“I understand.”
“When the meet is over, finish your drink, wait until the show is over, go back to your room, and call me at home.” He gave Cat the number. “Any other questions?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Cat hung up, called the roof nightclub, and made the reservation. He went to the front desk and asked for his case from the safe. An assistant manager led him into the vault and turned his back while Cat took two banded packs of one hundred hundred-dollar bills from the briefcase and relocked it He returned to his suite and tried to get in a nap. It didn’t work.
At nine o’clock he took the elevator to the top floor and gave his name to the headwaiter. “A friend of Mr. Vargas,” he reminded the man.
“Of course, señor,” the headwaiter replied, “I understand.”
Cat was led to a table in a corner of the room, far from the stage. A small musical group was listlessly playing rather old-fashioned American dance music, and one or two couples were dancing. The room was filling rapidly. A waiter took his drink order and left a menu. He might as well eat, he thought, and ordered a steak and half a bottle of the Chilean wine he liked so much. He glanced idly around the room and immediately spotted Gomez’s man at a table alone, near the stage. The pockmarked skin stood out even from across the room.
The music stopped and the musicians were replaced by a more gaily dressed group, who launched into a spirited Latin number. Immediately, the atmosphere of the room changed; the dance floor was suddenly packed with swaying couples, women in low-cut dresses and men in tightly tailored suits, dancing with a combination of aplomb and abandon. Cat smiled in spite of himself. It had been more than twenty years since he had seen a group of adults having so much fun on a dance floor, doing the mambo.
His steak came, and it was excellent. By the time he had finished it, the musicians had stopped and were being replaced by an even more gaudily dressed group. A moment later the music had started again, and the stage was filled with the Cuban troupe, dancing wildly and singing at the tops of their lungs. They finished their number and one of the girls, the most beautiful one, stepped to the center of the stage and began a steamy ballad. She was a knockout, Cat thought, and he felt a stirring and a longing for Meg. Where the hell was she? The show went on for an hour, and Cat became gradually absorbed by it, forgetting why he was there.
Then, suddenly, it was over, and people were leaving. The waiter came and placed a check on the table. Cat ordered a brandy, and the waiter went, reluctantly, to get it. It was obvious that he wanted Cat’s table. People were beginning to arrive for the midnight show. Cat suddenly wondered if he should have come later. He had booked for the earlier show without thinking. His brandy came. Gomez’s man, he noticed, had ordered another drink, too.
Abruptly, two men, Latinos, sat down at Cat’s table. They were both dressed in business suits, conservative, for Bogotá. One was in his early thirties, hefty, blunt-looking; the other was closer to Cat’s age, with sharp features and small eyes.
The older man placed a small, leather wallet on the table and opened it, revealing a badge.
Cat’s insides froze. “Yes?” he managed to say.
“May I see your passport, please,” the man said in accented English. It was not a request.
Cat produced his passport and passed it to the man, looking quickly around the room. Gomez’s man was gone. Nobody who seemed to be Vargas was in sight. His heart was slamming against his chest.
“What is the purpose of your visit to Bogotá, Mr. Ellis?” the policeman asked, placing Cat’s passport on the table and covering it with his hand.
“I am here on business,” Cat said. His meet was blown, he knew. Nobody would approach him now. He resisted the urge to swear and pound on the table.
“And just what is your business?”
“I sell computer equipment. I’m hoping to open a new market in Colombia for our products.”
“Let me see some other identification,” the man said.
Cat gave the man his wallet, containing his Ellis driver’s license and credit cards. What was he going to do now? Would Vargas arrange another meet after he had seen Cat rousted by the police? Surely, he was watching all this.
“Have you a business card?”
Cat gave the man a card.
The man looked at it closely. “Are you armed?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Open your jacket, please.”
Cat unbuttoned his jacket and held it open.
“What is in the left inside pocket of your jacket, Mr. Ellis?”
Cat flinched, involuntarily. If these policemen saw the money, he was bound to be arrested. Nobody would carry that much cash but a drug dealer. “An envelope,” Cat replied.
“What does it contain?”
He looked around for help, but there was no one to help him. “My travelling expenses.”
“Place it on the table, please.”
Cat took out the fat envelope and put it before him. The man ripped it open, raised his eyebrows, and thumbed the money. He put the envelope in his own coat pocket, then shoved Cat’s passport and wallet back across the table.
“Is this a robbery?” Cat asked. “Is that what the police do in this country?”
The man smiled thinly. “I am Vargas,” he said. “Be at the bar at Parador Ticuña, in Leticia, the day after tomorrow, at five in the afternoon. Bring nine hundred thousand dollars with you.” Without another word, the two men got up and left.
Cat finished his drink and tried to calm his nerves. It had not been what he had expected. He signed the check and went back to his suite. He closed the door and dialled Gomez’s number. “It’s Catledge,” he said.
“Are you all right?” Gomez asked, worriedly. “My guy said you were rousted by the cops.”
“It was Vargas,” Cat said. “I’m to be at a place called Parador Ticuña, in Leticia, the day after tomorrow, at five P.M., with the rest of the million.”
“What questions did he ask you?”
“Just to identify myself and my business here. He looked at my ID pretty closely. Nothing else.” Cat glanced across the room at the bedroom door. It had been open when he left, and the maid had already been in to turn down the bed. Now it was closed.
“Good,” Gomez said. “Get a good night’s sleep and come to the embassy tomorrow morning at nine. Ask for Bergman. We’ll do some planning then.” He hung up before Cat could say anything else.
Cat stared at the bedroom door. No light came from beneath it. He had left the bedside lamp on earlier. His small canvas bag lay on the living-room desk. He went to it and found Bluey’s .357 magnum, checked to see it was loaded. He went back to the phone and, without lifting the receiver, dialled 0. “Hello, operator? I want to place a call to the United States.” He spoke a number. “Yes, I’ll hold on.” He slipped out of his shoes and walked quickly to the bedroom door, his breathing rapid. Knowing that if he hesitated, he wouldn’t be able to do it, he shoved open the door, the gun held out in front of him.
There was someone sitting on the bed in the darkened room, a woman. Cat found the light switch and turned it on, pointing the gun at her. The overhead light illuminated the room, and he found himself pointing the pistol at the head of the lead singer/dancer of the Tropicana review. He froze, too astonished to speak.
“For Christ’s sake,” a voice to his left said.
Cat spun left, the pistol still held out before him. Standing in the door of the bathroom, a towel in her hands, was Meg.
He let the pistol fall to his side. “What is going on?” he asked. “Where have you been?” His happiness at seeing her was overwhelmed by his anger at her for disappearing.
“Busy,” she said. She walked to him, took the pistol, and laid it on a chest of drawers. “Didn’t Barry Hedger give you my message?”