Brandenburg (8 page)

The door opened, and they stepped in. Hernandez stood and watched the numbers over the elevator halt at floor one.

He waited for a minute before moving toward the second elevator, reached it seconds later as the doors opened. He felt a knot of fear in his stomach as he stepped inside and punched the button for the first floor.

•   •   •

When they stepped out on the first floor, Schmidt led them to the suite, inserted the key card, and went in first, his big blond head touching the top of the door frame. He switched on the lights, checked the room, closed the curtains, his muscular bulk awkward but moving fast.

Kruger entered next, followed by the others. As Meyer closed the door behind him, Kruger unlocked the briefcase he carried. He took out the rectangular, handheld electronic detector, held it chest-high, turned around in a circle, watching the small red indicator light at the tip of the device. He listened for the alarm signal, but none came. None had ever come; it was only a precaution.

Kruger placed the device back in his briefcase and said, “All clear.”

Schmidt took up a position in a chair by the locked door, sat down, and folded his arms, two bulges evident on either side of his broad chest, where, Meyer knew, the holstered pistol and the big, jagged-edged knife were strapped. The man was expert with either weapon and intimidating all the more because of his perpetual silence. But his presence at these meetings always made Meyer feel secure. No one would tangle with Schmidt and live.

As the three men sat around the table at the end of the room, the gentle hum of the air conditioner wafted in the air, but it was warm in the room, still humid.

Meyer dabbed his brow, flicked open his briefcase, and removed his papers.

“The report on Brandenburg first, I presume?”

The handsome, silver-haired man made a steeple of his slim, manicured fingers, and his gentle eyes sparkled.

“If you would be so kind, Johannes. I know you must be tired, so let us proceed as quickly as possible.”

Meyer nodded and dabbed the sweat from his brow again. Then he looked down at his papers and began to speak.

7

ASUNCIÓN

Hernandez stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Gone was the gray business suit and the tinted glasses. The white shirt remained, but this time with a black tie. Instead of the suit, he wore a waiter’s white service jacket, black trousers, and black shoes he had bought the previous day in a catering supplier on the Calle Palma. Without the glasses, his hair brushed down, he certainly looked different. He touched the scar on his right cheek. Nothing could be done about that.

If they were professionals, they would be careful to check the suite for listening devices. That was why he wanted to give them a little time. If his plan worked, he wouldn’t be able to record all their conversation, but the men were going to be a while in the suite, so he should be able to hear most of it.

If the plan worked . . .

He stepped out into the bedroom and took the single sheet of hotel-monogrammed notepaper from the bedroom’s desk, checking
the scribbled note he had written. Champagne and canapés. Suite 120.

He knelt down and raised the white linen cloth that hung over the food trolley edge. Underneath he saw the tiny microphone he had placed there earlier with the adhesive tape, checked again that it was secure.

Satisfied, he let the tablecloth fall back into place and then turned his attention to the second part of the equipment lying on the bed. It was an old Japanese-made receiver-recorder, but no bigger than a cigarette pack. He had checked the transmitter and it worked properly, as Torres said it would.

The receiver was battery-operated, and Hernandez inserted one of the two miniature cassette tapes he had brought. Everything was ready. A spare two-hour tape lay on the bed, just in case. He stood up and checked his watch. Six-forty. The men had had fifteen minutes. Hernandez hoped it was enough time. He picked up the white waiter’s towel and placed it over his left arm. He was ready.

For a couple of seconds, he hesitated, thinking of Rodriguez’s hideous corpse, and a spasm of cold fear shot through him.

He forced the memory from his mind as he walked briskly to the door, opened it, and peered out into the corridor.

Empty.

He pulled the trolley out behind him, checked to see that his room key card was safely in his trousers pocket, then closed the door after him.

He listened again in the corridor for any approaching sound.

Nothing.

Hernandez drew in a deep breath and let it out quickly, then started to push the trolley toward suite 120.

•   •   •

It took Meyer twelve minutes to read the report. He kept to the key points, careful to highlight his hard work, the attention to detail on which he prided himself. Now would come the questions. He looked up.

The handsome, silver-haired old man seated opposite nodded his head agreeably.

They all heard the soft knock on the door, and their heads turned sharply. Meyer saw that Schmidt already had his pistol out and by his side. Another knock, louder this time, and Kruger stood up quickly and crossed to the door, Schmidt calling out in Spanish, “Who is it?”

Kruger moved the big man aside and put his ear to the door. Everyone in the room heard the voice behind it reply.

“Room service, señor.”

Kruger nodded to Schmidt, and the big man stood back from the door, pistol at the ready.

Kruger opened the door a crack but kept his shoulder firmly against it. A room-service waiter stood there, a dumb smile on his face.

“We didn’t order anything,” Kruger said curtly. “You must have the wrong room.”

“Really, señor? Oh . . . I’m sorry . . .” The waiter looked at the slip of paper in his hand, then at the room number, and said, “No, señor . . . Suite one-twenty. Champagne and appetizers. Compliments of the hotel.”

Kruger opened the door. He saw the champagne wedged in a silver bucket of crushed ice, the neatly arranged appetizers. He gave the waiter a questioning stare.

The waiter showed him the order on hotel-engraved notepaper. “See, señor . . . it’s written here. Suite one-twenty. Champagne and canapés.”

Kruger took the slip of paper, examined it carefully, then handed it back.

The waiter shrugged. “If you don’t want it, señor, I can take it back. It’s no problem.” He smiled affably. “It’s a new complimentary service for our suite guests.”

Kruger glanced again at the food trolley. He was thirsty and tired, and the suite was humid. The chilled champagne and the appetizers looked refreshingly tempting.

“Very well, you may come in.”

Kruger stepped back, and the waiter wheeled the trolley slowly into the center of the room, close to the table where the others sat, several yards away.

As he began to undo the wire around the neck of the champagne, the man with the dark, greased hair said, “Leave it. We can attend to that ourselves.”

The waiter nodded, a grateful look on his face. He patted the linen tablecloth, rearranged two of the glasses, coughed quietly.

Kruger took the hint, impatiently removed his wallet, and handed the waiter a single note.

“Muchas gracias.”

Kruger noticed the scar on the young man’s cheek. “Your name?”

“Ricardes, señor. Mario Ricardes.”

“See that we are not disturbed again, Mario.”

“Yes, señor. Of course, señor. If there is anything else you wish, please do not hesitate to call room service.”

Kruger nodded impatiently.

Hernandez turned toward the door, away from the silver-haired man, toward the big blond with one hand behind his back. He took one last look around the suite and tried hard not to make it obvious as he smiled.

“Buenas tardes, señores.”

He had his hand on the doorknob now as he bowed slightly, glimpsed the men at the table—the tired-looking man in the blue crumpled suit, then just a second’s glance at the silver-haired man—before he closed the door after him, took three, four steps, then let out a long sigh.

Santa Maria
 . . .

He walked quickly back toward his room.

•   •   •

The three men were seated at the table again.

Meyer was still feeling the effects of dehydration after the long flight. He licked his parched lips. The iced champagne looked
appealing, but it would have to wait. It was time to answer any questions.

The silver-haired man’s tone was businesslike. “The shipment . . . ?”

Meyer nodded. “The cargo will be picked up from Genoa as arranged.”

“And the Italian?”

“He will be eliminated, but I want to be certain we don’t arouse suspicion concerning the cargo. It would be prudent to wait until Brandenburg becomes operational. Then he will be dealt with along with the others.”

The silver-haired man nodded his agreement, then looked at Meyer intently. “Those who have pledged their loyalty . . . we must be certain of them.”

Meyer said firmly, “I have had their assurances confirmed. And their pedigree is without question.”

Kruger shifted restlessly in his chair as he looked at Meyer. “And the Turk?”

“I foresee no problems.”

Kruger said, “The woman in Berlin . . . you’re absolutely certain we can rely on her?”

“She won’t fail us, I assure you.” Meyer glanced over at the elderly man. “There are no changes to the names on the list?”

The man shook his head firmly. “They’ll all be killed.”

“Your travel arrangements?” Meyer inquired. “Everything has been organized?”

“We leave Paraguay on the sixth.”

Meyer looked at the two men. “The schedule . . . perhaps I should go through it once more?”

Both men nodded.

Meyer ran a finger around the rim of his shirt collar. Even with the air-conditioning on, the heat was unbearably oppressive. Ninety percent humidity at least. He wished the meeting would end. A matter of no more than ten minutes now, he was certain. Kruger would want to go over the key points again. He licked his dry lips, glanced
at the food trolley the waiter had brought, the neck of the champagne bottle visible in the ice bucket.

“It’s quite warm in here. Perhaps I might have a glass of water?”

Kruger nodded.

Meyer stood and crossed to the side table, where a carafe of water and several glasses sat on a tray. He poured himself a glass of the tepid liquid, glancing at the iced champagne on the food trolley as he drank. He had barely eaten on the flight. The appetizers looked so appetizing. Meyer finished his glass of water and filled another. He would have to move the trolley out of sight; it was beginning to distract him, the sight of that delicious food and the chilled champagne nestled in the ice bucket.

When he leaned across and gently pushed the trolley away, he was surprised that it moved so smoothly on its wheels. He saw it slide away rapidly, glide across the carpet, and bump into the desk in the far corner, rocking the table lamp, almost knocking it over.

Meyer turned and saw Kruger glance up at him from his papers. Meyer returned to his seat, wishing the meeting would end.

•   •   •

Everything was going fine until Hernandez heard the click in the earphones.

He sat on the bed nervously smoking a cigarette. The dated Japanese tape recorder lay in front of him, the cores of the tape still turning smoothly.

The men had been speaking in German; Hernandez heard the voices clearly as the machine recorded their conversation.

In his childhood, his mother had spoken to him in both Spanish and German, sometimes in Guarani, that curious, expressive mixture of Indian-Spanish that the ordinary Paraguayan preferred to speak. But German was second nature to him, the language his Paraguayan father had hated but his mother persisted in using.

And then he heard the click in the earphones.

The voices became muted, more distant, and then nothing, only a faint buzzing sound.

Hernandez swore out loud. He turned up the volume quickly, pressed the earphones closer. Nothing. Dead. Torres had said the equipment was good, sensitive, could pick up the buzz of a mosquito at ten yards. Well, either it was picking up the buzz of a mosquito right now or the microphone had worked itself loose or been damaged . . .

Or the men had found it.

Hernandez wondered whether to leave, just go, get out now. No, better to stay, because the men wouldn’t know which room he was in, wouldn’t know where the receiver was situated. And from the room, he could always call the police.

Please, God, don’t let them find the microphone
.

Hernandez sat on the bed for another fifteen minutes, smoked two more cigarettes, listening to the faint buzzing in his ears. Then he heard a loud bang like a gunshot. Seconds later came the sudden sound of laughter in the earphones, the thin clink of glasses, the faint sound of voices.

“Prost.”

“Prost.”

“Prost.”

A chorus of prosts.

Hernandez let out a loud sigh, began to relax, began to understand. The men were drinking the champagne. Thank heaven. They hadn’t found the microphone.

•   •   •