In answer, she reached under her skirt to produce a tiny six-millimeter automatic. It was flat enough to fit a thigh holster but, 'Strictly for point-blank use,' Sorel criticized.
'I didn't need it at all,' she said.
'The need may yet arise,' he said. 'Do not imagine that these Israelis came here for a harmless weekend of costume drama at the local Shakespeare festival. Are you ready to use your weapon if need be?'
'You know I'm damned good with a pistol.'
'Against two-legged targets?'
Licking her lips: 'If I have to.'
From the backseat, Slaughter drawled, 'They'll all be packin' some kind of heat behind the smiles. Count on it.'
'Ah: Marianne Placidas, meet Leo Cherry. You must introduce me as Ernst Matthias. You may as well start using the name now,' he insisted.
'Shouldn't I have an alias, too?'
'No. They will check and discover that you are operating without cover, and so they will consider you harmless. It is your best protection,' he lied. 'Now, put this thing in motion and take us to the hotel.'
She glanced at the man behind her, then at Sorel. 'No more preparation than this. Pel — Ernst? We're just going in cold?'
'You and I will seem to. Smile often, and listen as if you were bored. Leo here' — he jerked his head to indicate the man behind them—'will join us when he has seen to exits and — monitors.' He had almost said 'ambushes,' but the woman was already agitated enough. Her silent beauty might be useful in several ways: as distraction, as apparent proof of his own harmlessness, and if necessary as a shield. Women never seemed to expect a man of Sorel's reputation to use them this way. Yet Felix Sorel owed his reputation to planning for the unexpected.
Slaughter left them two blocks from the hotel. Marianne found a parking lot and made a good entrance on Sorel's arm. Her spirits were buoyed by the trappings of the Lithia, an excellent hotel in the old style with a subdued opulence. Glass walls on two sides of the lobby added an informal western touch, bringing passersby on the street very close to the interior. The Lithia's ambience seemed to deny the remotest chance of danger.
Marianne and the balding Mills recognized each other instantly in the crowded lobby, he rising to greet her from one of the booths that lined the great glass-enclosed room. She introduced Mills as 'St. Denis' and Sorel as 'Matthias.' Mills turned and included a confederate. 'Mr. Matthias, you may have heard of my colleague. Professor Aron Maazel-the-agronomist.'
Sorel nearly laughed to hear this homely phrase. 'Your accent seems very American,' he said to Mills, then extended his hand to the seated man.
The ex-American's handshake had been firm, his summer suit almost offensively stylish. Maazel, the rumpled fat man in the booth, seemed to lack vitality, and his smile was as welcoming as a slit cut in thin cardboard. Maazel's round, hairless head perched on a body that had been too long inactive in reduced gravity; when he stood up to acknowledge Marianne, flesh quivered at his chins. Sorel guessed that this was not the sort of agronomist who got din under his fingernails. Perhaps he was the sort who studied computer graphics in the search for hardier stock, faster sprouting, more deceptive poppies. No telling what his attache case contained, but Maazel never let go of it and replaced it against his ample belly as they ordered a round of champagne cocktails.
'I understood there would be three of you,' Sorel murmured as the waitress swept away with their order.
'One of us was… delayed. We expect him any moment,' said Mills.
'With
'Very nice,' said Sorel and the woman simultaneously, prompting grins all around. From Sorel's grin, no one would guess that he was damning the woman. Obviously, someone had spotted her earlier; had seen and reported the threesome before Slaughter separated. Now Maazel had told him, in so many words, that the Israeli surveillance and comm network were superior. It was supposed to make him feel outclassed. It did, and that was Maazel's mistake.
But the agronomist, if that was what he really was, looked at Sorel expectantly. 'I rarely travel for pleasure,' Sorel said. 'It is only a means to conduct business.' he added with a shrug.
'Then you honor me,' said Maazel, fiddling again with his case, and Sorel felt a wave of satisfaction flow like damp heat from the fat man.
Mills saw something dangerous in Sorel's expression. 'Don't worry,' he said, 'I'm sure they'll both be along any minute. Excellent service,' he added, beaming as their waitress unloaded her tray. 'Prosit.'
'Ah, they are coming,' Maazel said, and reached for his cocktail as he continued. 'Surely you realize, sir, that if your voiceprint did not match that of Felix Sorel, I would have little to say to you.' Into Sorel's glare the fat man made a half salute with his glass and bestowed a genuine smile. 'I have long been a follower of your athletic feats. Would you prefer that I kept my knowledge to myself?'
Marianne had frozen in midsentence while talking with Mills. Sorel glanced at her, then saw Mills shrug. The natty Mills reached for his cocktail and murmured, 'Dr. Maazel deals in science, and I'm afraid that scientists have a horror of hoaxes.'
During a slow count of perhaps four heartbeats, Sorel smiled and nodded as always when he contemplated violence and did not want that contemplation to show. During that time he concluded that Maazel's attache case contained some kind of comm set with a readout visible or audible to him only; that he, Sorel, had underestimated the speed with which these clever bastards could analyze new information; and that Maazel was a fool for tipping his hand. A fan of Sorel's, perhaps. A cool negotiator backed by high-tech gadgetry and an unforgiving government, yes. But when dealing with a man like Sorel, a fool for all of that.
Encouraged by Maazel's foolishness, Sorel relaxed. 'Forgive my caution, gentlemen,' Sorel said, and sipped his cocktail, letting his eyes smile at Marianne over the rim of his glass. He was not certain, but he'd had the momentary impression that her hand had been drifting down to the vicinity of her hidden pistol.
Sorel sipped and let his glance stray toward the entrance, feeling less vulnerable. Marianne Placidas might be an amateur, but she hadn't panicked; had evidently made herself ready to follow his course of action — or, in this case, inaction. Then he saw the yellow hair of Harley Slaughter, and when the tall Texan knew he had eye contact, he turned with great deliberation and stared toward a side exit before facing Sorel again. That exit, then, was the quickest way out. Sorel scratched his jaw to show that he understood and only half noticed the swarthy, hawk- nosed little fellow who eased past Slaughter, murmuring some excuse in close quarters.
But hawknose spied his friends and moved gracefully to the booth, nodding to Maazel.
'Miss Placidas; Senor Sorel,' Maazel said, 'meet our third member, Zoltan Azeri.' The swarthy man made a tiny clockwork bow to them and then stood to one-side.
'You may as well ask our third member to join us,' Sorel said as if enjoying a joke on himself. He smiled at Azeri.
'I believe you have been challenged, Zoltan.' Mills chuckled.
Thickly accented, in scorn: 'Challenged?'
'Not a well-chosen word, Saint Denis,' Maazel said with his own wheezy laugh. 'Zoltan, please ask the gentleman you followed to join us.'
Azeri's head swiveled to gaze at Slaughter, then back. 'The tall one in the denim jacket; you will vouch for his reaction?'
Sorel raised his free hand and beckoned, nodding as he did so. 'Mr. Azeri is wise, Professor,' he said as he saw Slaughter picking his way around the piano bar. He felt something of a fool himself. What if the little Israeli had confronted Slaughter without hesitation? Harley Slaughter was no trained seal with wholly predictable moves, but a trailwise gunsel who had jumped bail from a capital offense. He just might have wasted little Azeri on the spot. Or he might have said something so offensive that Azeri would — But those scenarios could be ignored now, for Slaughter approached wearing a rictus almost like a smile.
The booth had room for them all, but: 'May I suggest something, senor?' Maazel tapped his attache case. 'I have things to show you, and now that we are all here I wonder if you would care to take a stroll.'
Slaughter: 'Just you two?'
Maazel: 'But of course. With my bulk I shall not stray far,' he said, patting his belly.
