anchovies, various cheeses, meat pastes, arranged splendidly on a silver tray.
He went to sit on the bed, opened the suitcase, and removed everything he needed, laid them neatly on the spread.
He went to work quickly, setting everything out in its place. When he was finished ten minutes later, he lit a cigarette, then punched in the number to call suite 120. There was no reply.
Whoever intended on using the suite had, thankfully, not arrived early. Had someone answered, he would have pretended a wrong number and put down the phone.
Hernandez checked his watch again. Six-ten. He stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray and stood up nervously.
It was time to go to the lobby.
• • •
It was a different hotel this trip, Meyer noted as the Mercedes drew up outside the Excelsior. But they had used the hotel before, many times, he and Winter. But never together. The meetings to deliver the reports had alternated between both men.
The hotels had been Tsarkin’s idea; a different room each time meant there would be less chance of electronic bugging or eavesdropping.Better than using a house, where prying neighbors might pose a threat to security.
The house in the Chaco, of course, would have been ideal, but it was too remote and when the rains came, the roads were often impassable.
Schmidt and the driver stepped out of the Mercedes and opened the doors, Kruger and Schmidt leading the way into the lobby, Meyer walking beside the silver-haired man.
They waited while Kruger went to the reception desk, carrying his briefcase. Meyer glanced around at the luxurious surroundings. The lobby was quiet. A couple of nice-looking girls sat in leather easy chairs nearby. A young man wearing a gray suit sat close by, reading a newspaper.
Meyer saw Kruger return from the desk. “Which room?” Meyer asked in German.
“One-twenty,” Kruger replied.
They all followed Kruger to the elevator.
• • •
Six-fifteen.
Hernandez had bought a newspaper and found a vacant chair in the lobby, facing the reception desk.
Background music played softly in the lobby, but he had a perfect vantage point and if he concentrated hard, he could understand what was being said at the desk. He opened his newspaper, pretended to read, but kept his eyes on the entrance lobby.
Ten minutes later Hernandez saw the men. His eyes flicked to the entrance instinctively as he heard them come into the lobby. Four men, all wearing business suits, all European-looking. Hernandez was suspicious immediately: the four men carried no luggage, and only two carried briefcases. They could have been simply returning from a business meeting in the city, but a gut feeling told him otherwise.
One of the men was obviously a bodyguard, a giant of a man, looking uncomfortable in his pale linen suit. He walked ahead ofthe group, big-chested, close-cropped blond hair. He had a swaggering, slow, awkward gait and looked as if he were made of solid granite. Not the kind of man you tackled, unless you had an army behind you.
The second man was rugged, in his mid-thirties, with dark, shining hair. He carried a briefcase and looked like a company executive. The third was middle-aged, overweight, and wore a blue crumpled business suit. He held his briefcase under his arm and he looked tired, as if he had endured a long journey.
But the fourth man was the one who stood out from the group. An old man, but tall, leanly built, his silver hair swept back off his handsome face.
One of the men approached the reception desk while the others waited nearby. Hernandez listened, trying to separate the faint, piped hotel music from the voices, but the man spoke very quietly.
“Sí, señor . . . ,” came the reply from the desk clerk, and then a muttering of words in Spanish. The background music suddenly rose in pitch, almost drowning out the voices. Hernandez swore. Speak louder, amigo. Louder .
“All ready for you, señor . . .” More babble.
He went to sit on the bed, opened the suitcase, and removed everything he needed, laid them neatly on the spread.
He went to work quickly, setting everything out in its place. When he was finished ten minutes later, he lit a cigarette, then punched in the number to call suite 120. There was no reply.
Whoever intended on using the suite had, thankfully, not arrived early. Had someone answered, he would have pretended a wrong number and put down the phone.
Hernandez checked his watch again. Six-ten. He stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray and stood up nervously.
It was time to go to the lobby.
• • •
It was a different hotel this trip, Meyer noted as the Mercedes drew up outside the Excelsior. But they had used the hotel before, many times, he and Winter. But never together. The meetings to deliver the reports had alternated between both men.
The hotels had been Tsarkin’s idea; a different room each time meant there would be less chance of electronic bugging or eavesdropping.Better than using a house, where prying neighbors might pose a threat to security.
The house in the Chaco, of course, would have been ideal, but it was too remote and when the rains came, the roads were often impassable.
Schmidt and the driver stepped out of the Mercedes and opened the doors, Kruger and Schmidt leading the way into the lobby, Meyer walking beside the silver-haired man.
They waited while Kruger went to the reception desk, carrying his briefcase. Meyer glanced around at the luxurious surroundings. The lobby was quiet. A couple of nice-looking girls sat in leather easy chairs nearby. A young man wearing a gray suit sat close by, reading a newspaper.
Meyer saw Kruger return from the desk. “Which room?” Meyer asked in German.
“One-twenty,” Kruger replied.
They all followed Kruger to the elevator.
• • •
Six-fifteen.
Hernandez had bought a newspaper and found a vacant chair in the lobby, facing the reception desk.
Background music played softly in the lobby, but he had a perfect vantage point and if he concentrated hard, he could understand what was being said at the desk. He opened his newspaper, pretended to read, but kept his eyes on the entrance lobby.
Ten minutes later Hernandez saw the men. His eyes flicked to the entrance instinctively as he heard them come into the lobby. Four men, all wearing business suits, all European-looking. Hernandez was suspicious immediately: the four men carried no luggage, and only two carried briefcases. They could have been simply returning from a business meeting in the city, but a gut feeling told him otherwise.
One of the men was obviously a bodyguard, a giant of a man, looking uncomfortable in his pale linen suit. He walked ahead ofthe group, big-chested, close-cropped blond hair. He had a swaggering, slow, awkward gait and looked as if he were made of solid granite. Not the kind of man you tackled, unless you had an army behind you.
The second man was rugged, in his mid-thirties, with dark, shining hair. He carried a briefcase and looked like a company executive. The third was middle-aged, overweight, and wore a blue crumpled business suit. He held his briefcase under his arm and he looked tired, as if he had endured a long journey.
But the fourth man was the one who stood out from the group. An old man, but tall, leanly built, his silver hair swept back off his handsome face.
One of the men approached the reception desk while the others waited nearby. Hernandez listened, trying to separate the faint, piped hotel music from the voices, but the man spoke very quietly.
“Sí, señor . . . ,” came the reply from the desk clerk, and then a muttering of words in Spanish. The background music suddenly rose in pitch, almost drowning out the voices. Hernandez swore. Speak louder, amigo. Louder .
“All ready for you, señor . . .” More babble.
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