Part 21 (2/2)
”Let's bug his car so we can follow the luggage.” She dipped into her straw bag, took out a small case, and popped it open. She offered him the microtransmitter that lay inside.
He waved it away. ”It's better if you do it. I'll set you up.”
The gla.s.s door swung open, and Hata backed out, pulling a bra.s.s cart loaded with two roll-aboard suitcases, a valise, and a shopping bag. In three quick steps, Judd reached the door and held it open for him.
Eva heard him ask the man a question in Arabic-something about help you.
But Hata shook his head. ”Mish be eed.” His car was not far away.
As Hata pushed the baggage cart off down the sidewalk, Judd ambled alongside. Hata barely reached Judd's shoulder, but the short man's stride was long, aggressive.
Eva followed. She heard Judd say ”vacation” and ”tourist.” He was asking which sights to see. Hata answered with few words, while Judd played the chatty Brit, gesturing and holding forth. Hata turned the cart toward a black Citron parked with two tires up on the sidewalk.
Eva closed in, but there was still no way she could plant the bug without Hata's seeing her.
Hata took out a key chain, touched a b.u.t.ton with his thumb, and the door to the Citron's trunk lifted. He turned back to his cart just as Judd grabbed the shopping bag and one of the suitcases.
With breathtaking speed, Hata pulled a stiletto from inside his djellaba and aimed it at Judd's heart. The needlelike point caught the lamplight and flashed.
”Thief, thief!” he bellowed in Arabic.
Judd backed up, talking quickly, still holding the suitcase and shopping bag as he led Hata away from the car.
Eva stepped off the curb and ran. Vehicles rushed past, spinning up dust.
Furious, Hata was dragging the cart after him, leaning forward, stiletto in hand, determined to strike. Judd kept dancing backward, balancing the suitcase and shopping bag, and spitting words out like a nail gun. From what she could understand, Judd was trying to convince Hata he should accept Judd's help.
Brus.h.i.+ng past the car's rear fender, Eva pressed the bug low against the rear pa.s.senger window. As it slid down into the door frame and out of sight, she sprinted away. Hata's and Judd's dangerous dance had not slowed. She raised her chin, caught Judd's eye, and nodded.
Judd hurled the suitcase and shopping bag at Hata.
Screaming obscenities, the little man leaped out of the way while tissue paper and silky slips, bras, and panties exploded from the bag. Cursing a string of oaths, he dropped to his knees to gather up the garments.
Eva saw Judd dash off. As she raced around the block toward their rental car, she smiled to herself. Now they would find Krot.
53.
In the medieval souk, smoke from charcoal braziers drifted past shuttered windows, the odor oily. Streets twisted in a snakelike maze. Katia looked around with relief-the pa.s.sageway was too narrow for the Mercedes to follow. Perhaps they were safe at last.
”Who exactly is the person you phoned-Liza Somebody?” Katia asked.
”Her name is Liza Kosciuch,” Pyotr told her. ”She grew up in Warsaw and Leningrad. We've known each other since the old days. Her inn is private, the sort of place the police ignore and others fear. No one talks about it. No one can find it even if they've heard rumors of its existence.” He gestured. ”This is it.”
They stopped at a three-story building, where a small round window near the top of a short door was covered by an ornate iron grille that appeared strong enough to bar a prison cell.
Pyotr knocked, and soon the window opened. Behind the grille appeared the face of a middle-aged woman. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight, and her chin square. Deep lines cross-hatched her cheeks. She must have been a great beauty in her day.
”Ah, is you, Pyotr.” She had a heavy Russian accent.
”h.e.l.lo, Liza,” he said. ”Glad you can take us in.”
”Naturally.”
The face retreated, and the window closed. As Pyotr found his wallet and counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, the door opened.
Liza beckoned. ”Come.”
Bending over to pa.s.s through the doorway, they left the drabness of the souk for a bright foyer with a high ceiling, sunny yellow walls, and a tile floor that was a mosaic of blue and green. Katia looked eagerly around. An antique silver samovar shone atop a mahogany table. But the centerpiece was Liza herself. Her luxuriant silver-gray hair was pulled back in sterling clips, and she was dressed in a baby-blue Donna Karan jogging suit.
”I appreciate your help.” Pyotr tried to hand the greenbacks to Liza.
She waved him off. ”Is always pleasure to see you, Pyotr. And who is this beautiful woman?”
”Katia Levinchev,” Pyotr told her. ”Katia, meet a Cold War heroine.”
Liza laughed and waved a dismissive hand. ”Welcome to safety.”
As Pyotr returned the money to his pocket, Katia studied the foyer. Perhaps eight feet wide, it extended twelve feet to a generous arch through which a corridor showed. Inside the arch stood a silent, heavyset man with shoulders like boxcars. He carried some kind of rifle. His eyelids blinked slowly as he watched them.
”Spartak, you remember Pyotr,” Liza told him. ”This is his lady friend. First lady friend he ever show me.”
Spartak nodded. ”Da.” There was a straight-back wood chair behind him. Sitting down, he laid the rifle across his lap, one hand firmly on the grip.
”So, Pyotr, you look good,” Liza said. ”Any more big changes since Switzerland?”
”As a matter of fact, yes.” He took Katia's hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. ”I want to marry Katia.”
”Oh? You are crazy new man. What next-babies?” She laughed. ”But what about you?” She turned to Katia. ”Will you marry this broken-down old a.s.sa.s.sin?”
”I'm thinking about it.” The truth was, despite everything, she did want to marry him.
”I hear hesitation,” Liza decided.
Katia shrugged. ”We still have things to talk about.”
Liza's eyes narrowed, and she studied them. ”Is wacky world we live in. Cold War made sense. Grab happiness while you can.” She turned to Pyotr: ”Your room is ready. Your luggage is here soon. I will call when Hata is close.” She handed him an electronic key. ”Enjoy.” Opening a door next to the samovar, she disappeared.
His gaze bored, Spartak said nothing as they pa.s.sed him.
More tiles paved the hall. To the left, the top half of a Dutch door was open, showing a spotless kitchen. At last Pyotr stopped at a simple wood door, no peephole. ”This is ours.” Using Liza's electronic key, they entered to the romantic music of Sergei Rachmaninoff. It filled the room.
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