Brandenburg (9 page)

The three men raised their glasses once more, in silence this time, the meeting concluded. Meyer looked at the silver-haired man, saw him sip the champagne. The man was pleased, very pleased, Meyer could tell. The meeting had gone well.

Finally Kruger put down his glass and said to Meyer, “We must take our leave of you. It’s a long drive back north. The driver will take you to the safe house.”

Meyer nodded. The silver-haired man placed his glass on the trolley and gripped Meyer’s hand firmly in both of his, a warm handshake, Meyer feeling the pride, the pleasure, well up inside himself.

Kruger nodded to big Schmidt, who opened the door, stepped out into the corridor, eyes left, then right. He turned, nodded the all-clear.

Meyer and Kruger picked up their briefcases. The silver-haired man followed after Schmidt, then Meyer next, Kruger last, taking one last look around the room to make sure nothing had been left behind, before closing the door after him.

Schmidt led the way to the elevator.

•   •   •

Hernandez heard faintly the last words of the conversation in suite 120 and then silence. Curse Torres and his equipment.

But at least he had something on tape. If only he knew what the men were talking about.

He shivered inside, hearing the sentence in German again in his mind. “Sie werden alle umgebracht.” They’ll all be killed. Whom were they going to kill? And Brandenburg—what was Brandenburg? And what was the list? The pedigree? And who was the Turk? Their words made no sense.

A chill coursed through Hernandez’s body like an electric shock. Most likely the men were big dealers from Europe. The ones who came over once or twice a year to renew narcotics contracts, to discuss prices. But there was something odd about the whole thing, something strange, a gut feeling he had that wouldn’t go away. Two of the men spoke the accented German of immigrants, their vowels softened by the lisping Spanish. Only one spoke pure guttural German, the singsong German of Bavaria.

Hernandez shook his head, confused by it all.

“The driver will take you to the safe house,” the voice had said. Where was the safe house? Right now it didn’t matter; he just wanted to leave the hotel as quickly as possible. But first he had to retrieve Torres’s equipment from the suite. If he worked fast, maybe he could follow the men to the house they spoke of. He picked up the telephone, punched in the number.

“Room service,” said the answering voice.

“Ah, room service! My colleagues in suite one-twenty appear to have some difficulty in trying to contact you. They wish a food trolley removed from their suite. At once.”

“Of course, señor. Pronto. Suite one-twenty.”

Hernandez replaced the receiver, threw off the waiter’s jacket, dark trousers, and tie, then dressed again hurriedly in the business suit and blue silk tie. No need for the dark glasses, he decided. He had everything inside the case within two minutes, ready to go, key card to the room in his pocket.

The spare tape lay on the bed and he stuffed it inside his jacket pocket. He was ready. He opened the door to his room a crack, listened, and waited for the room-service waiter to appear.

•   •   •

In the lobby, Kruger went ahead of the others and crossed to the reception desk. The man behind it looked up, flashed a white-toothed smile.

“Señor?”

“Suite one-twenty,” said Kruger. “We are leaving now. The bill has been paid, I believe?”

The man consulted the computer. “That is correct, señor. In cash, when the suite was booked. Everything was to your satisfaction?”

“Yes, thank you. My compliments to the hotel. The champagne and canapés were excellent. Buenas tardes.” Kruger went to turn but saw the receptionist stare strangely at him before quickly glancing down at his computer again. Kruger hesitated.

He saw the man look up again, a quizzical expression on his face. “Champagne? Canapés? We have no record of such an order, señor.”

Kruger swallowed. “I beg your pardon?”

The receptionist said mildly, “There is no record of such an order on our computer. Obviously a mistake.”

Kruger said nervously, “The bottle of champagne and canapés delivered to our suite . . . you’re saying they were not compliments of the hotel?”

The man smiled broadly, as if Kruger were joking. “No, señor.
Of course not. But I can check to be absolutely certain. Perhaps an order was sent to your suite by mistake. However, I doubt it.”

Kruger turned visibly pale. The receptionist was already reaching for the telephone beside him, dialing a number. A moment later he spoke into the receiver, rapidly, but Kruger wasn’t listening to the man’s conversation. Something was niggling at him, worrying him. He was a cautious man, a man who never overlooked minor details, a man who checked and double-checked facts before coming to a conclusion. But this was odd . . .

The man replaced the receiver and looked at Kruger. “Room service has no record of such an order sent to suite one-twenty, señor. It’s most strange.”

Kruger could feel the palms of his hands sweat. “The waiter . . . his name, I think, was Ricardes.”

The man smiled again. “It was he I just spoke to.”

“The young man was tall. A scar on his right cheek.”

The receptionist scratched his head. “No. Ricardes is not tall. And a scar? No, certainly not. I don’t understand, señor.”

But Kruger did. Kruger understood. His mind was racing. And he tried to focus his cold fury. He waved a dismissive hand at the man behind the desk. “A misunderstanding, obviously.” Then he stepped back a pace, as though remembering something. “Excuse me, but I think I’ve left something in the suite.”

The man smiled. “Of course, señor. Gracias.”

Kruger turned and crossed quickly to where Schmidt, the silver-haired man, and Meyer waited, the three men sensing his disquiet.

“I think,” Kruger said in a voice as cold and icy as death, “I think we may have a problem.”

•   •   •

Hernandez heard the room-service waiter pass by his door, saw the flash of the man’s white coat, and glimpsed his face. It was a different waiter this time. He waited until the man had knocked several times, and, receiving no reply, had taken a plastic key card from his
pocket and inserted it in the door. As he stepped inside, Hernandez moved forward, closed his door, and crossed the hallway quickly.

He followed the waiter into the suite; the bemused man turned to look at him.

“Señor?”

Hernandez pretended to search through his pockets as he smiled. “I was just about to leave, but I think I have left my glasses in the bathroom. Would you be so kind as to fetch them for me?”

“Of course.” The waiter crossed to the bathroom, switched on the light, and stepped inside.

Hernandez knelt beside the trolley and fumbled for the tiny transmitter taped underneath.

•   •   •

In the lobby, Kruger wasted no time. He acted quickly. In such matters he had sole responsibility, and now he exercised it. He gripped Meyer’s arm.

“Take the chief and go outside to the car. Tell Kurt he’s to drive you both to Franz’s place and wait there until you hear from me. Tell the other driver to stay with the second Mercedes and remain at the entrance to the lobby. Werner is to go to the rear of the hotel. If there’s a fire exit, tell him to wait by it. Give Rotman and Werner a description of the waiter who came to our room. Tall, dark-haired, young, perhaps thirty. Scar on his right cheek. As soon as they see him, I want him killed. Tell them, Meyer. I want him killed.”

Kruger saw the silver-haired man look grimly at him, an uncharacteristic fury in his voice.

“I want him found, Hans.” The man’s voice almost shook. “No matter what it takes.”

Kruger gave a sharp nod of his head. The silver-haired man went past, Meyer beside him, and strode quickly toward the exit.

Kruger beckoned to Schmidt. Both men walked rapidly toward the elevator.

•   •   •

“I’m sorry, señor, I can’t find your glasses. You’re sure you left them in the bathroom?”

As the waiter came out of the bathroom, Hernandez smiled and stood up from the trolley. He held up the glasses in his hand, the microphone-receiver already in his pocket.

“How stupid of me. I must have dropped them . . . here they are. But thank you for your help.”

“No problem, señor.”

Hernandez allowed the waiter to pass with the trolley. “I’ll just check that I left nothing else behind.”

“Of course, señor.” The man left, closing the door after him.

Hernandez examined the room. The men who had been here were professionals. They would have been careful not to leave anything behind. He checked nonetheless. Finding nothing, he stepped from the room, closed the door after him.

He crossed the corridor and went into his room. A minute later he had stepped outside again, dragging his suitcase after him. He closed the door, saw the elevator open.

As the two men stepped out, Hernandez froze. There was a split second of mutual recognition, in which he felt his heart stop and saw the two men hesitate and stare at him—the dark-haired man and the big, rugged, blond bodyguard from the suite. The blond reached inside his jacket, the butt of a pistol appearing.

Hernandez swore, turned, and ran back down the corridor toward the fire-exit doors.

“Halt!” A rush of feet came from behind him as the shout in German rang out.

Hernandez reached the doors and pushed through. He raced down the emergency stairwell, the suitcase banging against the walls, slowing him. He cursed its weight, hearing the racing footsteps behind him on the stairs.

“Alto! Alto!” The voice was shouting in Spanish now, but Hernandez was intent on reaching the safety of the car, taking two, three steps at a time as he descended the stairwell rapidly. He came to the ground-floor
exit ten seconds later, his chest heaving. As he pushed open the emergency doors and burst out into the darkness, he hesitated.

No!

He heard the men racing down the stairwell behind him. If he didn’t slow them quickly, he’d never reach the car. He scanned the area frantically, saw the row of metal garbage bins nearby. Thrusting out his free hand, he grasped one of the metal lids, turned in the same movement, placed the lid on the ground, and kicked, wedging the lid between the base of the metal doors and the concrete.

He raced toward the car, reached the Buick just as he heard the fists pounding madly on the doors behind him, the voice raised in frantic anger.

“Sind Sie da, Werner?
Werner!
”

Fists beat on the metal like a roll of mad drums, but the wedge held. Hernandez flung the suitcase into the car and climbed in, the voice from behind the door louder, more desperate.

“Werner! Schnell!”

Hernandez fumbled to insert the key in the ignition. The key found its mark, and he switched the car on.

The engine spluttered and died.

Hernandez felt every drop of blood drain from his body. “No! Please! Not now! Start, please start!”

He turned the key again, pumped the accelerator, turning at the same time that he heard the deafening noise behind him, the grating sound of metal scraping on concrete as the garbage lid gave way and the two men burst out through the emergency doors.

The Buick’s engine suddenly exploded into life. Hernandez hit the accelerator hard and the car shot forward. As he swung out into the exit lane, he saw a figure come racing toward him out of the darkness.

A man. Hernandez saw him reach into his jacket, fumble for something.

Werner . . . the man must be Werner.

Hernandez pushed the accelerator right to the floor. As the Buick rocketed forward, he flicked on the headlights and switched to high
beam, saw the man shield his face from the sudden glare as he raised a pistol in his right hand. It was only a split second, but it was enough. The man twisted to the left to avoid being hit, his body crashing into the hood of a nearby car, the headlight glare catching the terror on his face.

Hernandez swung the Buick between two parked cars and drove at high speed toward the Calle Chile.

•   •   •

It took Kruger and the men two frantic minutes to race to the front of the hotel, where the second Mercedes waited.

The driver was already gunning the engine, saying, “What’s going on?”

Kruger was like a man possessed. He flung open the door and pulled the driver bodily from the car, climbed in, and found the phone in the glove compartment. He punched in the number desperately.

As the number dialed out on the crackling line, Kruger cursed. He heard the click, and the line was lifted at the other end.

“Sí?”

“Have we a clean line?” Kruger spoke rapidly.

“One moment.” There was a long pause. “Go ahead.”

“It’s Kruger. I’m at the hotel. We have a problem. I think someone overheard us discussing Brandenburg.”

8

ASUNCIÓN

It was dark, and the man and the two girls sat around the poolside table of the big house in the wealthy suburb of Asunción, sipping drinks the manservant had brought. There were lights on under the swimming pool, giving the smooth water a turquoise color.