Retribution Read Online Free PDF Page A

He stopped at two more cafés, then
     made his way back to the apartment on the Avenue du Maine. The apartment belonged to an Iranian arms dealer who wanted them
     gone when he returned in six weeks. He had only loaned them the apartment in the first place so he could boast of it to a
     mullah who he was probably overcharging for weapons. Once the deal was made, the gunrunner had tried to get rid of them by
     sending a couple of his men to take possession. Hasan stabbed one in the arm, and they decided to back ?ff for a while.
    Naim ascended in the elevator to the top floor. He turned the key in the lock and walked in. Bottles, glasses, plates with
     food still on them, a hashish pipe, full ashtrays, no one about—it was the usual late night scene. He headed for the bathroom.
     As he passed a half-open door, he heard a moan from inside. Hepushed in the door slowly. The soft light of a table lamp illuminated the room.
    A naked woman lay on her side on the sheets of the bed. Her neck was arched and her head was flung back. Her hair was stuck
     to her perspiring face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open. She moaned softly with pleasure.
    Hasan lay on his side, facing her, moving his pelvis against hers. Her upper leg was thrown across his heaving buttocks. He
     massaged the flesh of her thigh and growled obscenities in Arabic.
    Ali was inserted in her behind, pumping vigorously. His body fitted closely against hers, and he reached a hand around to
     squeeze one of her breasts. All three bodies jerked together in spasmodic rhythm.
    Ali saw Naim at the door way and stopped. “You want to join us, Naim?”
    Hasan stopped too, and this made the, woman cry out in Paris slang, “Keep going, you fuckheads! Don’t stop now!”
    The two men returned willingly to their task and she moaned again.
    Naim went to his room and lay on his back on the bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. He was dropping off into a deep
     sleep sometime later when someone entered his room. Naim roused himself and looked to see who it was.
    The naked French woman stood at the end of his bed. She was supporting the weight of her breasts in her hands and looking
     down at him.
    “What do you want?” he asked, realizing immediately that this was a foolish question.
    “Do it to me,” she said.
    “I’m sleepy. Go away.”
    “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “Can’t get it up?”
    A wave of rage swept through Naim. He tried to control himself. “I want to sleep. Go away.”
    She took her hands from her breasts, stroked her pubic hair, and thrust her hips forward at him. She said in a soft, seductive
     voice, “Don’t you want some?”
    “Get out of here.”
    She laughed and taunted him with her body. “Aren’t you able to screw?”
    Naim Shabaan’s lips stretched across his teeth in a mask of fury. He leapt off the bed, unbuckled his belt, and pulled it
     free from the loops of his pants. Holding the buckle, he lashed the naked woman across the breasts with its free end. She
     screamed, hunched to protect herself, and turned her back on him.
    With all his strength, he lashed her twice across her back before she managed to run out the doorway.
    The French television news said that Margaret Thatcher would announce in the next few days Britain’s intention of signing
     the Ostend Concordance. Naim Shabaan turned the television off and searched the radio dial for BBC news. If the government-owned
     radio carried the story, it would be confirmation enough for Naim. But the BBC did not mention any possibility ofsigning. Naim bought foreign editions of the
Daily Express,
the
Manchester Guardian
and the
Daily Telegraph.
All three ran stones on the probable announcement of Britain’s signing. If it was good enough for English newspapers, it
     was good enough for Naim.
    “We should leave today,” he told Hasan and Ali. “We’ll travel separately and go by ferry, where they can’t look at our papers
     so closely. We’ll use the