Read Online The Loo Sanction by Trevanian - Free Book Online Page B

built. His bullet-shaped head was shaved, and there were deep folds of skin halfway up the back of his neck. He wore a thick turtleneck sweater under a tweed jacket, and gave the impression of a prizefighter, save for his large, mirror-faced sunglasses.
    Aloha Shirt said something to Bullet Head. From his expression, he was angry. Bullet Head barked back, clearly not willing to take the blame. They looked again up and down the street, then Aloha made a signal with his hand, and a dark Bentley pulled up to the curb. They got in, Bullet in front, Aloha alone in back. The Bentley pulled into the traffic, bullying its way into the flow on the strength of its prestige.
    Maggie looked at Jonathan, who was studying the faces of the other passersby in front of the hotel. “That’s all,” he said to himself. “Just the two.”
    â€œHow do you know—”
    He held up his hand. “Just a moment.” He watched the street narrowly until, in about three minutes, the Bentley passed again, slowing down as it went by the hotel entrance, the men within leaning forward to examine it carefully. Then the car sought the center lane and drove off.
    â€œOK. They won’t be back. Not for a few hours, anyway. But they’ve undoubtedly left someone inside.”
    â€œHow do you know they were the ones?”
    â€œInstinct. They have the look of the weird types you find in espionage. And their subsequent behavior nailed it.”
    â€œEspionage? What on earth is going on, Jonathan?”
    He shook his head slowly. “I honestly don’t know.”
    â€œHave you done something?”
    â€œNo.” He felt anger and bitterness rise inside him. “I think it’s something they want me to do.”
    â€œWhat sort of thing?”
    He changed the subject curtly. “Tell me, how would you describe the boss one. The one with the camera and the gaudy shirt?”
    She shrugged. “I don’t know. An American, I suppose. A tourist?”
    â€œNot a tourist. Even in his excitement, he checked the traffic from right to left. As though he were used to driving on the left. Americans check it from left to right.”
    â€œBut the cowboy boots?”
    â€œYes. But the trousers were of British cut.”
    â€œHe did look odd, come to think of it. Like an American. But like an American in old movies.”
    â€œExactly my impression.”
    â€œWhat does that tell you?” She leaned forward conspiratorially.
    Jonathan smiled at her, suddenly amused by the tone of their conversation. “Nothing, really. Drink your coffee.”
    She shook her head.
    He withdrew into himself for several minutes, his brow furrowed, his eyes focused through the patterned wall he was staring at. Unit by unit he put together the flow of his necessary actions for the rest of the day. Then he took a deep breath and resettled his attention on Maggie. “OK, listen.” He drew his wallet from his jacket pocket. Folded in it were his checkbook, several sheets of writing paper, stamps, and envelopes, all of which he had collected in his tour of the penthouse flat. “I’ll be damned!” He had also drawn out the envelope containing money the Renaissance man had given him for his ad hoc appraisal of the Marini
Horse.
He had completely forgotten about it. So he wasn’t working all that lucidly after all. His reactions had rusted in the years since he had quit this kind of business forever. He opened the envelope and counted the money: ten fifty-pound notes. Good. He wouldn’t have to use a check after all. “Here,” he said, passing two hundred pounds over the table, “take this.”
    She moved her hand away from the notes, as though to avoid contaminating contact. “I don’t need it.”
    â€œOf course you need it. You don’t have a room. You don’t have any money. And you can’t go back to MacTaint’s.”
    â€œWhy