‘I’m quite flattered,’ Falmouth said. Hinge’s attitude of hero worship made him uneasy. It seemed unprofessional to Falmouth, although Hinge probably knew his business. Hell, Quill wouldn’t have sent Hinge if he wasn’t first-class. Relax, Falmouth.
‘A few more things,’ Falmouth went on. ‘Your car is a Buick wagon. It’s bugged and equipped with a radio transmitter. We can read the signal up to a mile away. They’re supposed to call at two and give us directions. You’ re to come alone in the company car, although they’ve agreed to let Gomez drive.’
‘I’ll just bet they did.’
‘The Rafsaludi will meet you at their destination. My thinking is, they’ll jump the car somewhere along the way and snatch you, the same way they grabbed Lavander. I’ll be tracking you from another car with the best wheelman in South America.’
‘How about me?’
‘We’ll wire you, too. I’ve got an anal transmitter. It’s a bit uncomfortable but very effective, arid they won’t find it with a pat-down. Thing is, old man, we’ll o our best to avoid losing you.’
‘How about a mike? I could maybe give yuh some verbal clues.’
‘A bit too risky, really. We’ll be able to monitor everything you say in the Buick. If they snatch you, we’ll rely on the transmitters and visuals.’
‘Fair enough. How about Gomez?’
‘Rafael Gomez. Native of Maracibo. Quiet type. Thirty- one. A bachelor. Plays it with his hat in his hand around the big shots at the refinery, but apparently he’s quite the hotshot with the ladies. He’s no genius, quit high school after two years, and no physical threat, so I don’t see him as one of the ring leaders. He’s worked for Sunset Oil for two years. Speaks shaky English.’
‘That’s good enough.’
‘Splendid. We’ve got two hours before we leave, old man. Let’s run through the operation a time or two. Maybe we can prevent any surprises.’
‘Yes, Quill here.’
‘I thought I’d give you an update on Lavander.’
‘What about Lavander?’
‘We’ve got two of our best men on it. I’m sure they’ll bring him in.’
‘That’s not what I mean. How much does he know?’
‘A lot.’
‘Does he know about Midas?’
‘Yes. He analysed the sample and studied the entire location.’
‘Was that smart?’
‘Lavander is known to be very discreet. He’s worked for just about every operation in the world, at one time or another.’
‘Nevertheless, this kidnapping should serve as a warning. Right now it’s very dangerous to have a man outside the organization knowing this much.’
‘He’s very valuable...’
‘I see. Then I suggest we test him. See just how discreet he
is. If he’s reliable, we should try to enlist him. If he’s not...’ ‘I understand.’
‘Good. Keep me updated on this, please.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The Algerian switch was an almost foolproof play. Almost, because one could never discount the human factor, and with it, the unexpected. The switch was designed as a logical exercise in fear and was extremely effective against non-political terrorists — the greedy ones, willing to risk their necks for money, but not willing to die for it. ‘They could be scared. Fanatics were different. Fanatics were dangerous and unpredictable. They could freak out without warning. To them, death was martyrdom, and martyrdom was part of the litany. In this case, Falmouth knew the terrorists were money-hungry, period. There was no political motivation behind the kidnapping of Lavander. These guys were not fiery-eyed disciples of anything. Anything, that is, but greed. Everything added up to
The switch required professionals, and Falmouth had quickly recognized Hinge as an iceman, a totally amoral and compulsive perfectionist, ideal for the job. He did not like Hinge personally. They had nothing in common other than their profession. Hinge was a typical mercenary. Hinge lived for blood and money, and he had no taste, no class. He ate meat and potatoes with boring regularity, drank beer and sour-mash whiskey, and his reading was confined to Soldier of Fortune magazine, the Business Week of the mercs, and the occasional books on new weapons, or the current state of the killing art, published by Paladin Press, named after the legendary roving gunfighter and edited, naturally, in Phoenix, where the spirit of the Old West still prevailed. That was how Hinge saw himself, a roving gunslinger, always riding into the sunset Looking for some new standard to carry, killing Commies and left-wingers and socialists and anyone else politically to the left of Attila the Hun, because somehow that made it acceptable. Like many of his brethren, he was coarse and unrefined, a killing machine who could not judge a good bottle of wine or a good cigar. In short, he was a boor and a bore. But he was good at his work and that’s what they were there for.
Falmouth’s driver, a thin little man in his late forties named Angel, had driven a cab in Paris for three years, so he had little trouble negotiating the ass-tightening curves and threading through the traffic on the road from the plant down to Caracas. The receiver for the anal transmitter Hinge was wearing was beeping loud and clear.
Hinge was clever. He kept up a running conversation with Gomez, all of which was picked up by the bug in the Buick and transmitted to the stereo in Falmouth’s car, a silver-gray BMW.
