Mr. X: “You’ll be there tomorrow?”
Lanz: “You said seven thirty.”
Mr. X: “Yes. Wear a tie, please.”
Lanz: “Anything you like.”
Mr. X: “All right, then.”
Lanz: “Sure you won’t come for a bite? They do a very nice butter chicken.”
Mr. X: “That sort of thing never agrees with me. Indian food, I mean.” He paused. “Must get home to the wife and kiddies.”
Lanz: “Of course.”
The two men parted without shaking hands. Mr. X climbed into a black Jaguar XJ sedan while Lanz headed for the High Street. Saint-Sylvestre took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial. A tentative voice answered on the second ring. “
“It’s me,” the policeman said without identifying himself. God only knew what sort of lists the night clerk at the Ali Pasha Hotel was on.
“Yes?”
“What did you hear?” Saint-Sylvestre said. The first question he’d posed to Tahib, the hardworking medical student who worked nights at his uncle’s hotel, was, “How much did the gray-haired man with the German accent pay you to report anyone asking questions about him?” Tahib had balked. Saint-Sylvestre said he’d double the amount and if he found out that Tahib was playing both ends against the middle he’d slit the throats of every single member of Tahib’s family, young or old, saving Tahib for last. Tahib was now on Saint-Sylvestre’s payroll at a hundred pounds a day.
“They are going to meet his lordship at seven thirty tomorrow evening.”
“His lordship?” Was Mr. X spoofing his boss or was something else going on?
“That is what the other man said, effendi.”
“Did the other one say where this meeting was to take place?”
“Yes, he even made sure that Lanz-
“What is it?”
“Number nine Grantham Place, flat six, London W-one.”
Westminster. Mr. Lanz and Mr. X were playing for high stakes. Grantham Place was to the Ali Pasha like heaven was to hell.
“I’m coming across the street, Tahib. I’ll need the key.”
“No, sir, please, Lanz-
“Lanz-
“Please, sir,” Tahib groveled. “I cannot.”
Saint-Sylvestre smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said. “You can, and you will. Another hundred pounds.”
“This would be in addition to the regular hundred pounds?” The groveling was gone. The policeman had done a little scratching into the night clerk’s background and discovered that Tahib’s father was a major dealer on the Istanbul gold market in the Kapali carsi, the Grand Bazaar, which by definition meant he was a criminal. Like father, like son. A doctor perhaps, but a doctor with a criminal mind.
“Yes, in addition to the regular hundred pounds.”
“Perhaps you would like a key to the adjoining room in case of an emergency, effendi.”
“You’re wasting my time, Tahib. Don’t do that.”
“No, sir, of course not. I shall await your arrival, effendi.”
Saint-Sylvestre took the tiny Chobi miniature camera out of his backpack and slipped the half-inch square device into his shirt pocket. Three minutes later he was letting himself into Konrad Lanz’s hotel room with the key provided by Tahib Akurgal.
The room was on the top floor of the hotel, facing an alley lined with industrial-sized rubbish bins and the back sides of buildings facing the next street. There was a zigzagging, rusting and ancient fire escape with a landing outside of Lanz’s window that appeared to be painted shut.
The room contained a narrow bed, a writing desk that had been moved from against the wall to stand alone under the only overhead light, and two chairs-a Victorian-style captain’s chair with scrolled arms and legs and a plump upholstered club chair with a chenille throw covering the worn, pale burgundy velvet upholstery.
The only other furniture was an IKEA-style side table for the swaybacked bed and a pressboard chest of drawers. Lanz’s suitcase was sitting open on the chest, an expensive-looking Mulholland Brothers shaving kit in plain view.
Saint-Sylvestre crossed to the desk. There was a yellow lined pad of neatly made notes, a fine-tip felt pen and the cover of the Carl Hiaasen book Lanz had brought to Fourandao.
Saint-Sylvestre was impressed by Lanz’s ingenuity; working from memory every day, Lanz had put together an exceptionally detailed map of the center of the town, including the location of electrical transformers and telephone lines along with their switching stations. Particular attention had been paid to the presidential compound, noting the number of guard towers and the number of shifts at each tower. The offices of the Department of the Interior were correctly located on the plaza, as were the three blocks of flats directly behind the plaza, most of which were occupied by favored friends of Kolingba who occupied most of the government bureaucratic offices for Kukuanaland. The map also noted army patrol routes and times and noted manpower for each.
The notes on the yellow pad reflected the maps, and Lanz’s simple shorthand for various terms was easy enough to decipher. The mercenary had correctly judged that the compound held around two hundred men, with a hundred on duty at any one time.
The rare comings and goings of the president and Gash were also noted. There was a page of notes devoted to nothing but ordnance, armor and airpower, all of it accurate. Lanz hadn’t missed a trick.
On another page there was a list of names and ranks as well as figures that were most likely pay scales. And lists of equipment. Each of the separate pages had an estimated figure totaled in euros at the bottom. The last page had a simple formula that Saint-Sylvestre recognized without any trouble:
Two majors for two companies of two hundred troops provided by an unnamed private security force, divided into eight platoons of twenty headed by eight lieutenants, further divided into forty separate squads of ten, each with its own sergeant: Lanz’s prescription for taking over Fourandao with four hundred highly trained and well- armed soldiers. The final grand total for men, equipment and transportation was slightly in excess of one million euros. A country taken for one million, three hundred thousand American dollars.
Saint-Sylvestre began to photograph the documents with the tiny Chobi camera.
Who would pay that much money for a backward, corrupt and hostile piece of jungle territory surrounded by plague, genocide, mass rape and murder in the middle of Africa? And even more important, why?
16
He smelled the rich scents of bouillabaisse wafting up from the restaurant below and heard the soft patter of a summer shower on the roof of the little hotel on Chartres Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He kept his eyes closed, knowing it would all slip away if he opened them, and let the warm breeze coming through the jalousie windows dry the sweat on his bare skin. He listened to his heartbeat slow, and faintly heard a trumpet far away playing “Tiger Rag.” He knew where he was and knew who was on the bed beside him even though it couldn’t be. He was posted to Fort Polk and she taught school in the city but that was years ago.
“Stay,” he whispered, reaching out a hand and feeling nothing. “Stay for just a little while,” he pleaded. “Please, Amy.”
But Amy was gone, dust and memory for many years. Alive only in dreams, but in those dreams so achingly alive. He woke in the little tent and wiped the tears from his eyes, glad the Cuban he was sharing space with hadn’t
