Sloan held his hand out toward Hatcher, who ignored it. Instead Hatcher turned abruptly and went below. Sloan stood for a moment, made a fist and New nervously into it, then decided to follow him.
He was surprised at how large the main cabin was and how elegant. The walls were paneled with bronze mirrors and teak, the designer furniture was gray and plush, an Oriental rug covered the floor. A pedestal table large enough to seat eight divided the main cabin from the forward staterooms. Sloan could not suppress another low whistle, which Hatcher ignored as he went to the bar, poured himself a glass of red wine and sat down. He didn’t offer Sloan anything, and the burly man finally sat down facing him.
‘You look great, Chris. Never better,’ he said.
What balls, Hatcher thought, although he still said nothing.
‘You’ve got a lot of funny friends,’ Sloan said. ‘None of them’ll admit they know you.’ He chuckled. Hatcher just stared at him.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ Sloan said, trying to sound sincere.
No answer. Just get on with it, Hatcher said to himself, His face clouded up, but he still didn’t speak. Sloan sighed and watched Hatcher take a sip of ‘wine. His mouth was getting dry. Hell, thought Sloan, I may as well get straight to it.
‘Here I went to all that trouble to spring you down in Madrango and you don’t even show up in Washington to thank me.’
Be grateful I didn’t kill you, Hatcher thought, but he still didn’t speak.
Sloan made a fist and held it in front of his lips, blowing gently into it. Smiling, he said slowly, ‘I’ve got to admit I was a little nervous coming down here. I figured there was as good a chance as not you’d try to put me away. And I can understand that, Hatch, I really can. But, you know, why throw all this away just to get even, right?’
Hatcher said nothing. But the yellow flecks in his green eyes danced like charged ions.
‘You know the boys in intelligence still talk about you,’ Sloan rambled on. ‘I told them you were the best in the business, I mean any job, laddie,
Hatcher said nothing.
Sloan stood up and wandered around the cabin, looking at things, checking them out, still speaking in that smooth, oily voice of his.
‘Took me sixteen months to get a line on you. I didn’t have the outfit out shaking the bushes or anything like that, y’know, just keeping my eyes and ears open.’
You talk too much, Hatcher thought. You always talked too much.
Hatcher took another sip of wine, staring over the rim of the glass at Sloan.
‘You’ve really stirred them up,’ Sloan chattered on. ‘Know what Interpol calls you? The Bird. Shit, the best flier in the business, I always knew that. Of course, I never said anything to anybody. None of my business. Anyway, I gotta hand it to you, you’re a real trend setter.’
Hatcher didn’t bite. He kept staring at Sloan. Sloan put his briefcase in his lap, unlocked it and flipped it open. From where Hatcher was sitting lie could not see inside the case, but he knew exactly how it was laid out. File folders, all neatly labeled and stacked. A comprehensive airline schedule. Sloan’s little black book, the bible that kept him in business. And in the top of the case in special pockets, two handguns, a .357 Python and a 9 mm. H&K.
Speed loaders and magazines in pockets between the two pieces.
Sloan would never change. If it worked for him, it stayed in. Sloan took out a newspaper clipping.
‘Listen to this, this was in
Still no comment.
‘The Paris job was what put me on to you,’ Sloan said, his smile broadening as though he was proud of it. ‘Then when you hit that gallery in Chicago and Stenhauser was the fixer in that one, too, I put it together. The New York trick put the icing on the cake.’
Still no response. Hatcher took another sip of wine and continued to stare. He was remembering what 126 had said once about vengeance. It’s depressing, is what he said, and a waste of time. One thing Hatcher had learned to respect in Los Boxes was time.
‘That Paris job was inspired, better than the thing we did in London that time,’ Sloan went on.
He paused for a moment. Hatcher said nothing.
‘Some haul, man. That one Monet was worth over three mill. Five pieces, twelve million. I didn’t know you knew that much about rare paintings, old pal.’
No answer.
‘I guess Stenhauser tipped you on what to grab, right?’
No answer.
‘Anyway, you were right up front with that Paris job, kind of set the pace for what’s been going on. I’ll give you a hand for your style, too. I figure you’ve only done the three jobs.’
He paused and shrugged. ‘And who got hurt? The insurance companies, right?’ Sloan chuckled. He held out his hands, palms up, like a magician about to perform sleight of hand. ‘Who gives a big damn, they probably screwed a lot of little people out of twenty times what you took ‘em for.’