Free Impulse by Catherine Coulter Page A

play with him could ruin everything. It could get him killed. He had to get away from here, back to the resort. And that night he did, at least as far as Dominick’s downstairs library and meeting room.
    He made it, breathing hard, his skin filmed with sweat from the exertion, but he was determined. Dominick hadn’t told him a damned thing. He had to find out what was going on. He closed his sweating hand over the doorknob, then paused. He heard DeLoriosay in a loud voice, “A shame the Irish trash didn’t cash it in.”
    Dominick’s voice, mild and calm: “Marcus saved my life. Incidentally, you’ve got some Irish blood in you.”
    “He had his reasons, no doubt. Anyway, what do you expect? You treat him like he’s more important to you than your own son. My God, if I’d had a go at him, he’d have been in hell before he hit the ground!”
    Marcus backed off. He hadn’t realized DeLorio hated him so much. He wondered if DeLorio would be a problem, a real problem he’d have to worry about. The good Lord knew he had enough problems, and now this tantrum from a twenty-five-year-old man whose wife of ten months had given him head only four hours before. Marcus made his way back upstairs. His shoulder hurt and he felt dizzy.
    He still hadn’t found out anything about the Dutchmen. He had to get away from here.
    Boston
Tribune
Newsroom
Boston, Massachusetts
March 1, 2001
    One day back, and the wretched phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Rafaella grabbed it on the third ring, scrunched it between her shoulder and her ear, and kept reading the articles she’d found in the
Tribune
’s library on arms smuggling. Not much, but it was a start.
    “Rafaella Holland here.”
    “Hi. It’s Logan.”
    “Airport?”
    An old joke between them, not funny anymore, yet she’d said it out of reflex action.
    “Yeah. The first-class section. Where have you been? What’s going on?”
    She found herself blinking. She’d forgotten all aboutLogan Mansfield, an assistant D.A. “My mother was hurt in an accident. I flew there last Friday.”
    “Oh. How is she?”
    “Very serious.” Her voice cracked. “In a coma.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry, Rafaella. I want to see you tonight. It’s been two weeks, nearly. I need to talk to you.”
    She was leaving tomorrow. She chewed on her lower lip, staring at the article in her hand about the scandal in Sweden. Bofors illegally sold weapons to Iran and Iraq. Not too good for Nobel Industries, she thought. Logan made an impatient noise and she said quickly, “Sure, Logan. Come on over to my place around eight o’clock. I’ve got to clean out my fridge. You can help me.”
    He agreed and rang off.
    I shouldn’t have invited him over, she thought, then shook her head. She and Logan Mansfield had been together for nearly three years now, lovers occasionally, friends occasionally, adversaries occasionally, neither one wanting commitment. A perfect arrangement for both of them.
    She read on about the “Irangate” in Italy, this one about Borletti’s northern Italian weapons manufacturer illegally shipping mines and other weapons to Iran. Lord, it was complicated, all the machinations they went through to get the illegal arms from point A to point B. She read about end-user certificates that were all a scam, about different methods of smuggling—mines and arms or whatever, in crates labeled “medical equipment” or “farm equipment”—the list was endless. Criminal ingenuity—and in the U.S. there was only the U.S. Customs Service to stop them.
    Besides Borletti, she read about a man named Cummings who said he’d sell to anyone if the government allowed it except Qaddafi. There was Kokin and his Los Angeles arms emporium; and Soghanalian, who had branches in Miami, Beirut, and Madrid. Some did business with the CIA, others didn’t. Most claimedthey were as honest as the sky was blue. If that were true, Rafaella thought, then how had the war between Iran and Iraq lasted so very long? And