Read Online Brandenburg by Glenn Meade - Free Book Online Page A

stepped out into the bedroom and took the single sheet of hotel-monogrammed notepaper from the bedroom’s desk, checkingthe 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