Cramer nodded again, more to himself than to me, it seemed. Then he looked at me.
“So, what about the job, Mr. Mallory? Interested?”
I still should have walked out. The last exchange had gone my way, though, and as a result, my mood had vastly improved. I was willing to listen.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “Is that all there is to it? Analyze Latin America for you and boldly go there a few times a year?”
“More or less. But there is one more thing. As I said, I’ve read your copy—all the way back to your high school newspaper, in fact—and yes, you can write. But there’s nothing special in that. So can most journalism students. What I’m interested in now is finding out whether you can write quickly. Would you be willing to submit to a little test?”
Fresh off my recent victory and dizzy with success, I felt my face lighting up like a pinball machine hitting a million. I hoped it didn’t show.
“What kind of test?”
Cramer handed me a sheet of paper. On it were a few lines of basic information about a fictitious soccer game, along with invented quotes from some of its equally fictitious principals. From this very basic set of “facts,” one was supposed to write a news story to a given length and deadline. I had seen and done dozens of these exercises over the years. Very few students did them better. Nobody did them faster. Ever.
I laid the paper down on the desk and looked at Cramer.
“We did these in school,” I confessed.
“How much time were you allowed?”
“It varied. Usually thirty, forty-five minutes for clean copy.”
“Indeed. Could you do it in fifteen?”
“How long do you want it?” I asked.
“Eight column inches. Two hundred fifty words, straight news.”
With every word he said, it became more and more difficult for me to keep from laughing out loud. Game, set, and match, Paul David Mallory.
“I could try,” I said.
Cramer unplugged his laptop, jabbed at it a few times, then turned it toward me. I stared down at a blank document. The cursor, indented for the first paragraph, flashed at the top left.
The empty screen was an illusion. I already knew what I was going to write, but Cramer didn’t need to know that.
“There’s a table and chair over there,” he said, pointing. “Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll start the clock. You have precisely ten minutes.”
I didn’t turn a hair at the time change.
“Okay,” I heaved myself out of the Cartwright, picked up the laptop, and started over to the table.
“Don’t forget your notes,” Cramer said, waving the soccer game scenario at me.
I looked at him and smiled.
“Oh, I won’t need that,” I said.
Nor did I. Six minutes later, I handed Cramer’s computer back to him. He cocked an eyebrow at me, then looked down and began to read. It didn’t take him long. When he finished, he gazed at me over the top of the screen for a few long seconds.
“You didn’t include the quote from the losing coach,” he said.
“It would have put me over two-fifty,” I said, “and it was the least important part of the story—the part you would have trimmed if you needed the space. So I saved you the trouble.”
“And you wrote this in”—he looked at his watch—“five minutes fifty seconds, after one glance at the original notes.”
“It’s just something I can do,” I said. “Sometimes, I mean. Usually. I don’t even know exactly how it works.”
He stared at me some more, then slapped the top of his desk. The laptop jumped around a bit and so did I, but at least the desk didn’t collapse.
“I don’t care how it works. I’ve seen everything I need to see, Mr. Mallory. The job’s yours for the asking.”
I thought about it for approximately one nanosecond.
“I’m asking,” I heard myself say. I recognized my voice, but the words sounded as if they came from somewhere far away. “I’ll have to give notice at the paper, of course.”
“What if I could arrange that for you?”
“Thanks, but I’d rather do it myself,” I said.
“Indeed? What if I said it was necessary for me to fill the position immediately?”
I should have known there was a catch. I felt the floor give way under me and goose bumps crawled across every square inch of my skin. I took a deep breath, trying hard not to shudder as I did.
“I’d say that I was unable to accept under those conditions.”
Cramer smiled, widely this time. He must have had at least forty teeth.
“That’s what I thought you’d say.” He stood up and we shook hands across the desk. “Good man.” Then he handed me a card that gave the address of his midtown Manhattan office. “You’ll work in midtown, but come back here two weeks from Friday, and we’ll fill in all the paperwork. Welcome aboard, Paul.”
I’ve never had an out-of-body experience before, but that’s how the next few hours felt to me. I didn’t go to the track that afternoon. Hell, I didn’t even eat lunch. Strangest of all, I was also more than halfway home before I thought of Pam and about how she would receive the news.
The realization brought me down to earth with an unceremonious thump. I had a pretty damned good idea how Pam would receive the news…
Chapter Three
Elsewhere
Bellagio Hotel
Las Vegas, Nevada
As the roulette ball slowed, it fell away from the rim and tracked directly into the green single zero slot of the slowly spinning wheelhead. It rattled there as if it meant to stay, but then, spending the last of its kinetic energy, the ball kicked out to the right and settled one bed over.
“Twenty-eight. Black, high, and even,” announced the croupier. He reached out and correspondingly placed his marker on the green felt layout; more correctly, he placed it on top of the three red and gray five-dollar chips that were already resting there.
The straight-up bet on 28 was the only winner. The croupier raked the rest of the table clean and pushed five hundred twenty-five dollars—five black chips and one dark green one—across to the dark-haired man at the far end of the table. The man smiled his thanks, and tossed the “quarter” back up to the croupier as a tip.
“Thank you, sir.” Brisk and businesslike, the croupier picked the ball out of twenty-eight black, gave the wheel a clockwise nudge to get it going, then placed the ball in the track at the top of the wheel and gave it an expert flick in the opposite direction.
From around the table, five sets of hands rushed to place fresh bets, more or less at random, while the dark-haired man calmly and systematically repeated his previous wager, concentrating on the black, high, and even numbers that had been predominating of late. Then he added a chip to the 28: three times during the last hour and a half, a winning number had repeated.
He sat back and rested his hands in his lap. When he did, his right hand brushed against the key in his front trousers pocket, the key that would allow him access to the elevators for floors 29 through 36. Then he glanced at his watch. He was three minutes late for his appointment, a fact that concerned him not at all. The wheel was trending strongly in his favor and he would not leave this session before that trend had run its course.
The ball made its descent, bounced twice, and trickled into 20, where it came to rest.
Black, high, and even.
Weighing in at just under one-tenth of an acre, the Presidential Suites at the Bellagio came with everything one might need to conduct a proper business meeting—and then some. Along with the de rigueur conference room, the suite featured two bedrooms, four baths, a solarium, and a fully-stocked wet bar with seating for six. On the other side of the hotel, the Chairman’s Suites were identically endowed, except that they looked out onto the Strip, while occupants of the Presidentials were treated at this time of day to a magnificent view of the Nevada sunset.
The lone occupant of
3412 was not interested in sunsets. Neither was he pleased with his prospective employee’s lack of punctuality—though the displeasure did not show in his face. He was an influential and powerful man, and he was not accustomed to being kept waiting.
The man’s name was Stavros Kyronis. He was a stocky, tough-looking man whose tailor-made Armani suit did little to conceal his humble origins. Someone even tougher had at some point in the past broken his nose.
A bell chimed. He looked at his watch, then stood and walked to the door, reaching for the knob with his left hand. In his right, he carried a nasty-looking Tanfoglio T95 “Standart” semiautomatic.
As he opened the door, he raised the Standart and leveled it at the right eye of the man on the other side—who batted neither the right eye nor the left.
“Mr. Jones, isn’t it?” Kyronis growled.
The man smiled—displaying a perceptible gap between the upper incisors—as though the question amused him. He shook his head.
“Mr. Jones was unavailable this evening. My name is Robinson.” The stranger spoke in English, but it came with what sounded to Kyronis like a French accent.
With the simple (childish!) recognition code successfully executed, he lowered the gun and returned the smile.
“Ah, Mr. Robinson. Come in, sir. I have been expecting you. This way, please.” He stood back and swung the door wide to admit him, noting that the man carried a small brown soft-sided briefcase in his right hand. The sides of the briefcase bulged slightly.
It took fully fifteen seconds to cross the huge room. The two men stopped near the bar. Kyronis turned to his visitor.
“May I offer you a drink, Mr. Robinson?” he asked.
“No. This will not take long.”
“As you wish.” He gestured. “Shall we adjourn to the conference room, then?”
“No. What little we have to discuss can be done without such trappings. I do not require a table—or, for that matter, a chair. For the moment, neither do you.”
The Greek frowned. This wasn’t going at all the way he had expected it would. As he busied himself with freshening his own drink, he stole a look at the other man.
In a crowd—even a very small one—he would be no more than just another anonymous face. “Robinson” could have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five years old. He was of medium height and build, one meter seventy or seventy-five, and weighed perhaps seventy kilos. Dark collar-length brown hair, brown eyes. The pale-complexioned face had a hint of five o’clock shadow, and its only feature (if one could call it that) was a tiny, almost invisible, scar on the man’s left cheek. It didn’t look recent—possibly the result of some childhood accident, Kyronis thought.
He was simply dressed. His dark blue Izod polo shirt was buttoned all the way to the top and neatly tucked into gray gabardine Sansabelt slacks. The shiny black Rockport walking shoes appeared to be new or very nearly so. But despite the man’s unprepossessing appearance, he had already gained a slight psychological ascendancy over his host. That wouldn’t do, not at all.
Kyronis freshened his own drink, then turned to face Robinson. They were of the same approximate height, but the former carried at least a ten-kilo weight advantage, all of which consisted of muscle. Two meters separated the men.
“I am glad to see you at least value your own time, if not mine,” he barked. “You have cost me fourteen minutes, which I shall deduct from your fee. Now listen carefully. Here is what I want…”
At this point, Kyronis’s voice trailed off. Robinson’s bland lack of expression hadn’t changed, but for the smallest fraction of a second, the Greek thought—or imagined—that the irises of the other man’s eyes were tinged with red. But that was nonsense. Even if true, it was easily enough explained. Some trick of the late afternoon sunlight, most likely.
“I know what you want,” Robinson said. “Sit down.”
Kyronis felt beads of greasy sweat breaking out on his forehead. His lips moved briefly, but no sound came from behind them. He took a step backward and fell heavily into his chair, where he stared at the floor for several interminable seconds before managing to raise his head.
“Now, as to the question of my fee,” Robinson said. He paused, then smiled the thinnest and briefest of smiles. “Forgive the solecism. I should simply have said ‘as to my fee,’ since there is no question about it. It is fixed and non-negotiable. Ten million in Swiss francs. Payable in advance, of course. To simplify matters, that figure will include whatever expenses I may incur.” He smiled again. “Parts and labor, let us say, to use the idiom of the American automobile mechanic.”
“Of course.” Kyronis smiled weakly, still looking straight ahead. “Naturally. Parts and labor. Most amusing. Most generous.” He sounded like he meant it. “May I have a few minutes to consider your offer?”
“No. The offer is straightforward enough. It requires only a yes or no answer. An immediate yes or no answer.”
“Your terms are acceptable,” he said. “How do you wish to effect the transaction?”
“Do you have access to a computer?”
“Yes.” He pointed.
“Good. Come with me.”
Robinson followed Kyronis over to the laptop and guided him to the website. He watched as the Greek followed his directions, and when the computer prompted for the account number of the recipient, Robinson stopped him.
“Stand over there,” he said, pointing, “and turn your back.”
Kyronis complied. Less than two minutes later, he heard Robinson’s voice.
“All right. You can turn around now.”
Kyronis complied again.
“Thank you,” Robinson said. “Naturally, I disabled your keystroke logger before I entered my information.” He smiled. “Both of them. Not that the information would have done you any good.”
“What do you—”
“Thank you,” he said, picking up his brown bag. “I think that concludes our business. I can find my own way out.” He turned to leave.
“But wait, Robinson,” Kyronis sputtered.
Robinson froze, waited a beat, then turned slowly round.
“Yes?”
“Do you not wish to know my reasons for this…assignment?” Kyronis seemed eager to justify himself in the eyes of the other man.
“No. Your conscience is yours to deal with as you will. As for me, I always sleep very well.” He walked to the door, opened it, then turned back.
“Do not attempt to follow me or put me under any form of surveillance, either now or in the future.”
He left, and the door closed behind him.
With the man’s spell over him now apparently broken, Kyronis pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. He gave an accurate and detailed description of Robinson to the person at the other end.
“Follow him,” he said.
“Robinson” stepped into the elevator and its doors shut behind him. Before he made his selection, he put the small briefcase down, opened it, and got busy. When he was done, he stood and checked his reflection in the stainless steel doors.
What looked back at him bore no resemblance to the man who had entered the elevator less than a minute ago. He was now dressed in a Colorado Rockies T-shirt and cap, faded blue jeans, and a pair of well-used Nike running shoes. The lifts built into the shoes made him appear at least two inches taller, and the skinhead wig was a perfect match to his own flesh tones. The tiny scar on his face, in reality a mere piece of plastic, was now gone. The original clothes, along with the small brown bag, now rested at the bottom of a large white canvas carryall featuring the logo of the American Federation of Teachers. (There was a convention in town—though they weren’t staying at the Bellagio.)
He nodded with satisfaction, slung the bag over his shoulder, and punched the button for the lobby. Then he smiled. There was no gap between the two front teeth. Twenty seconds later, the doors opened and he stepped out.
The man watching the elevators for his appearance could
n’t have been more obvious. Also a Greek, Robinson guessed. Big, broad-shouldered, and wearing the obligatory dark suit and glasses, the bodyguard (what else could he be?) stood out a mile.
He passed within two meters of the observer without his showing any sign of recognition. Short of the man’s being telepathic, there was no reason in the world why he should have done.
Robinson made a careful note of him, though. He went out, nodding to the doorman as he did.
“Cab, sir?” the doorman asked.
“No, thanks. Good day for a walk.” The words and their intonation were distinctly American: an expert would have placed their origin somewhere in the Midwest.
Robinson set off down the Strip, heading north, past Bill’s, the Flamingo, Imperial Palace. Dusk had descended on Las Vegas, and the early spring air had a distinct chill to it. When he reached Harrah’s, another man fell into step with him. This man also wore jeans and a T-shirt, and was of Robinson’s approximate height and build.
The two men spoke in low tones, and they spoke, incredibly, in Basque. There was little risk in being overheard, and almost none in being overheard correctly. There were Basque speakers in Nevada, but those were primarily concentrated in Reno and Elko. Besides, anyone walking the Strip at this hour was far more likely to be a tourist than a native.
In a few brief words, Robinson described the observer he’d spotted at the Bellagio. His colleague was, among other things, a naturally observant man himself. He would find the watcher easily.
“Teach him—and, more importantly, his employers—a lesson,” Robinson said. “Nothing special, but one would like to discourage this sort of thing. As always, I leave the details to you. Report progress.”
The other man nodded once, then turned and walked briskly back toward the Bellagio. Robinson watched him for a moment, then flagged down a cab in front of Harrah’s. He got in.
“Airport, please,” he told the driver, who started the meter and pulled back out onto the Strip. Robinson leaned back and closed his eyes. A rare smile crept across his face.
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