"For my friend," Salbidrez shrugged, "Say a thousand a month. For me," he gave von Rossbach a straight look, "I want ten thousand each for the passports." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Two thousand for the health certificates."
"A thousand for the health certificates," Dieter countered. "We're buying three so you'll give an old friend a discount?" Gilberto made a pained face. "Besides, I happen to know an old friend gave you a lifetime supply of blank ones, so all you have to do is fill in the spaces."
The forger grinned and laughed until he coughed.
"What about my starving children?" he asked.
"I'll give you five thousand for the passports if they're Canadian," von Rossbach said. "And if your children are starving you should give up cane-brandy and cigarettes so you can feed them."
Gilberto chuckled, careful not to set himself coughing again.
"Five thousand isn't enough for Canadian," he said. "They're very expensive.
Canadian is very hard to get. Very easy to use. Canada is respectable."
"That's why we came to you," Sarah said.
He smiled. "Well, I am the best," he said modestly. "And you want them fast, which means my other clients must wait… Seventy-five hundred is more in line with what a Canadian passport costs."
Dead silence met that remark and Salbidrez's eyes shifted rapidly between his three visitors. The moment stretched.
"Fifty five hundred, you said," Sarah said at last.
Gilberto winced. "You are robbing an old man," he said.
"If you weren't an old man," Dieter rumbled, "I might be insulted at how you want to rob me."
The forger took the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out. "And this is a one-off job," he went on.
"You'd give a lower rate if it were six sets?" Dieter asked.
"Of course—in that case, I could come down as low as thirty-five hundred. But as it is, six thousand for one set each for each of you."
"Excellent. Two sets—thirty-five hundred each. Both Canadian, but completely different backup. Different dates, provinces, the whole thing."
The old man gave a wheezing laugh. "Ah, you want to switch once you are in the U.S.," he said. "So that your documents don't match the ones in the customs computers."
"Yes," Dieter said, conscious of thoughtful, respectful looks from John… and Sarah. "And you are a pirate."
"A man must try," he said and gave them all an impish grin. "So, who's first?"
"Let's go out," Dieter suggested as they stood outside Gilberto's workshop.
"Paint the town red."
Sarah just looked at him. "Are you crazy?" she asked. "Under the circumstances…"
"The circumstances are the best reason I can think of for going a little crazy,"
von Rossbach said taking her arm and walked her down the street. "We may never get another chance to do this." He looked down at her. "I'm not suggesting that we shoot off guns in a public park, Sarah."
"What about John?" she said, glancing behind her at her son.
"He's eighteen," Dieter said with a shrug. "Or will be when his passport is ready." He looked over his shoulder and caught John's quick grin. "It's time he had a blowout night. We'll get a really good meal, then we'll go clubbing. How's that sound, John?"
"Cool!" the hope of the human race replied. "Like the man says, Mom, we may never get another chance."
BOGOTA, COLOMBIA: THE PRESENT
It had been a long flight to Bogota and they stumbled off the plane with swollen ankles and numb butts. All they'd brought with them was carry-on luggage with a few changes of underwear and a couple of changes of clothes apiece. The high-altitude air would have been cool and refreshing if Colombia's capital hadn't been in a mountain basin that trapped the diesel fumes that came with rapid growth and no public transport.
Sarah and John had been a bit uneasy about going unarmed, but Dieter convinced them that he could get anything they needed with very little effort.
For that matter, Sarah knew, so could she. So they'd left their arsenal locked in the car. If for any reason the car was investigated they'd stripped it of any identifying marks and used a false name when they brought it in to park.
Dieter spotted a restaurant up ahead as they walked through the concourse.
"Wait for me there, I'll get the tickets."
Sarah nodded and asked, "Shouldn't we make hotel arrangements, or something?"
"Not a problem," von Rossbach said. "We'll be staying with someone I know.
He's done money laundering for some pretty nasty characters. I've stayed with him before and I know that he'll cooperate enthusiastically without asking any embarrassing questions."
"Yeah," John said, "when you've got 'em by the balls their hearts and minds follow right along."
"You are wise beyond your years, John," Dieter said with a grin.
"Hey I'm old beyond my years according to my passport," John said. "That's got to have an effect."
Sarah smiled at him. "C'mon," she said nodding towards the restaurant. "Do you want us to order for you?" she asked Dieter.
He shook his head. "I don't know how long I'll be. Airport food is bad enough without being cold airport food."
He moved off and Sarah and John entered the restaurant. She watched him through the glass until he moved out of sight. This was costing a fortune and so far von Rossbach had paid for it all. She'd let him because it was easier. He seemed to want to do it and it meant that she and John weren't leaving a trail of false credit cards and counterfeit cash.
Once upon a time she wouldn't have cared, she'd have used von Rossbach as a resource right to the limit of what he'd allow, and then pushed for more without a second thought. But her years as sweet, innocent Suzanne Krieger had taken their toll. Now indebtedness made her uneasy. Besides, she was—almost—
getting to like him a little. Or at least I'm getting closer to ambivalent, she
thought wearily.
The waitress seated them, gave them menus, and left them alone. Sarah looked around, automatically checking exits, while John read the menu.
"How do we get out of here in an emergency?" she asked, mildly annoyed by his apparent obliviousness.
John pointed without looking up. Sarah turned and noted an exit she hadn't seen and turned back to him, smiling.
"You're a good teacher, Mom," he said. "Give yourself some credit."
She snorted. "Sorry. It's been a while since we were on the road like this."
"Hey, Mom, compared to the way we've been on the road this is first class. For starters, Dieter isn't going to fink on us to the cops, kill us for our wallets, or try to sell us both to a white slaver. I could get used to this."
"Don't," she warned. "Things could change at any second."
He made a face. "Burger," he said, closing the menu. "And fries. It's traditional."
Sarah smiled tiredly; that it was, even here. International airport food existed in a multinational Twilight Zone where difference was abolished.
"I'm going for something more substantial," she said. "Who knows when we'll eat again."
They decided to order drinks and to wait for Dieter before ordering. Sarah sipped
her coffee tiredly and watched her son. John was staring off into space, chin on his hand. His index finger tapping out a beat.
Sarah smiled slowly. No doubt he was remembering a certain rather lush Brazilian girl in a painted-on red dress he'd danced with the other night. It had been at least an hour of normal adolescence. She had been, ahem, very modern in her manner, so much so that Sarah had thought she might be a pro. But the girl had devoted most of her evening to John, who clearly had no idea of the possibility.
Sarah's heart suddenly filled with remorse and she took another sip of her coffee to suppress a sigh that would have come out more of a sob. It's so damn unfair!