Rodriguez remained silent, torn between her loyalty to the Agency and her respect for O’Connor.
‘Sir, might it be time to bring the German and Austrian police into the loop? Without their full cooperation, it’s proving hard to track passport movements,’ Gray suggested.
‘No,’ Wiley barked, ‘that will compromise our own operations. Track the passports through the back door.’ He turned away from the screen and glared at Rodriguez. ‘What’ve we got on Nefertiti?’
‘We’ve just received her cell phone bills for the last twelve months,’ Rodriguez replied evenly, ‘so we’re still sifting through them. In the last two weeks Nefertiti’s cell phone traffic has been light – calls to her travel agent in Guatemala City, calls to the Museo Nacional de Arqueologia y Etnologia and the Museo Popol Vuh, also in Guatemala City. The only call that might be of interest, and it’s the last one she made from her cell phone,’ Rodriguez added pointedly, ‘was three days ago from Vienna to the International Tracing Service in Bad Arolsen, a spa town in northern Germany. I doubt Tutankhamen and Nefertiti are in Gottingen – they’re more likely headed for Bad Arolsen.’
Wiley turned back to the Berlin feed. ‘Concentrate on Gottingen and give your assets there a green light, but get someone out to Bad Arolsen, just in case. Either way, we take them out!’
With an ease that came from nearly ten years driving twenty-tonne waste-collection vehicles, Bernhard Baecker guided the hydraulic forks into the slots on the industrial bin at the back of a large cinema centre. With the push of a button, the heavy bin was effortlessly hoisted into the air. The big Mercedes truck rocked on its suspension as the bin’s contents tumbled noisily into the back, and its hydraulics whined as the compression rams came into play. Towards the front of the previously crushed payload, a Nokia cell phone, cushioned by a large amount of paper towel and tissue, continued to emit a signal. Baecker set the big bin back on its wheels, withdrew the hydraulic forks and put the truck into gear. ‘That’s the last one for the day, Kristian,’ he said with a smile as he eased the big truck out of the complex and on to Godehardstrasse to the west of the medieval centre of Gottingen. ‘I’m looking forward to a beer!’
‘Just the one today, Bernhard,’ Kristian Dieter, the younger man sitting beside him, replied. ‘It’s Sophie’s fifth birthday tomorrow, and if I don’t put the trampoline together tonight I’ll be in big trouble!’
‘You married guys. One day you’ll wise up.’ Baecker swung into the nearby busy Industriestrasse and picked up speed. ‘Was in Gottes Namen!’ He slammed on the brakes and the deep klaxon of the truck’s powerful air horns rent the air. The Audi overtaking them had inexplicably moved into the inside lane, slowed and then stopped, in an attempt to box them in. Two men in balaclavas, brandishing machine pistols leapt from the car and raced towards them.
‘They’ve got guns, Bernhard!’ Dieter yelled. Baecker selected reverse and began to back up, the two balaclava-clad men in hot pursuit.
‘Halten Sie der Lastwagen!’
Baecker hit the brakes again, selected first gear and drove towards them. ‘Get down!’ he yelled at Dieter, but it was too late. One of the young thugs hired by the CIA to assassinate O’Connor and Aleta panicked. He unleashed a burst of fire which shattered the windscreen. Both men inside died instantly in a hail of bullets. Baecker slumped over the wheel and the twenty-tonne vehicle slewed off the road and mounted the footpath, ploughing into the front of a small cafe. The dozen or so patrons sitting at the outside tables, including two young mothers with their children in strollers, didn’t stand a chance.
The two gunmen raced back to their car. The team leader floored the Audi and took off, leaving a trail of smoking rubber behind the squealing tyres. A blue-and-silver police car passing in the opposite direction negotiated a savage U-turn and took off in pursuit, siren blaring and blue roof-lights flashing. A gas bottle in the back of the cafe exploded and the fire quickly took hold. Thick black smoke belched from the shattered ruins. Survivors screamed. Some ran, their clothes in flames, others crawled out in agony as more sirens sounded in the distance.
40
L ow cloud hugged the highland volcanic ranges, drifting down into the valleys, as the pilot lined up the aircraft for the final approach into Aeropuerto La Aurora, Guatemala’s international airport. Monsignor Jennings stared out the window from his business-class seat. Below, high-rise buildings competed for space with the slums of a teeming, vibrant city of over two million people, many of whom lived in abject poverty. Guatemala City was the country’s third capital. The first, Ciudad Vieja, located just to the east, had been destroyed by floods and volcanic eruptions in 1541. The second, Antigua, also close by, had been destroyed by a violent earthquake 200 years later.
Jennings had intended to catch a ‘chicken’ bus to Panajachel on the northern shore of Lake Atitlan, but through the low cloud he caught sight of the city’s Olympic stadium, with its distinctive blue seating that could hold 30 000 of the soccer-mad country’s fans. Just to the north of the stadium was the city’s Zone 1 and the red-light district. The old feeling stirred in his loins, and he resolved to spend the night in the city. The parish of San Pedro could wait another day. And in any case, it would give him a chance to talk to his contact at the Museo Nacional de Arqueologia y Etnologia. What had given cause for Weizman’s excitement?
Clear of customs, Jennings waddled out of Guatemala’s new terminal pulling his trolley bag behind him. He wore civilian clothes – jeans and a yellow sports shirt. The humidity and the heat were oppressive and already sweat was streaming down his florid face.
‘Zona Uno?cuanto?’ Jennings demanded of the driver of a battered yellow taxi outside the arrivals hall.
‘Cien quetzales,’ the dark, wizened Mayan driver replied.
‘A hundred quetzales! Daylight robbery! Setenta. Seventy,’ Jennings insisted, holding up seven fingers for emphasis. ‘ No mas! ’
The old taxi driver shrugged, and Jennings stepped inside. The city streets were choked with buses belching clouds of black diesel smoke, battered lorries with suspensions that had seen better days, brightly coloured chicken buses and the ubiquitous Toyota utes in various states of disrepair.
‘Hotel Rio, Avenida 6a,’ Jennings directed further.
Once they reached the hotel, Jennings paid the cab driver and hauled his luggage across the cracked tiles of the grimy reception foyer. The staff knew him well, and for a few quetzales would turn a blind eye to him bringing back a street boy or two.
‘ Quiere chica senor? Muy limpio. Muy buen polvo. You want girl, mister? Very clean. Very good fuck.’ Monsignor Jennings waved the young tout away with an irritable flick of his wrist.
‘Maricon! Vete a la mierda! Fuck off, you queer!’ the young tout shouted.
Jennings ignored him and turned into a dimly lit lane behind the bus station in one of the sleaziest parts of Zona 1, and headed for his favourite pick-up joint, el Senor Chico Club. The entrance was unmarked. Jennings paid the ten quetzales cover charge to the security guard, tipping him another twenty. The moustachioed thickset security guard, his stomach bulging behind a grimy dark-blue shirt, smiled slyly and pocketed the money.
‘Bienvenidos de nuevo, Senor Jennings. It’s good to see you again. Reynaldo is not in yet, but he’ll be here shortly.’
Reynaldo was only twelve, but he was like no other boy Jennings had ever known. A hot flush of anticipation flooded the dark depths of the monsignor’s soul. Reynaldo, like the other rent-boys in el Senor Chico, operated from small dingy rooms upstairs. They were paid the equivalent of US$10 for thirty minutes, half of which went to the establishment; but for regulars like Senor Jennings, and for a price, Reynaldo would be allowed off the premises. Jennings pushed through the dirty curtain that shielded the club from the street and worked his way through sweating, steaming patrons gyrating to the Weather Girls’ ‘It’s Raining Men’. The room reeked of the heavy, sweet, skunk-sage smell of pot, and strobe lights flickered through the smoke, momentarily illuminating the peeling blue paint on the flimsy walls. Young men danced with older men, mainly Europeans and Americans, their eyes glazed with a cocktail of ice, ecstasy and tequila. At the far side of the corrugated-iron bar, two young men were locked in a passionate embrace, each groping down the front of the other’s jeans.
‘Ron Zacapa por favor… con cubitos de hielo.’
