by Glenn Meade
It was almost midnight when he got back to the hotel. As he lay in bed in the darkness, he could hear the voices in the street below as the bars emptied. They carried up to his window, some of them shouting drunkenly. Then they faded, and a little after midnight a train rumbled past in the station across the street.
MEXICO CITY. 1:02 A.M.
Kruger stood beside the shimmering turquoise water of the swimming pool in the darkness as he smoked a cigarette, thinking of the telephone call from Asunción. He ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed.
Disturbing. Most disturbing.
So close.
And now this.
He would have to wait until Lieber arrived to hear the full story, but what he had heard had unsettled him. Unsettled all of them. Haider said Brandt had left saying they would be back for the meeting with Lieber. The others had gone to bed, leaving Kruger alone.
He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the poolside table, then walked through the villa to the rear gardens.
Five rooms through to the kitchen, then he stepped outside onto the back lawn. He checked his watch, noted the time, and then began to walk across the moonlit grass at a smart pace.
Balmy. The sound of crickets and the smell of eucalyptus. But Kruger’s mind was on security. Once Lieber arrived in Mexico City, he would have him checked for tails before he brought him here. He couldn’t take any chances.
Kruger reached the clump of trees at the end of the back lawn and checked his watch again, holding the face up to the moonlight.
Two minutes exactly.
Already he had timed how long it took to cross the expansive rear lawn to the old concrete garage behind the clump of trees, but he wanted to be certain. He passed one of the armed guards halfway across, acknowledging the man’s nod.
He reached the old garage and stepped inside. Darkness. The smell of grease and oil. The large double wooden doors at the end were bolted.
He crossed to the doors, past the dark form of the vehicle, and pulled back the bolt, swung the doors out and open. An unlit alleyway lay outside, overgrown with weeds.
Haider had told him about the garage exit. A hundred yards from the villa proper, half hidden behind a clump of eucalyptus trees, the alleyway cut down to the maze of back roads in Chapultepec. Unlikely that it would be needed, but it was an ideal emergency exit.
He bolted shut the garage doors again, then flicked a wall switch. A blaze of light flooded the room, and the dark, anonymous Ford stood waiting in the center of the garage.
A full tank of gas and a fresh battery. He made sure Schmidt took the car for a daily run since their arrival. All part of the contingency plan.
Kruger took one last look about the room, then switched off the light, closed the door, and walked back across the lawn toward the villa, counting his steps.
36
MEXICO CITY. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 3:15 P.M.
Chief Inspector Eduardo Gonzales was a thin, energetic man of fifty with the gnarled face of a tough street fighter.
His office overlooked the Plaza de San Fernando and had an excellent view of sprawling Mexico City. On his desk were two ashtrays to assist his three-pack-a-day habit. One of the ashtrays was made of glass; the other a beautiful, ornate affair of quebraco wood in the shape of a half-cut coconut shell, carved by the Indians in Paraguay’s Chaco. A present from his friend, Captain Vellares Sanchez.
Ugly, brooding faces were cut into the dark quebraco; the receptacle clasped by a perfectly carved wooden hand that was so in contrast to the ugly carved faces that it resembled on first sight some hedonistic chalice. The faces looked like the shrunken heads of Amazonians one saw in the museums. But not frightening. Rather, they served to remind that evil had to be held in check by a strong hand.
According to the Indians.
So Sanchez had told him when he presented the gift in Caracas years ago.
Now strong December sunlight poured into the office. Hot, despite the season. A freakish warm front in from the Gulf of Mexico. An air-conditioning vent in a wall below the ceiling blew out a faint stream of chilled air.
A metal tray cluttered with bottles of sparkling water and a jug of fresh, iced lime juice and four glasses lay on Gonzales’s desk. Despite the heat, they had remained untouched since a young policía had brought them in fifteen minutes before.
Four men sat around the desk. Gonzales and his senior detective, named Juales, a rugged, short-necked man with a squat body and bushy eyebrows, sat on one side, Sanchez and Cavales on the other.
Eduardo Gonzales inhaled on a cigarette, coughed throatily, then looked across at his two visitors. Both men were tired, their eyes red-raw after their long journey.
A police car had taken them directly from the airport, siren blaring, lights flashing. The formalities had been dispensed with, the greetings and well-wishings over. Sanchez briefly explained his reasons for wanting Franz Lieber, alias Julius Monck, followed.
Gonzales listened, his brow furrowed in concentration while Sanchez spoke. Now it was Gonzales’s turn. He coughed, nodded to his detective, Juales. “Okay. Let’s tell our visitors what’s been happening.”
Juales leaned forward. He wore a shirt and tie, and a portable phone was clipped to his belt, near his holstered Smith & Wesson. Juales spoke slowly as he read from written notes.
“The subject, Julius Monck, alias Franz Lieber, arrived in Mexico City two hours ago. One-sixteen local. I had six men watching him in the arrivals terminal, another two on the airport ramp, dressed as airport staff so we could identify him as soon as he stepped off the plane, from the photograph you sent.” Juales glanced at Sanchez, then back at his notes.
“Once he collected his luggage, he went straight through customs. I’d briefed one of the customs men to stop him, and he checked the luggage thoroughly. Nothing of interest. There’s a list of the contents of the single suitcase, if you want it.”
Sanchez waved his hand in reply. “Later, please go on.”
Juales looked down at his notes again. “The subject went to the exchange counter, changed U.S. bills into pesos. Then he made one call from a public kiosk at one-forty-seven. The officers said the call lasted just under one minute. Lieber seemed anxious. Soon as he finished the call, he went to a taco stand outside the terminal and bought a glass of fresh fruit juice, drank it, then went to the taxi stand. At one-fifty-seven, he took a taxi to the City Sheraton, arrived there at two-forty, and booked in straightaway under the name of Julius Monck.” Juales looked up from his notes. “He was still there as of fifteen minutes ago. Room two-fifteen.”
“And now?” Sanchez asked.
Juales tapped the portable phone clipped to his belt. “I’ve got six undercover men at the Sheraton. If Lieber goes in or out, gets visitors, or makes a call, my men will let me know—”
Gonzales interrupted. “The call Lieber made, you’ve got something on that yet?”
Juales shook his head. “Not yet.” He turned to Sanchez and Cavales. “After Lieber made the call at the airport, I had one of my men wait by the telephone until a colleague from the technical division came. They hit the REDIAL button and recorded the digital dialing pips. They can play it back and decode it in the tech lab and find the number. Then we can trace to wherever it was called.” Juales glanced at his wristwatch. “We ought to have that soon.”
Sanchez nodded, saw Gonzales smile through stained-yellow teeth.
“Technology,” said Gonzales, waving his cigarette. “It’s beyond an old policeman like me. These young guys in the basement lab are like Einsteins. They play with computers all day. Me, I’d go nuts down there.” He smiled.
Sanchez nodded his head and smiled faintly. His bones ached to the marrow, the city’s high altitude making his chest hurt when he breathed, and fogging his brain. He glanced at Cavales. The detective stared ahead blankly, then rubbed his raw eyes. He must be feeling the same, Sanchez thought. A bed would be welcome; a cold shower first, then sleep. But there was no time
for that. Not yet.
He turned to look at Gonzales. “The passport Lieber used—did he ever use it to visit Mexico before?”
Gonzales went into a fit of coughing, pounded his chest with his fist before he replied. “We checked, Vellares. The answer’s no. Never. No Julius Monck with that number passport.”
Sanchez addressed Juales. “How many nights did Lieber book at the Sheraton?”
“He told the desk clerk one, possibly two. He couldn’t be certain.”
“Is the hotel being cooperative?”
“We spoke with the manager,” Juales replied. “No problem. He’s been very discreet. Even gave us a room two doors away. We’ve got two men there. If Lieber comes out, we’ve got a copy key card. We can plant a bug in his room in case he entertains visitors.”
“What about his telephone?”
Juales said, “We’ve got that covered already. We’re going to wire into the hotel telephone system. The manager wanted to see our permission first. Chief Inspector Gonzales has organized it.” Juales glanced at his watch. “Our people are on their way and should be patched into Lieber’s telephone within the next half hour.”
Sanchez inclined his head gratefully at Gonzales. “My thanks, Eduardo.”
Gonzales smiled, coughed again, and looked at the carved ashtray as he ground out his cigarette, the dark, ghoulish faces staring up at him. “It’s the only way we beat the devils of this world. No?”
Gonzales stood up, hitched his trousers farther up his thin waist, glanced at the liquid refreshments still untouched on his desk. The atmosphere in the office felt charged. Expectant. Like worried fathers outside a maternity ward.
Gonzales said, “There’s nothing more we can do until Lieber makes a move. We’ve got a hospitality room for visitors down the hall. I’ll have some tacos and fresh drinks sent up, and you can rest yourselves.” He looked down at Sanchez and smiled. “Besides, it will give us a chance to catch up on gossip since Caracas. Okay?”
4:40 P.M.
Franz Lieber stood at the window on the Sheraton’s fifth floor. He swallowed his second scotch-and-soda, gripped the empty glass tightly in his big hand as he stared down at the city below. The air-conditioning was on, the hum distracting.
Tiredness racked his body, pains arcing intermittently across his chest in spasms, like tiny jolts of electricity. Rivulets of sweat ran down his back despite the air-conditioning.
Stress.
Lieber ran the back of his hand across his damp forehead.
The flights had been bad enough. Asunción to São Paulo. An overnight in Paulo, then the long haul to Mexico City. Throughout his long journey, anxiety gnawed like a rodent inside his skull. He took deep breaths, let them out slowly, trying to relax, but knew it was useless.
Mexico City out there and beyond—a ragged, noisy, dirty sprawl. Cities like this drained him. Claustrophobic, chaotic, orderless.
A woman would help relieve the tension. But Kruger had expressly forbidden visitors or phone calls.
Just wait. For the return call.
The hotel would be checked first. To make sure he had no tails, no one watching him. Lieber tried to tell Kruger it was okay when he had phoned him from the airport, that he had been careful, but Kruger refused to accept his assurance.
“Just stay in your room. I’ll get back to you.”
“How long?”
“As long as it takes; just wait for my call,” Kruger snapped back, before he hung up.
Lieber shook his head and swore to himself, felt the trickles of sweat licking his spine. The waiting wasn’t helping his stress.
How long before they checked him out? He’d been in the room almost two hours now. As he went to pour himself another scotch from the minibar, the telephone rang. Startled, he felt as if a shock of electricity had jolted his body.
He rushed to pick up the receiver.
• • •
Sanchez sat quietly in the small hospitality room. White walls. Thick, deep-pile carpet the same gray-blue color as Gonzales’s uniform.
For ten minutes he and Gonzales had chatted, until tiredness overcame Sanchez. Now he sat sipping iced, freshly squeezed orange juice from a paper cup. A half-eaten taco and a hot chili sauce dip lay in front of him on a paper plate.
The others sat and talked. Mainly Gonzales. Stories about the old days in Mexico City, the problems, the interesting cases.
Juales sat there nodding occasionally at his boss, his neck lost in his shirt so that it looked as if he had no neck at all. Sanchez guessed he was very capable. His boss had chosen well.
“You think Asunción’s bad,” Gonzales was saying to Cavales, each man puffing on a cigarette, “you ought to try a month here. Twenty-three million people, amigo. Like a cross between a zoo and a lunatic asylum, without walls.”
Sanchez closed his eyes tightly, eyelids aching, opened them again. The view beyond the panoramic window was stupendous, as far as the high Sierras surrounding the city. The high altitude had a dizzying effect, making the effort of thinking and talking a slow process.
But something was happening.
He could sense it.
The next move was Lieber’s.
He wondered what it would be.
Sanchez looked up, heard a soft click as the door behind opened. A good-looking young man in a cream-colored linen suit stood in the open doorway. He clutched a sheaf of papers, smiled warily at the two visitors and Gonzales before his eyes shifted to Juales.
“Captain . . . may I speak with you?”
Juales crossed to the man, and they stepped out into the hallway together. After a few moments of huddled conversation, Juales returned, holding a single sheet of paper.
“We traced the call made at the airport.”
“And?” Gonzales prompted.
“It was to an address in Lomas de Chapultepec.”
“An expensive area,” commented Gonzales. “Did you get the name of the occupant?”
Juales shook his head. “Not yet. But my man did a little quick checking. The property’s owned by a company called Cancún Enterprises. It’s run by a man named Josef Haider. He’s a businessman. Old guy. Very wealthy.”
“I know who he is,” Gonzales said quickly. He looked at Sanchez and Cavales as both men stood up.
Gonzales drew on his cigarette, blew out thick smoke. “Haider is German-born. Rich. A retired businessman. Owns a lot of property in the city.” He coughed and smiled. “Maybe this fits in with what you told me about this other old guy . . .”
“Tsarkin?”
“Sí.”
“Tell me.”
Gonzales sighed. “Haider came here from Brazil maybe forty years ago. He must be very old now. But lots of powerful friends. I remember him because there was a problem once with an extradition warrant from France when I worked in headquarters. They said Haider was wanted for war crimes there. Claimed he was in the Gestapo. Long time ago, I know, but Haider must have greased a lot of palms, because the charges were refuted by our people. The French got nowhere.” Gonzales smiled. “Simple when you have money, sí?”
Sanchez nodded. “And this is one of his properties?”
“It would appear so,” said Gonzales. “It’s in a wealthy area up in the Chapultepec Hills. Huge mansions and villas in the middle of landscaped parks and rocky ravines. Where only the very rich live.” He smiled. “And maybe a few corrupt police chiefs and judges as well.”
“Can you make a check on the occupants? Get some of your people to watch the place? I would appreciate it, Eduardo.”
Gonzales nodded. “No problem, amigo. Straightaway.”
A shrill sound startled them as Juales’s phone buzzed. The man flicked it on, listened.
Sanchez heard nothing, only Juales’s sharp replies as he frowned.
“When? You got the number? Put out an all-cars alert. But tell them don’t approach. Just observe and report their position. Understood?”
Juales let his hand fall, looked at Gonzales. �
��Lieber got a call in his room three minutes ago.”
“Our men were tapped into his phone?”
Juales shook his head. “No. The technicians were still working on it. They missed the call. By the time they got to the operator, Lieber had put down the phone.”
“No! Of all the lousy luck.”
“That’s not all. Lieber left the Sheraton two minutes ago. Went down to the lobby, crossed the street, and bought a newspaper. A car came by, Lieber climbed in, and the car moved off like a bat out of hell.”
“The car was a taxi?”
“Not a taxi. A civvy. Volkswagen Beetle.”
“Our men followed?”
“Sí.”
“And?”
Juales swallowed. “As of twenty seconds ago, we lost him.”
37
CHAPULTEPEC. TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 5:14 P.M.
Lieber sat in the front seat of the white Volkswagen as it wove through the chaos of traffic.
Lunatic Mexican drivers, chili and pepper smells, and all the time the pressing, claustrophobic sensation of sweaty bodies. Everywhere. Millions of them.
Sweat still poured through his shirt, a fresh one he had hastily dragged on before he left the hotel. He was clear, according to Kruger. Two of Haider’s men checked out the hotel and lobby for almost two hours. No cops or plainclothes so far as they could tell.
If he had been watched, the watchers were very good. But Lieber doubted that. He had moved too quickly, too carefully. Still, the cop, Sanchez, was not one to underestimate.
The cramped, whining Volkswagen felt claustrophobic, despite the open windows. The man in the driver’s seat was one of Haider’s people. He wore a sweatshirt and tennis shorts, and his forehead was creased as he concentrated on the traffic.
Outside the windows of the tiny Volkswagen, darkness fell, lights coming on, the traffic thickening—if it could get any thicker—a scene of utter chaos. But the driver knew the city, wove down side streets and alleyways, ignoring the irate screams and cries of street vendors whose barrows got in the way, the whiny-engined Volkswagen climbing up into the hills. The car was well chosen. Mexico City thronged with Volkswagens.
