"Let's have one more drink before we have mad passionate sex," she said, handing him his beer.
He eagerly took the beer from her and chugged about half of it. He lifted one leg to pull off a boot, but only got it half way off before the drugs took effect and he passed out flat on his back.
"Works every time," Toni said softly.
She quickly rifled through his desk drawers and flight bag. Just normal items. The room was clean. Then she looked at Lt. Budd, a contorted smirk on his face, in his Navy flight suit with the thousand zippers. One by one she checked each pocket. Finally, she found a small piece of paper with a number on it. She knew immediately what she had found. That was awfully careless. A pilot can remember hundreds of details, but can't even memorize one sequence of numbers?
Kurt was waiting in Toni's Alfa Romeo. She opened the door and climbed behind the wheel.
"It's about time," Kurt said.
"Ah, you miss me, kid?"
"No! I just have some information I want to share with you."
"Well I've got something too, but since you've been waiting so patiently, you go first."
"I checked out the A-7," Kurt said. "All of the avionics circuit breakers were at normal in-flight settings."
"So you've learned nothing, then."
Damn you can be a cold one, Kurt thought. Why not twist the knife after you stab me in the back. "Actually, I've learned quite a bit. The settings shouldn't be normal. The pilot is supposed to reset all circuit breakers if he diverts. Sure he could have messed up and forgotten, but I think he left them that way in case anyone wanted to check. If those are normal, then we have to do a complete electrical check of the system-from the sensor under the landing gear all the way up to the cockpit panel. That takes a lot of time."
"Good work, kid. I found something also. A telephone number."
"You spent that much time with him, and all you got was a telephone number?" Kurt asked.
"This could be important," she said. "It's a Rome number. I tried to call it, but there was no answer. So it could be a place of business. I'll have it traced in the morning."
Kurt thought for a moment. "But he has to know more. I'm sure we can make him talk."
She smiled.
The evening was young, and Lt. Budd would be under the influence of the drug for quite some time. It would be easy to get more information.
CHAPTER 9
The drive through the Medvednica hills to the land beyond the mountains had been picturesque but mostly unobserved by the man with the green flight bag. He was surviving on adrenaline and nothing more. His swollen left ankle throbbed with pain from the jump to the fishing boat that morning.
The bag had now become an appendage. After reaching the old city, he walked with a limp along a narrow cobblestone street until he arrived at a Baroque house with a high metal gate out front. The gate creaked loudly as he entered and closed it behind him. The stone sidewalk was smooth from centuries of rain and human treading. The mansion had once been the palace of a wealthy aristocrat, but was now far from aristocratic. A once splendid garden was now overrun with weeds and vines and in dire need of a tender.
As the man with the bag reached the first brick step to the long front stairs, the large decorative wooden door opened. He entered and was led through a wide corridor by an old hunched-over woman who also walked with a limp. She showed him to a large study where two walls were completely lined with books. He sat down on a leather chair that had seen better days. Think plaster walls were chalk white. Oak trim that lined the windows, the base boards, and along the edge of the ceiling needed a coat of varnish. Some of the books were the only new items in the room. Many were old, passed down for generations probably, but a number were new and in many different languages.
In a few minutes, where the only sound had been that of a pendulum clock, a slight man with silver hair shuffled in and sat behind a large oak desk. His gray wool suit was of high Western standards. Italian.
Isaac Lebovitz looked at the man with the bag and collected his thoughts on how he wanted to begin his negotiations. He tapped his forehead with his finger in time with the clock on his desk. "I see you have the bag, Mr. Dalton," Isaac said. "I'm sure we can come to a reasonable agreement."
"Please, call me Jason," said the man with the bag. "I've come a long way and I'm tired, but we must take care of business."
"I agree," Isaac said. "Patience is not an American virtue. Let's see what you've got."
Dalton unzipped the bag and removed a computer disk, a small wooden box, and a stack of papers. He stood up and plopped the papers on the oak desk.
"These are schematics and diagrams that will be helpful to your engineers and developers," Dalton said. He stood with his hands on his hips waiting for a response.
Isaac leafed through the pages quickly as a child tears into his toys at Christmas anticipating each new one and then swiftly moving on to the next. When finished, he looked up. "These will be very helpful. What else do you have for me?"
"The disk is also significant," Dalton said. "I got them from a different source. They correspond to international marketing strategy and economic forecasts, and could be even more helpful than any technical advantages you may receive."
This was a welcome bonus for Isaac. He had asked for this type of information, but wasn't sure if it was possible this soon. His Hungarian government had moved too slowly, frustrating him. He considered himself patient to a fault. But the time for patience had passed.
"I'll have my people look at the disk before we can come up with an overall price," Isaac said. "Could your people get the chips?"
Dalton opened the small wooden box. It was lined with layers of foam with cut-outs where the chips were inset. With the precision of a surgeon, he pulled a small chip out of the foam with his thumb and forefinger. He handed the small chip to Isaac.
Isaac accepted the chip in the palm of his hand. He then pulled out a magnifying glass and viewed the chip as carefully as an Amsterdam diamond dealer examined a gem.
"This is the fast one you talked about?" Isaac asked, not an expert but trying not to be totally computer illiterate.
"Yes! Your company could become the Intel of Eastern Europe with this chip," Dalton said. "And the last of the information, of course."
Isaac smiled. That's what he wanted more than anything now. His headquarters was in Budapest, but once he shifted into full production, he planned on having facilities in all of Eastern Europe with marketing throughout Europe and the United States.
"Jason, you must be tired. My maid has prepared a room for you upstairs. Why don't you get some rest before we negotiate."
Dalton nodded in agreement, picked up his bag, which now only contained a few extra clothes and toiletries, and retired to the comfort of a feather bed.
Isaac Lebovitz rocked back and forth in his high back leather chair. The clock on his desk ticked loudly without bother to him. His hearing was diminished from the constant bombardment of German artillery during the long campaigns of World War II. His large stone house, passed down from generation to generation, survived that great war and many before. Even the scourge of Communism had not crumbled its foundation in poverty.
The information that Jason Dalton was selling far surpassed Isaac's expectations. Even though his English was far from perfect, having been taught first by American soldiers and then at Budapest University, he could tell that the management and marketing information could transform his company into a great East European conglomerate.