‘Yes, Quill here.’
‘I thought I’d give you an update on Lavander.’
‘What about Lavander?’
‘We’ve got two of our best men on it. I’m sure they’ll bring him in.’
‘That’s not what I mean. How much does he know?’
‘A lot.’
‘Does he know about Midas?’
‘Yes. He analysed the sample and studied the entire location.’
‘Was that smart?’
‘Lavander is known to be very discreet. He’s worked for just about every operation in the world, at one time or another.’
‘Nevertheless, this kidnapping should serve as a warning. Right now it’s very dangerous to have a man outside the organization knowing this much.’
‘He’s very valuable...’
‘I see. Then I suggest we test him. See just how discreet he
is. If he’s reliable, we should try to enlist him. If he’s not...’ ‘I understand.’
‘Good. Keep me updated on this, please.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The Algerian switch was an almost foolproof play. Almost, because one could never discount the human factor, and with it, the unexpected. The switch was designed as a logical exercise in fear and was extremely effective against non-political terrorists — the greedy ones, willing to risk their necks for money, but not willing to die for it. ‘They could be scared. Fanatics were different. Fanatics were dangerous and unpredictable. They could freak out without warning. To them, death was martyrdom, and martyrdom was part of the litany. In this case, Falmouth knew the terrorists were money-hungry, period. There was no political motivation behind the kidnapping of Lavander. These guys were not fiery-eyed disciples of anything. Anything, that is, but greed. Everything added up to
The switch required professionals, and Falmouth had quickly recognized Hinge as an iceman, a totally amoral and compulsive perfectionist, ideal for the job. He did not like Hinge personally. They had nothing in common other than their profession. Hinge was a typical mercenary. Hinge lived for blood and money, and he had no taste, no class. He ate meat and potatoes with boring regularity, drank beer and sour-mash whiskey, and his reading was confined to Soldier of Fortune magazine, the Business Week of the mercs, and the occasional books on new weapons, or the current state of the killing art, published by Paladin Press, named after the legendary roving gunfighter and edited, naturally, in Phoenix, where the spirit of the Old West still prevailed. That was how Hinge saw himself, a roving gunslinger, always riding into the sunset Looking for some new standard to carry, killing Commies and left-wingers and socialists and anyone else politically to the left of Attila the Hun, because somehow that made it acceptable. Like many of his brethren, he was coarse and unrefined, a killing machine who could not judge a good bottle of wine or a good cigar. In short, he was a boor and a bore. But he was good at his work and that’s what they were there for.
Falmouth’s driver, a thin little man in his late forties named Angel, had driven a cab in Paris for three years, so he had little trouble negotiating the ass-tightening curves and threading through the traffic on the road from the plant down to Caracas. The receiver for the anal transmitter Hinge was wearing was beeping loud and clear.
Hinge was clever. He kept up a running conversation with Gomez, all of which was picked up by the bug in the Buick and transmitted to the stereo in Falmouth’s car, a silver-gray BMW.
‘Whaddya call that?’ he heard Hinge ask.
Ees special nursery for strange plants,’ Gomez answered.
‘Strange plants?’
‘You know, señor, different...’
‘Rare plants?’
‘SI. Rare.’
A few moments later: ‘Who’s that?’
‘Ees a statue of our savior, Simon Boilvar, the greatest hero in all of Venezuela.’
‘Whatcha call this part of town? It’s very pretty.’
‘El Este. Very expense. Only rich people live here. We will turn down here and drive through part of it.’
Keep it up, Falmouth thought, you’re doing great. The idea of working as a team was becoming more palatable to him. The fellow was good, no question about that. And Angel was a real pro behind the wheel. Falmouth did not want to get too close. Thus far, Gomez had not seen him and was totally unaware of his existence. It was important to keep it that way. So the BMW followed from a respectable distance as Angel turned into a residential neighbourhood of homes that reminded Falmouth a little of Palm Beach and Coral Gables.
Hinge kept talking, his tough South-western twang coming in loud and clear.
‘This heah’s a terrible road,’ he said. ‘Why don’t they pave
‘Ees the shortest way to go. Ees only a mile, about, from here.’
‘Good.’
Angel chuckled. ‘Bueno. I know where they are.’
‘Good,’ Falmouth said. ‘The signal’s fading. Wherever they are, the reception isn’t worth a farthing.’
‘Thees road they are on, eet follows around the mountain, like the snake. Very bad road.’
‘You know it, then?’
‘But of course, señor. Ees the only dirt road around here.’
Angel circled up through the foothill subdivision and then turned down a paved street, which suddenly ended. He turned to Falmouth.
‘Thees ees the road, señor.’
‘Let’s move with caution. We don’t want them to spot us.’
‘Si. No problem.’
Falmouth was bouncing in the back seat of the car as Angel guided it around the potholes and washes in the miserable dirt trail on the edge of the mountain.
Suddenly Gomez’s voice came through the loudspeaker, much louder than before. ‘Por Dios!’ he cried, trying to act surprised.
‘Well, goddamn!’ Hinge answered, acting equally surprised. A moment later there was a burst of automatic gunfire from somewhere outside the car.
Hinge said, ‘Okay, stop. They got an automatic weapon and they wanna make sure we know they got it.’
There was an edge to his voice, not of fear, but of anger. Jesus, Falmouth thought, don’t lose it now.
‘Okay,’ Falmouth said to Angel, ‘Slow’er down. Give the bastards a chance to do their mischief.’
‘Si:’
Two men with shotguns came toward the car. Gomez got out to meet them, his hands held high over his head. He was putting on a good act. Hinge grabbed the moment.
‘This’s it, the joy ride’s over. Car: dark-blue Pontiac Grand Prix. 1974. Very dirty. Lotsa dents. Two guys with shotguns coming toward us. Another in the bushes with an automatic weapon, one on the hill, spotting. Jesus, it’s Jesse James time. These turkeys have bandannas pulled over their faces. Okay, here comes one. Bonas nokkers.’
The one who approached the car was short and squat, like a box, with long greasy black hair topped by a brown beret. The bandanna did not hide his beard or his funky left eye, a gray mass floating between narrow eyelids. He pulled the door open, holding the shotgun toward Hinge’s chest with one hand. ‘Vamos,’ he ordered and motioned Hinge out of the car. ‘Pronto!’
Hinge got out, holding the briefcase close to his chest. Gray-Eye looked at the case and then back at Hinge. ‘Habla Usted espanol?’ he asked.
Hinge shrugged.
‘You speak Spaneesh’?’ Gray-Eye snapped.
‘No,’ Hinge lied.
‘Hokay, I speak Englis, un poco, leetle beet, si.
He laughed and reached for the briefcase, but Hinge turned away from him, as if to protect the case. The terrorist snatched it away from him and opened it with one hand. A half-dozen file folders spilled out and were whisked away in the wind. Hinge looked distressed. Gray-Eye’s shoulders sagged. ‘Sorry,’ he said in mock apology. He threw the case on the ground, and spinning Hinge around, tied his hands behind his back, then quickly frisked him.
You’re the one gets it, pal, Hinge thought. You sick-eyed spic pig, you go down first.