it.
He stood and went into the kitchen, poured himself a tepid Coke as he sat, then lit a cigarette, thinking about the plan, trying to see flaws. No real flaws, only risks, he decided.
He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and stood, aware of his restless anxiety. From the bedroom he took the suitcase, already packed with the rest of the things he needed, then came back into the living room once again.
He laid the suitcase on the couch and flicked open the catches, checked that he hadn’t overlooked anything, then turned his attention to the equipment Torres had loaned him, lying on the coffee table.
He took it piece by piece and placed it carefully in the suitcase among the clothes he had already packed there, making sure the equipment didn’t rattle around, remembering that Torres had said it was sensitive. When he had finished, he checked through everything again, carefully shut the suitcase, and thumbed the combination lock to another set of numbers.
He felt a shiver of fear go through him. He sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly.
Relax, amigo. Stay calm. Otherwise you’re dead even before you start.
He glanced at his watch. Five-thirty.
He just had time to change, and then it would be time to go.
• • •
The black Mercedes moved slowly through the evening traffic toward the city. The glass partition between the driver and his passengers was closed, allowing the passengers their privacy.
Meyer looked out beyond the tinted windows at the lights coming on as dusk fell, at the smaller cars moving past on either side in the three-lane traffic, drawing him closer to the city, to his final meeting in this dreadful country.
A battered yellow pickup went slowly past the window, a cowboy-hatted Indian and his fat wife sitting in front, a crying child on her lap, windows rolled down, a radio blaring out Paraguayan harp music. In the back of the pickup, half a dozen restless, brown-faced scruffy children danced about like monkeys.
Dirty, idiotic kids . Meyer turned his head away in disgust. How had his people endured it here? He glanced at Kruger.
“The news you spoke of . . . ?”
“It’s Tsarkin. He shot himself two days ago.”
Meyer’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “He’s dead?”
Kruger nodded. “It was only a question of hours, anyway. Cancer. So he decided to take the quick way. He sent a letter to Franz Lieber before he did it. Said the pain was too much to bear. He wished us well, said he was sorry he couldn’t make it.”
Meyer nodded, understanding, remembering Tsarkin’s poor health.
“A great loss,” commented Meyer. And then a thought struck him, a terrible thought. “His papers?” His face showed concern as he looked at the silver-haired man seated opposite.
The silver-haired man smiled. “There is no need for alarm, Johannes. Tsarkin burned all his papers. Everything. Nothing can lead back to us. Nothing.”
“Our people checked it out?”
This time it was Kruger who spoke. “Franz called at the house after the cops left. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. He checked it out with the servants. The cops saw it as a straightforward case of suicide.”
“He checked Tsarkin’s study and belongings?”
“There were only some old photograph albums. He removed them.”
“And Tsarkin’s safe-deposit box?”
“He emptied it himself. Burned everything before he pulled the trigger.” He looked across at Meyer. “I’m certain Franz has been thorough.”
Meyer nodded and said, “And the arrangements for the meeting?”
“Tsarkin said the hotel was organized as usual, but Franz checked just to be certain. Everything is in order.” Kruger paused. Then he smiled and said, “He was a cautious man, old Nicolas. As cautious in death as in life.”
Kruger turned his face back toward the window. The silver-haired man reclined farther in his seat.
Meyer did the same, relieved.
• • •
Hernandez reached the Excelsior at
He stood and went into the kitchen, poured himself a tepid Coke as he sat, then lit a cigarette, thinking about the plan, trying to see flaws. No real flaws, only risks, he decided.
He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and stood, aware of his restless anxiety. From the bedroom he took the suitcase, already packed with the rest of the things he needed, then came back into the living room once again.
He laid the suitcase on the couch and flicked open the catches, checked that he hadn’t overlooked anything, then turned his attention to the equipment Torres had loaned him, lying on the coffee table.
He took it piece by piece and placed it carefully in the suitcase among the clothes he had already packed there, making sure the equipment didn’t rattle around, remembering that Torres had said it was sensitive. When he had finished, he checked through everything again, carefully shut the suitcase, and thumbed the combination lock to another set of numbers.
He felt a shiver of fear go through him. He sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly.
Relax, amigo. Stay calm. Otherwise you’re dead even before you start.
He glanced at his watch. Five-thirty.
He just had time to change, and then it would be time to go.
• • •
The black Mercedes moved slowly through the evening traffic toward the city. The glass partition between the driver and his passengers was closed, allowing the passengers their privacy.
Meyer looked out beyond the tinted windows at the lights coming on as dusk fell, at the smaller cars moving past on either side in the three-lane traffic, drawing him closer to the city, to his final meeting in this dreadful country.
A battered yellow pickup went slowly past the window, a cowboy-hatted Indian and his fat wife sitting in front, a crying child on her lap, windows rolled down, a radio blaring out Paraguayan harp music. In the back of the pickup, half a dozen restless, brown-faced scruffy children danced about like monkeys.
Dirty, idiotic kids . Meyer turned his head away in disgust. How had his people endured it here? He glanced at Kruger.
“The news you spoke of . . . ?”
“It’s Tsarkin. He shot himself two days ago.”
Meyer’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “He’s dead?”
Kruger nodded. “It was only a question of hours, anyway. Cancer. So he decided to take the quick way. He sent a letter to Franz Lieber before he did it. Said the pain was too much to bear. He wished us well, said he was sorry he couldn’t make it.”
Meyer nodded, understanding, remembering Tsarkin’s poor health.
“A great loss,” commented Meyer. And then a thought struck him, a terrible thought. “His papers?” His face showed concern as he looked at the silver-haired man seated opposite.
The silver-haired man smiled. “There is no need for alarm, Johannes. Tsarkin burned all his papers. Everything. Nothing can lead back to us. Nothing.”
“Our people checked it out?”
This time it was Kruger who spoke. “Franz called at the house after the cops left. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. He checked it out with the servants. The cops saw it as a straightforward case of suicide.”
“He checked Tsarkin’s study and belongings?”
“There were only some old photograph albums. He removed them.”
“And Tsarkin’s safe-deposit box?”
“He emptied it himself. Burned everything before he pulled the trigger.” He looked across at Meyer. “I’m certain Franz has been thorough.”
Meyer nodded and said, “And the arrangements for the meeting?”
“Tsarkin said the hotel was organized as usual, but Franz checked just to be certain. Everything is in order.” Kruger paused. Then he smiled and said, “He was a cautious man, old Nicolas. As cautious in death as in life.”
Kruger turned his face back toward the window. The silver-haired man reclined farther in his seat.
Meyer did the same, relieved.
• • •
Hernandez reached the Excelsior at
Similar Books
