Deceptions Read Online Free Page A
Author: Michael Weaver
Tags: Fiction, Psychological, General Fiction
attending Mulberry Street Art School. Vittorio
had instantly determined to live up to his name by trying to beat Gianni to death with his bony little fists. Almost everyone
at the school was Italian, and Gianni considered his own half-Jewish blood a near-fatal handicap. How could a measly half-Italian
compete artistically with a full-blooded line that had produced the likes of Michelangelo, da Vinci, and Raphael?
Vittorio, being pure, 100 percent Italian, suffered no such problem. And it showed in his work from day one. He had a flair
and brilliance that Gianni admired and felt he could never achieve.
Parts of Gianni still felt that way. And it was not just foolish modesty. He knew exactly how much he had accomplished. Yet
when he envisioned the absolute best he could do, and imagined it alongside something by Vittorio, it was like seeing a good
rhinestone next to a perfect diamond. The rhinestone was created out of knowledge, discipline, and hard work. The diamond
was a gift of nature, a flash of the purest light that had nothing to do with anything but God.
Deep in a patch of woods off Interstate 95, Gianni buried the last mortal remains of Special Agents Jackson and Lindstrom and felt the first piercing chill of a tracked animal. He felt nothing for the men themselves, not even his earlier
rage. They had, after all, just been following orders. Now there was only the chill.
3
A T THE EDGE of a forest twenty miles north of Zagreb, Yugoslavia, the gunman sat near the edge of a forest and waited for the dawn that
was still an hour away.
A rifle lay across his lap, and he fingered its stock, trigger guard, and barrel in ritual order.
My rosary,
he thought. Except that he had no prayers to recite, only the vague wish that everything would go well, quickly and without
surprises.
He was close to the top of a hill that rose steeply above a cluster of houses a short distance below. Closer to where he sat,
another house stood apart from the rest. There were lights in several rooms, but they had been on all night and did not mean
anything.
He could see clearly through the lighted windows with his field glasses, and from time to time he had watched the guards talking
and moving about. There were five of them, and they tended to huddle together for company instead of patrolling their posts
in and around the house. Croats. Whatever their good points, disciplined soldiering was not one of them. Had they done their
work right, he could never have moved in this close. As it was, he would have a clear shot, from good cover, at an effective
range.
The sky slowly lightened. He loved this time just before the rising of the sun, with shadows fading to the soft grays of Whistler.
These days, all anybody seemed to remember Whistler for was that uptight portrait of his mother, but it was his misty watercolors
of London that were the best. You just had to look at them to breathe the Thames. He had always envied Whistler those paintings. There was such purity of purpose there, so clear a knowledge of what was right, that
it made him wonder if the artist had ever been unsure of
anything.
Beginning to grow stiff, he shifted to a prone position, careful to keep the rifle muzzle off the ground. The few trees below
were clear now. He could see a table and chairs on the second-floor veranda of the solitary house. The veranda was open to
the sky, and in the distance behind it, the more modern part of Zagreb’s skyline rose above medieval walls.
Farther west, the first of the early morning flights took off from the city’s airport, and he watched the plane’s lights until
they disappeared. If all went well, he would be up there himself in a few hours, heading home. And if it didn’t go well? Then
he might be delayed. Like forever.
For a while he just lay there quietly as the sky lightened further and the day came, a shining spring morning without clouds,
and the colors running to soft pinks and
had instantly determined to live up to his name by trying to beat Gianni to death with his bony little fists. Almost everyone
at the school was Italian, and Gianni considered his own half-Jewish blood a near-fatal handicap. How could a measly half-Italian
compete artistically with a full-blooded line that had produced the likes of Michelangelo, da Vinci, and Raphael?
Vittorio, being pure, 100 percent Italian, suffered no such problem. And it showed in his work from day one. He had a flair
and brilliance that Gianni admired and felt he could never achieve.
Parts of Gianni still felt that way. And it was not just foolish modesty. He knew exactly how much he had accomplished. Yet
when he envisioned the absolute best he could do, and imagined it alongside something by Vittorio, it was like seeing a good
rhinestone next to a perfect diamond. The rhinestone was created out of knowledge, discipline, and hard work. The diamond
was a gift of nature, a flash of the purest light that had nothing to do with anything but God.
Deep in a patch of woods off Interstate 95, Gianni buried the last mortal remains of Special Agents Jackson and Lindstrom and felt the first piercing chill of a tracked animal. He felt nothing for the men themselves, not even his earlier
rage. They had, after all, just been following orders. Now there was only the chill.
3
A T THE EDGE of a forest twenty miles north of Zagreb, Yugoslavia, the gunman sat near the edge of a forest and waited for the dawn that
was still an hour away.
A rifle lay across his lap, and he fingered its stock, trigger guard, and barrel in ritual order.
My rosary,
he thought. Except that he had no prayers to recite, only the vague wish that everything would go well, quickly and without
surprises.
He was close to the top of a hill that rose steeply above a cluster of houses a short distance below. Closer to where he sat,
another house stood apart from the rest. There were lights in several rooms, but they had been on all night and did not mean
anything.
He could see clearly through the lighted windows with his field glasses, and from time to time he had watched the guards talking
and moving about. There were five of them, and they tended to huddle together for company instead of patrolling their posts
in and around the house. Croats. Whatever their good points, disciplined soldiering was not one of them. Had they done their
work right, he could never have moved in this close. As it was, he would have a clear shot, from good cover, at an effective
range.
The sky slowly lightened. He loved this time just before the rising of the sun, with shadows fading to the soft grays of Whistler.
These days, all anybody seemed to remember Whistler for was that uptight portrait of his mother, but it was his misty watercolors
of London that were the best. You just had to look at them to breathe the Thames. He had always envied Whistler those paintings. There was such purity of purpose there, so clear a knowledge of what was right, that
it made him wonder if the artist had ever been unsure of
anything.
Beginning to grow stiff, he shifted to a prone position, careful to keep the rifle muzzle off the ground. The few trees below
were clear now. He could see a table and chairs on the second-floor veranda of the solitary house. The veranda was open to
the sky, and in the distance behind it, the more modern part of Zagreb’s skyline rose above medieval walls.
Farther west, the first of the early morning flights took off from the city’s airport, and he watched the plane’s lights until
they disappeared. If all went well, he would be up there himself in a few hours, heading home. And if it didn’t go well? Then
he might be delayed. Like forever.
For a while he just lay there quietly as the sky lightened further and the day came, a shining spring morning without clouds,
and the colors running to soft pinks and
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