Darn! He hadn’t heard the room number.
Hernandez went to stand, to move closer, but saw one of the men, the tired-looking one in the crumpled blue suit, glance over at the girls nearby, then at Hernandez. He shifted in his seat, looked down, pretending to look at his watch. He did not want the man to get a good look at his face. He was unfolding his newspaper when he heard the voice speak faintly, in German, in his mother’s tongue, the language of his childhood, the man in the steel-blue suit asking it softly of the dark-haired man, as he passed by Hernandez, moving toward the elevator.
“Welche Nummer?”
“Ein hundert zwanzig.”
Which number? A hundred and twenty. Hernandez felt a shiver of excitement.
These are the men.
He watched as they crossed to the elevator. The older man, the one with the silver hair, stood in the center of the group. He made a remark and the others smiled and laughed, but Hernandez couldn’t hear what was said. The men were too far away.
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
Hernandez went to stand, to move closer, but saw one of the men, the tired-looking one in the crumpled blue suit, glance over at the girls nearby, then at Hernandez. He shifted in his seat, looked down, pretending to look at his watch. He did not want the man to get a good look at his face. He was unfolding his newspaper when he heard the voice speak faintly, in German, in his mother’s tongue, the language of his childhood, the man in the steel-blue suit asking it softly of the dark-haired man, as he passed by Hernandez, moving toward the elevator.
“Welche Nummer?”
“Ein hundert zwanzig.”
Which number? A hundred and twenty. Hernandez felt a shiver of excitement.
These are the men.
He watched as they crossed to the elevator. The older man, the one with the silver hair, stood in the center of the group. He made a remark and the others smiled and laughed, but Hernandez couldn’t hear what was said. The men were too far away.
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
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