Brandenburg by Glenn Meade Page A

five-fifty and parked the Buick twenty yards from the fire-escape doors that opened onto the parking lot.
    He strolled over to the exit doors, placed his palms against the metal, and pushed. The doors were locked by sprung bars that could be opened only from the inside. He had checked already to make sure they worked. They did. He probably wouldn’t have to use them, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Nothing must obstruct the doors from opening onto the parking lot.
    A row of metal garbage bins stood nearby, twenty yards from the kitchen’s rear entrance, but did not obstruct the exit. Satisfied, he crossed back to his car, removed his overnight suitcase, and left the driver’s door unlocked. He walked around to the hotel entrance. He wore tinted glasses and a gray business suit.
    As he walked over to the brightly lit lobby and headed straight for the reception desk, he saw a dark-suited man standing behind the counter, busy sorting through some papers.
    The man looked up as Hernandez approached. “Señor?”
    “I have a reservation for tonight. My name is Ferres.”
    “One moment, señor.” The man tapped the computer terminalbeside him. Without looking up, he said, “Señor Ferres. Room one hundred and four. The first floor.” The man looked up, smiled a plastic smile. “Our last free room. You were lucky.”
    I hope so, Hernandez thought. He had telephoned the hotel the evening before last to make his reservation, explaining to the reservations clerk that he had stayed on the first floor before and had enjoyed the view, had a preference for it. The clerk had said yes, but only a double. Hernandez had said he would pay for the double.
    “Will señor be settling his account in cash or by credit card?”
    “Cash,” said Hernandez. “And I would like to pay now. I intend to leave early tomorrow morning.”
    “Certainly.”
    “Also, I am having some friends come by shortly. I want a bottle of champagne and some canapés sent up to my room immediately.”
    “But of course, señor. At once. I will see to it.”
    The bellhop carrying his suitcase led him to his room at the end of the corridor, five doors from Tsarkin’s suite and on the opposite side of the corridor. Having the room on the first floor was imperative. And it had been the last one free—a good omen, surely. The evening after telephoning the Excelsior, he had gone to the hotel once again to examine the corridor layout. The room he’d booked was perfect, not too close, not too far away.
    As Hernandez followed the bellhop into the room, the boy switched on the lights, placed the suitcase on the rack provided, waited for his tip. Hernandez obliged; the boy smiled, bade him good evening, and withdrew.
    Hernandez crossed to the window and stared out: lights coming on everywhere, darkness descending rapidly over the city. And there was real fear in him now. He checked his watch. Six o’clock. Whoever was going to use the room down the hall would be arriving soon. A sharp knock rattled the door.
    He admitted the white-coated, smiling waiter, the food trolley he pushed laden with the champagne and canapés. Hernandez watched him, the way he worked, listening to the chatter. The man made afuss of arranging the trolley in the center of the room. Hernandez requested him to leave the champagne unopened.
    “Of course, señor.” The waiter bowed and went to leave, but not leaving, a practiced art.
    Hernandez peeled off some bills from the wad in his pocket. “That was excellent service. What is your name?”
    “Mario, señor. Mario Ricardes.”
    “Thank you, Mario.” Hernandez handed the man the money; the waiter bowed and left.
    Hernandez looked at the champagne and food. The story was costing him a small fortune already. He hoped it was worth it. The champagne was French and expensive, the six sparkling glasses neatly arranged beside the bucket of crushed ice. The canapés looked exquisite: neat, crisped triangles of fresh bread with smoked salmon,