔维的委托，完全不知道这书里有什么猫腻。 他用左手在信上签下卡尔维的名字，封好信口，贴上邮票准备寄出。之后，他开始在下午买来的那本书上捣鼓起来。这确实是一本关于西班牙历史的书，又昂贵又厚重，纸张很好，图片很多，让这本书分量变得更沉。 他把书的封面封底向后折，用橡皮筋箍住，再用两只木匠用的夹子把里面的四百页纸夹在厨房的桌子上。 他用下午买来的一把锋利的解剖刀，把书页的中间部分挖空，这花了他几乎一个小时的时间。最后他挖出一个方洞，四周各留下一英寸半的边缘，中间是一个七英寸长、六英寸宽、三英寸深的空洞。他在这个方形的空洞内侧涂上一层厚厚的胶水，之后抽了两支烟。等胶水凝固后，四百页纸就再也打不开了。 他把一块发泡橡胶剪成方洞的大小，塞了进去。他用厨房的秤称过重量，这刚好能替代被挖去的一点五磅重的纸页。然后，他拆开一支小巧的勃朗宁大威力手枪，那是两个月前他从比利时搞来的，替代了上次他用过后扔进阿尔伯特运河里的柯尔特点38手枪。他是一个谨慎的人，从来不会两次使用同一件武器。勃朗宁手枪的枪管突出了半英寸，枪口经过加工后可以装上一支消声器。 实际上，自动手枪的消声器从来都做不到真正消音，虽然在电视上的惊险片里，声效人员会假装手枪消音后完全静音。自动手枪与左轮手枪不同，其枪膛不是闭锁的。当子弹离开枪管时，自动手枪的枪机被迫后退，把用过的弹壳弹射出去，并顶上一颗新的子弹。正因为这个过程，它才被称为自动枪械。但在枪膛开启退出弹壳的一瞬间，火药爆炸的一半声音便已从敞开的枪膛里传出来，枪口处的消声器只能起到一半的作用。本来卡尔维更愿意使用左轮手枪，因为在射击时它的枪膛是闭锁的，但他需要一支枪身扁平的手枪，以便放进书本的空洞中。 与勃朗宁手枪的机件放在一起的消声器是最大的部件，长度有六点五英寸。作为一个专业人士，他知道电视剧里用的那种香槟酒瓶塞大小的消声器，其真实作用如同拿着一只手提灭火器去扑灭维苏威火山。 他把包括消声器和弹夹在内的五个部件并排放在橡胶垫子上。要全部塞进书本的空洞里还有点困难，因此他把弹夹插进枪柄内，以节省空间。然后，他用鹅毛笔在泡沫橡胶上给四个部件做好记号，画出形状，又拿起一把新的手术刀进行切割。到半夜时，手枪的各个部件都整齐地放进了泡沫橡胶底座里，长长的消声器竖着安放，与书脊平行，枪管、枪柄和枪膛则并排横放，在书中从上到下排列着。 他在这些部件上覆盖了一块薄薄的塑胶泡沫，在前后的内侧都抹了一层胶水。合上书本后，他将书放在地板上，再把桌子反过来压在上面。一个小时后，这本书已经变成一块实心砖头了，必须得用刀子才能撬开。他又称了一下，只比原先重了半盎司。 最后，他把这本西班牙历史书装进一只塑料袋里，就是书商用以保护高质量图书免受沾污损坏的那种袋子。大小正好，他把袋口合上，把刀在煤气灶上加热后，封住了袋子的封口。假如这个包裹被打开，他估计检查员看到透明的塑料袋里面确实是一本无害的书，就会再封上。 他又把这本书放进一只装印刷品的厚信封里，封口处用一个金属夹夹住，只要扳动夹子的两只金属软脚，把它从信封封盖的洞中抽出来就可以开启了。他用一台自助印刷的机器，印上一家著名书店的标签，打印上收件人的姓名和地址：西班牙巴伦西亚都市宾馆收，转阿尔弗雷德·卡尔维先生。他还用这台印刷机弄了一个“印刷品”字样的图章，印在包裹的信封上。 第二天上午，他把信用航空邮件寄出，而印刷品包裹则用平邮寄出——这就意味着会走陆路，要比那封信晚到十天时间。 伊比利亚航空公司的一架班机飞抵巴伦西亚的马尼塞斯机场，在夕阳西下时降落。天气依然很热，三十名乘客大都是在这儿有别墅的巴黎人，过来度假六周。他们在海关大厅围聚着，抱怨行李来得太慢。 卡尔维只有一件手提行李，是一只中等大小的手提箱。这个箱子被打开作了仔细检查，然后他就走出机场大楼，来到外面。他先在机场的停车场兜了一圈，高兴地看到有很大一片都被树木挡着，阻隔了从航站大楼那里望来的视线。一排排小汽车停放在树下，等待着它们的主人。他决定第二天上午来这里搞一辆车作为交通工具，他随后叫了一辆出租车进城。 酒店的服务热情周到。科西嘉人到服务台出示护照后，服务员马上想起来有这个预订，卡尔维先生还写过确认信，于是去后面的办公室取来装着那本书的包裹。科西嘉人解释说，很不凑巧，他的朋友来不了了，第二天上午两个房间都由他来买单。他还掏出卡尔维的一封信，信上委托他代为领取那本书。服务员看了看信件，感谢他支付两个房间的费用，然后就把包裹递给了他。 到了自己的房间，卡尔维查看了一下厚重的信封。封口被拆开过，金属装订夹子的两只脚曾被扳到同一边，然后又被一台封口机扳回原处。黏在金属夹一只脚上的胶水已经脱落。但里面的书原封未动，仍用原来的塑料袋包裹着，不破坏这个塑料袋是不可能开封的。 他打开袋子，用折叠刀撬开书的封面，取出手枪的部件，全部装配起来，旋上消声器，并检查了弹夹里的子弹。子弹都在里面，那是他专门制作的子弹，拿掉一半的火药以降低子弹发射时的爆裂声。即使火药减少一半，一颗九毫米的子弹仍可以在十英尺的距离内射进人的脑袋，而卡尔维行动时从来没在十英尺以外开过枪。 他把手枪锁进衣柜底部，钥匙揣进口袋，到阳台上去抽烟。他凝视着宾馆前面的斗牛场，思考着明天的事。晚上九点，他下楼来，依然穿着那身巴黎名裁缝制作的深灰色西服，与宾馆古雅豪华的气氛相当协调。他在里亚托特拉萨饭店吃了晚饭，半夜前回到房间睡觉。他从宾馆服务员那里获悉，第二天上午八点钟有一班飞机飞往马德里，他定下早上六点钟的叫醒服务。 第二天早上，他七点钟结完账，坐出租车去了机场。他站在航站楼门外，看到十几辆轿车驶进停车场。他用心注意着车型、车牌和驾车人的长相。其中有七辆小车都是由一位男士单独驾驶，没有其他乘客，驾车人看上去都穿着西装。从机场大楼的了望平台上，他观察着旅客们排队搭乘飞往马德里的飞机。队伍中有四位他刚看到的驾车人。他看着自己在一个信封背面记下的信息，发现自己有以下几个选择：一辆西姆卡、一辆奔驰、一辆捷豹和一辆西班牙产的小型西亚特，也就是菲亚特600的一种当地型号。 飞机起飞后，他去洗手间脱下西装，换上奶油色的牛仔裤、淡蓝色的运动衬衣和蓝色的尼龙拉链风衣。他从手提箱里拿出一只航空公司的旅行包，把那支枪用一条毛巾包起来放进去。他把手提箱留在机场寄存处，确认了当天晚上飞往巴黎的机票，然后走回停车场。 他选择了西亚特，因为那是西班牙最普通的汽车，车锁也最容易撬开。这时有两个人驾车驶入停车场，他等了一会儿，他们离开后，他走近那辆小小的红色甲壳虫一般的西亚特。他从袖子里顺出一支金属小管，插进车门把手，用力往下一戳，车锁发出轻微的咔嚓声，开了。他从车内开启前盖，在电瓶正极上搭上一只带导线的夹子，另一头连到发动机上。他坐到方向盘后面，按动按钮，汽车发动了，他离开停车场，驶上巴伦西亚方向去南方阿利坎特的新建N332海滨公路。 从巴伦西亚去翁达拉有五十五英里，途经栽种着柑橘的冈迪亚和奥利瓦。他不疾不徐地驾驶着，用了两个小时到达那里。在早晨的阳光下，整片海滨波光粼粼，狭长的金色沙滩上点缀着身穿五颜六色的泳衣、肌肤晒成棕色的游人。天热得没有一丝风，海平线上有一层淡淡的雾气。 他进入翁达拉镇，经过了帕尔玛拉旅馆，他知道，法国将军拉乌尔·沙朗的前书记就住在那里，那人也一度是法国秘密组织的头头，如今却在靠不断回忆往事度日。他在镇中心毫不费力便问到了去普拉亚卡尔德拉的路。热心的城里人告诉他，出城后两英里就到了。快到中午时，他驶入大都属外国人所有的别墅区，开始兜圈子。别墅的照片他早就销毁了，圣克里斯平别墅的模样他早已熟记于心，当然，他可以向人们打听去海滩的路，但查问一栋特定的别墅势必会给人留下印象。 快到一点钟时，他发现了那座墙体漆成白色、带黄色百叶窗的别墅。他看了一眼大门柱子的瓷砖上刻着的名字，把汽车停在房子前方两百码处。他肩上斜挂着旅行包，就像一个游客，假装闲步朝海滩方向走着，察看了别墅的后门。太简单了。别墅的土路尽头，有条小径通向一排房子后面的一个柑橘园。在柑橘树的遮掩下，他可以看到，柑橘园与别墅的后花园和庭院之间只有一道低矮的篱笆，他可以看到那个人正在花园里用一把水壶浇花。通过一扇落地窗，可以从后花园进入别墅，现在这落地窗正大开着通风。他看了眼手表，是午饭时间了，他驾车返回翁达拉。 他在弗莱明大夫大街上的巴伦西亚酒吧一直坐到三点钟，吃了一大盘烤虾，喝了两杯当地产的无醇白葡萄酒，然后才结账离开。 当他驾车折回到普拉亚时，降雨云团终于从海上飘移过来了，水面上响起沉闷的雷声。在白色海岸地区，七月中旬出现这种天气很少见。他在通往柑橘林的一条小径附近停好汽车走进树林，装好消声器的勃朗宁手枪插在皮带里，风衣的拉链一直拉到了下巴。他从柑橘林中走出来，跨过低矮的篱笆进入别墅后花园。四周静悄悄的，天气炎热，当地人都在睡午觉。雨点开始击打柑橘树叶，他走过铺着地坪石的庭院时，几颗豆大的雨点落在他肩上。等他走到落地窗户前面，雨下得更大了，敲在粉红色的屋顶瓦片上砰砰作响。他很高兴，这样就更没人会听到动静了。 他听到打字机发出的嗒嗒声从客厅左边的一个房间里传出来。他拔出手枪，一动不动地站在客厅中央，打开保险准备开火。然后他踏着用灯芯草编成的席子，走向敞开的书房门。 阿尔奇·萨默斯少校全然不知道会发生什么。他看到一个人站在他书房门口，正要起身问他有什么事情。然后他看到这位不速之客手里拿着的家伙，正准备张嘴。这时候，雨声中只听到噗噗两声，他的胸部就中了两颗子弹。第三颗子弹从两英尺处垂直向下，射入了他的太阳穴，但他对此已经没有感觉了。科西嘉人在尸体旁跪下来，用食指去探测脉搏。他没来得及站起来，就突然转身看客厅的门……第二天晚上，在巴黎米奥利大街的那家酒吧里，杀手和雇主又碰面了。头天半夜时分，卡尔维就从巴伦西亚返回了巴黎，一早打电话报告了消息。桑德森当即从英国飞过来。这位雇主把剩余的五千英镑递过去，看上去非常紧张。 “没遇上麻烦？”他再次询问。科西嘉人无声地微笑着，摇了摇头。 “非常简单，你那位少校已经死透了。两颗子弹射进心脏，一颗穿透了脑袋。” “没人看见你？”英国人问道，“没有目击证人？” “没有。”科西嘉人站起来，把这叠钞票塞进衣服的胸袋里，“虽然最后时刻有一个小插曲。因为下着大雨，有个人走进来看到我蹲在尸体旁边。” 英国人惊恐地凝视着他。 "who?" "A woman." “高个子，深色头发？” “是。长得还不错。”他看着雇主脸上恐惧的样子，在对方的肩头拍了拍。 “别担心，先生，”他安慰说，“事情办得万无一失。我把她也杀了。”