“Now the passport.”
Maximo took the diplomatic passport from his inside pocket and passed it across. Taking care to keep the pistol well away from Maximo and still pointed at his middle, the man reached for the passport with his left hand.
He glanced at the photo and name, grinned, and tossed the passport on the bed. The man took a seat.
“You look white as a sheet, man. Are you going to pass out?”
He felt dizzy, light-headed. He put his hand to his forehead, which felt clammy.
“Loosen your tie,” the German ordered, “unbutton your collar button, then put your head between your knees.”
Maximo obeyed.
“Don’t breathe so fast. Get a grip on yourself. If you aren’t careful you’ll hyperventilate and pass out.”
Maximo concentrated on breathing slowly. After a few seconds he felt better. Finally he straightened up. The pistol was nowhere in sight.
“Vargas said you were a jellyfish.” The German shook his head sadly.
“Do you work for him?” He was shocked at the sound of his own voice, the pitch of which was surprisingly high.
“I do errands from time to time,” the German replied. “He pays well and the work is congenial.”
“What do you want?”
“Vargas wanted me to remind you that you were sent to do an errand. You are to transfer the money to the proper accounts tomorrow and return to Cuba. If you do not, I am to kill you.”
The German smiled warmly. “I will do it too. There is a side of my personality that I am not proud of, that I do not like to admit, but it is only fair that I should tell you the truth: I like to kill people. I enjoy it. I don’t just shoot them, bang, bang, bang. I see how long I can keep them alive, how much I can make them suffer. I own a quiet little place, out of the way, isolated. It is perfect for my needs.”
The German’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “You seem a miserable specimen, but I like a challenge. I think with a little prior planning I could probably make you scream for at least forty-eight hours before you died.”
Maximo’s heart was hammering in his ears, thudding along like a race horse’s hooves.
The German picked up the telephone, told the operator he wished to place a call to Havana. He gave her the number.
One minute passed, then another.
“Rall here. For Vargas.”
After a few seconds, Rall spoke again. “Buenos días, señor. I have given him your message.”
The German listened for a few more seconds, then passed the telephone to Maximo.
The Cuban minister of finance managed to make a noise, and heard the voice of Alejo Vargas:
“The money must arrive tomorrow, Maximo. You understand?”
“Your thug has threatened me.”
“I hope Señor Rall has made the situation clear. It would be a tragedy for you to die because you did not understand your duty.”
The line went dead before Maximo could answer. He sat with the instrument in his hand, trying to keep control of his stomach. Rall gestured, so he handed the phone to him.
The German listened to make sure the connection had been severed, then placed the instrument back in its cradle. He stood.
“I don’t know what else to say. You understand the situation. Your destiny is in your hands.”
With that the German went to the door, opened it and passed through, then pulled the door shut behind him until it latched.
Maximo ran to the bathroom and vomited in the commode.
William Henry Chance was lying on the bed in his hotel room reading a magazine when he heard the knock on the door. He opened it to find Tommy Carmellini standing there.
“Hey, boss,” Carmellini said. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Give me a moment to put on my shoes.”
Chance did so, pulled on a light sportscoat, and locked the door behind him on the way out.
Neither man spoke as they rode the elevator downstairs. Out on the sidewalk they automatically checked for a tail. No one obviously following, but that meant little. If the Cubans had burned them as CIA, they could have watchers in every building, be filming every move, every gesture, every movement of the lips.
So neither man said anything.
Carmellini directed their steps toward one of the larger casinos on the Malecon. Latin music engulfed them as they walked into the building. The place reminded Chance of Atlantic City, complete with crowds of gray-haired retirees buying a good time, mostly Americans, Germans, English, and Spaniards. No Cubans were gambling, of course, just foreigners who had hard currency to wager.
The only Cubans not behind the tables were prostitutes, young, gorgeous, and dressed in the latest European fashions. At this hour of the evening the cigar smoke was thick, the liquor flowing, and the laughter and music loud.
The two men drifted around the casino, taking their time, checking to see who was watching them, then finally sifted out of the building through a side door. At the basement loading dock a man was inventorying supplies in a telephone repair van. Chance and Carmellini climbed in, the man closed the door, and the van rolled.
“Vargas is having a powwow in his office,” Carmellini reported. “It sounds as if Castro is dead.”
“Nobody lives forever,” Chance said lightly. “Not even dictators.”
“That isn’t the half of it. They’re talking about biological weapons again.”
“Bingo,” Chance said, a touch of satisfaction creeping into his voice.
“Yeah. Vargas says there is a warehouse full of biological warheads at Gitmo.”
It took a whole lot to surprise William Henry Chance. He gaped.
“Not only that,” Carmellini continued, “he has one of the things. He’s going to show it to the Cuban people, prove to the world what perfidious bastards the Americans are.”
“He’s got an American CBW warhead?”
“You’ll have to listen to the tape. Sounded to the technician like the thing was stolen from a ship.”
“Biological warheads at Guantánamo Bay? That’s gotta be wrong! Have these guys been smoking something?”
“I think Vargas and his pals have gone off the deep end. Either that or they plan to plant some biological agents in Guantánamo after they crash through the fence.”
“Maybe they know we’re listening to them,” Chance said. “Maybe this whole thing is a hoax.”
“Could be,” Tommy Carmellini agreed, but to judge by his tone of voice, he didn’t think so.
Maximo Sedano was committed. He couldn’t transfer the money to Cuban government accounts in Havana because the transfer cards contained the wrong account numbers. Changing the numbers was out of the question: any alteration to the cards would be instantly spotted and cause the Swiss bankers to suspect forgery.
Maximo carefully arranged the combination locks on his attaché case and opened it. At the bottom was a pistol, a very nice little Walther in 7.35 mm. The magazine was full, but there was no round in the chamber. Maximo chambered a round and engaged the safety.
He put the pistol in his right-hand trouser pocket and looked at himself in the mirror.
He put his hand in his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the butt of the weapon.
He had to go to the banks tomorrow, act like a bureaucrat shuffling money for his government while they shoveled $53 million plus interest into his personal accounts. Well, if he could kill the German and get away with it, he sure as hell could keep his cool while the Swiss bankers made him rich.
Could he kill Rall?
How badly did he want to be rich?
He stood at the window looking at the Limmat River a block from the hotel, and beyond it, the vast expanse of Lake Zurich. Beyond the lake half-hidden in the haze were the peaks of the Alps, still white with last winter’s snow.
He certainly didn’t want to go back to Cuba.