Aleta’s face was white. ‘Who are these people?’
‘When the CIA wants someone assassinated, they usually use one of their field officers, but if they want it done in a hurry, or if the target’s a high enough priority, they employ what’s known in the trade as an “asset”, or, in our case, several assets.’
‘And that guy is one of their assets?’
‘Was. We’ve gained a little time, but not much,’ O’Connor replied, thinking out loud. ‘They’ve got our licence plates, but if I’m right, and Wiley hasn’t asked the Austrian and German police for help yet, that might prove the difference.’
‘And what are customs and immigration going to say at the border when we turn up in a car that’s riddled with bullet holes, not to mention a back window that’s been shot out?’
O’Connor smiled at her. ‘You’re learning. We’ll graduate you as a spy yet!’
‘No, thanks.’
‘We’ll need to pick up another car before we cross the Czech border.’
‘Hire another one, you mean?’
‘Only if we have to. Wiley seems to have the hire-car agencies tapped. We’ll, ah, borrow one.’
Aleta shook her head.
O’Connor slowed on the outskirts of the Austrian town of Freistadt and turned west off the E55 towards the Bahnhof. The station was deserted but as he pulled into the car park, he counted six other cars.
‘Keep a look out,’ he said to Aleta, as he got out and walked over to an older model nondescript Toyota. He picked the door lock in an instant and tried a small flat-bladed screwdriver in the ignition. ‘Sometimes it works, but not today,’ he muttered as he snapped the plastic cover from the bottom of the steering column, exposing the ignition wiring: three pairs of wires running into the back of the ignition cylinder. O’Connor glanced at the ACC OFF ON START positions on the ignition switch and quickly went through a process of elimination. The green-and-yellow pair would probably provide the battery and accessories, he thought, and he punted on the red pair being power to the car and the brown pair providing the connection to the starter. Within thirty seconds he’d disconnected the green-and-yellow pair, as well as the red pair, bared the wires and twisted them together.
‘ Und jetzt, das thema von… ’
O’Connor smiled to himself as the radio burst into action with the theme from the old war movie, The Great Escape. He quickly disconnected the brown wires and stripped them as well. The ends sparked as he touched them together and the engine fired.
‘Follow me,’ he said to Aleta, waiting until she’d got into the driver’s seat of the Passat before heading out of the car park.
O’Connor pulled off the E55 and drove into a small forest to the north of Freistadt. There they transferred their luggage, containing the precious figurines, to the Toyota, and O’Connor hid the Passat amongst a thick clump of bushes.
‘Just in case the owner reports his car stolen,’ he said as he attached the Passat’s registration plates to the Toyota.
‘I’m curious…’ Aleta said as they turned back on to the E55 and headed north towards the quiet Austrian-Czech border crossing.
‘How I did that?’ O’Connor grinned. ‘Secret men’s business.’
‘No – although one day you can show me how – it’s more that there were two BMWs and a late-model Mercedes in that car park. Why did you go for the old Toyota? Less likely to attract attention?’
‘Yes, but there’s a technical reason as well. Late-model cars have a radio-frequency identification chip in the ignition that needs a matching key, so you can’t hot-wire them, and some keys have a precise resistance built into them that has to be matched with the resistance value in the car’s memory. There are ways around it, but we won’t need this one for long – we should be in Hamburg tomorrow.’
Inspector Erich Polzer of the Upper Austria Polizei and his wife alighted from the train and looked around the Freistadt Bahnhof car park.
‘Jemand hat gestohlen unser Auto!’ the Inspector exclaimed angrily, and reached for his cell phone.
43
T he last of the sun’s rays painted the clouds seemingly streaming from the crater of San Pedro, the smallest of the three volcanoes towering sentinel over Lake Atitlan and the villages dotted around the foreshores. The boatman eased his lancha into the jetty at San Pedro, gently nudging the piles. The waters of the lake lapped the pier’s old wooden steps and the boatman threw his hawser with unerring accuracy, securing the stern. Monsignor Jennings, handing the money to the boatman, climbed onto the gunwale and the boat tilted alarmingly. The boatman steadied it against the pier and shook his head as Jennings lost his footing and fell into the lake.
‘Imbecil!’ Jennings fumed, flailing back to the jetty and hauling himself onto the steps.
The old boatman shrugged and placed Jennings’ suitcase on top of the jetty. With an expert flick, he unhitched the hawser from the jetty pile and backed into the inlet.
‘ Adios, senor! ’ The old boatman was still grinning as he headed into the dusk enveloping the smooth waters of the lake.
‘ Tuc tuc, senor! Tuc tuc! ’
‘ Aqui, senor, aqui! ’
A squabble had broken out between two young taxi drivers, neither of whom could have been older than twelve. One had illegally manoeuvred his tuc tuc under the rope at the end of the jetty, gaining the advantage over the other boy waiting at the rank. Jennings took the option that didn’t involve walking, much to the anger of the boy who’d kept to the rules.
‘ Que te jordan! Hijo de puta! Fuck you, son of a bitch!’
Jennings’ driver gave the other boy the bird, opened the throttle and powered the noisy little three-wheeler up the narrow road that led to the town square at the top of the hill.
‘Donde a, senor?’
‘ La Iglesia,’ Jennings replied, pointing in the direction of the white-washed Catholic church that sat atop one of the foothills of Volcan San Pedro. Jennings, still dripping as he clung to the flimsy metal frame supporting the tuc tuc ’s canvas, observed the young driver with interest. The boy’s olive skin was flawless and Jennings began to mentally run his hand up the young man’s inner thigh. The boy weaved artfully between tourists and locals browsing the small roadside stalls that offered everything from woven baskets to tacos, spices to hambuergasas. The local village women, wearing elegant cortes, walked the streets balancing large baskets of fruit and bread on their heads, seemingly without effort.
‘?Como se llama usted?’ Jennings asked.
‘ Me llamo Alonzo,’ the boy replied as he weaved across the crowded square at the top of the hill, bringing the tuc tuc to a halt opposite the path that led to the church.
‘I’m the new priest here, Alonzo. Come and see me,’ Jennings said, tipping the boy fifty quetzales. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
Jennings extended the carry handle on his bag and walked up the path to the steps of the large white-washed colonial building that dominated San Pedro. A stone statue of Saint Peter guarded the cobblestones, and rocks protected gardens filled with luscious palms, brilliant orange hibiscus, white nun orchids and pink confetti flowers. The massive cedar door creaked on its iron hinges.
A solitary nun kneeling in the front pew turned at the sound of Jennings’ footfall echoing off the white stone walls, and went back to her prayers. Jennings walked up the centre aisle of the church and stopped at the nun’s pew. Sensing his presence, Sister Juanita Gonzales opened her eyes and looked up to find an obese, red-faced man in a dripping safari suit staring down at her.