‘Whaddya call that?’ he heard Hinge ask.
Ees special nursery for strange plants,’ Gomez answered.
‘Strange plants?’
‘You know, senor, different...’
‘Rare plants?’
‘SI. Rare.’
A few moments later: ‘Who’s that?’
‘Ees a statue of our savior, Simon Boilvar, the greatest hero in all of Venezuela.’
‘Whatcha call this part of town? It’s very pretty.’
‘El Este. Very expense. Only rich people live here. We will turn down here and drive through part of it.’
Keep it up, Falmouth thought, you’re doing great. The idea of working as a team was becoming more palatable to him. The fellow was good, no question about that. And Angel was a real pro behind the wheel. Falmouth did not want to get too close. Thus far, Gomez had not seen him and was totally unaware of his existence. It was important to keep it that way. So the BMW followed from a respectable distance as Angel turned into a residential neighbourhood of homes that reminded Falmouth a little of Palm Beach and Coral Gables.
Hinge kept talking, his tough South-western twang coming in loud and clear.
‘This heah’s a terrible road,’ he said. ‘Why don’t they pave
‘Ees the shortest way to go. Ees only a mile, about, from here.’
‘Good.’
Angel chuckled. ‘Bueno. I know where they are.’
‘Good,’ Falmouth said. ‘The signal’s fading. Wherever they are, the reception isn’t worth a farthing.’
‘Thees road they are on, eet follows around the mountain, like the snake. Very bad road.’
‘You know it, then?’
‘But of course, senor. Ees the only dirt road around here.’
Angel circled up through the foothill subdivision and then turned down a paved street, which suddenly ended. He turned to Falmouth.
‘Thees ees the road, senor.’
‘Let’s move with caution. We don’t want them to spot us.’
‘Si. No problem.’
Falmouth was bouncing in the back seat of the car as Angel guided it around the potholes and washes in the miserable dirt trail on the edge of the mountain.
Suddenly Gomez’s voice came through the loudspeaker, much louder than before. ‘Por Dios!’ he cried, trying to act surprised.
‘Well, goddamn!’ Hinge answered, acting equally surprised. A moment later there was a burst of automatic gunfire from somewhere outside the car.
Hinge said, ‘Okay, stop. They got an automatic weapon and they wanna make sure we know they got it.’
There was an edge to his voice, not of fear, but of anger. Jesus, Falmouth thought, don’t lose it now.
‘Okay,’ Falmouth said to Angel, ‘Slow’er down. Give the bastards a chance to do their mischief.’
‘Si:’
Two men with shotguns came toward the car. Gomez got out to meet them, his hands held high over his head. He was putting on a good act. Hinge grabbed the moment.
‘This’s it, the joy ride’s over. Car: dark-blue Pontiac Grand Prix. 1974. Very dirty. Lotsa dents. Two guys with shotguns coming toward us. Another in the bushes with an automatic weapon, one on the hill, spotting. Jesus, it’s Jesse James time. These turkeys have bandannas pulled over their faces. Okay, here comes one. Bonas nokkers.’
The one who approached the car was short and squat, like a box, with long greasy black hair topped by a brown beret. The bandanna did not hide his beard or his funky left eye, a gray mass floating between narrow eyelids. He pulled the door open, holding the shotgun toward Hinge’s chest with one hand. ‘Vamos,’ he ordered and motioned Hinge out of the car. ‘Pronto!’
Hinge got out, holding the briefcase close to his chest. Gray-Eye looked at the case and then back at Hinge. ‘Habla Usted espanol?’ he asked.
Hinge shrugged.
‘You speak Spaneesh’?’ Gray-Eye snapped.
‘No,’ Hinge lied.
‘Hokay, I speak Englis, un poco, leetle beet, si.
He laughed and reached for the briefcase, but Hinge turned away from him, as if to protect the case. The terrorist snatched it away from him and opened it with one hand. A half-dozen file folders spilled out and were whisked away in the wind. Hinge looked distressed. Gray-Eye’s shoulders sagged. ‘Sorry,’ he said in mock apology. He threw the case on the ground, and spinning Hinge around, tied his hands behind his back, then quickly frisked him.
