Digital Fortess - Brown Dan - Страница 28

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“Or what?” the German asked, his eyes widening in fear.

“Or we make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” The German had heard stories about the corruption in the Spanish Guardia Civil.

“You have something I want,” Becker said.

“Yes, of course!” the German effused, forcing a smile. He went immediately to the wallet on his dresser. “How much?”

Becker let his jaw drop in mock indignation. “Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?” he bellowed.

“No! Of course not! I just thought . . .” The obese man quickly set down his wallet. “I . . . I . . .” He was totally flustered. He collapsed on the corner of the bed and wrung his hands. The bed groaned under his weight. “I’m sorry.”

Becker pulled a rose from the vase in the center of the room and casually smelled it before letting it fall to the floor. He spun suddenly. “What can you tell me about the murder?”

The German went white. “Mord? Murder?”

“Yes. The Asian man this morning? In the park? It was an assassination?Ermordung.” Becker loved the German word for assassination. Ermordung. It was so chilling.

“Ermordung? He . . . he was . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . but that’s impossible,” the German choked. “I was there. He had a heart attack. I saw it. No blood. No bullets.”

Becker shook his head condescendingly. “Things are not always as they seem.”

The German went whiter still.

Becker gave an inward smile. The lie had served its purpose. The poor German was sweating profusely.

“Wh?wh?at do you want?” he stammered. “I know nothing.”

Becker began pacing. “The murdered man was wearing a gold ring. I need it.”

“I?I don’t have it.”

Becker sighed patronizingly and motioned to the bathroom door. “And Rocio? Dewdrop?”

The man went from white to purple. “You know Dewdrop?” He wiped the sweat from his fleshy forehead and drenched his terry?cloth sleeve. He was about to speak when the bathroom door swung open.

Both men looked up.

Rocio Eva Granada stood in the doorway. A vision. Long flowing red hair, perfect Iberian skin, deep?brown eyes, a high smooth forehead. She wore a white terry?cloth robe that matched the German’s. The tie was drawn snugly over her wide hips, and the neck fell loosely open to reveal her tanned cleavage. She stepped into the bedroom, the picture of confidence.

“May I help you?” she asked in throaty English.

Becker gazed across the room at the stunning woman before him and did not blink. “I need the ring,” he said coldly.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

Becker switched to Spanish with a dead?on Andalusian accent. “Guardia Civil.”

She laughed. “Impossible,” she replied in Spanish.

Becker felt a knot rise in his throat. Rocio was clearly a little tougher than her client. “Impossible?” he repeated, keeping his cool. “Shall I take you downtown to prove it?”

Rocio smirked. “I will not embarrass you by accepting your offer. Now, who are you?”

Becker stuck to his story. “I am with the Seville Guardia.”

Rocio stepped menacingly toward him. “I know every police officer on the force. They are my best clients.”

Becker felt her stare cutting right through him. He regrouped. “I am with a special tourist task force. Give me the ring, or I’ll have to take you down to the precinct and—”

“And what?” she demanded, raising her eyebrows in mock anticipation.

Becker fell silent. He was in over his head. The plan was backfiring. Why isn’t she buying this?

Rocio came closer. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but if you don’t get out of this suite right now, I will call hotel security, and the real Guardia will arrest you for impersonating a police officer.”

Becker knew that Strathmore could have him out of jail in five minutes, but it had been made very clear to him that this matter was supposed to be handled discreetly. Getting arrested was not part of the plan.

Rocio had stopped a few feet in front of Becker and was glaring at him.

“Okay.” Becker sighed, accentuating the defeat in his voice. He let his Spanish accent slip. “I am not with the Seville police. A U.S. government organization sent me to locate the ring. That’s all I can reveal. I’ve been authorized to pay you for it.”

There was a long silence.

Rocio let his statement hang in the air a moment before parting her lips in a sly smile. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” She sat down on a chair and crossed her legs. “How much can you pay?”

Becker muffled his sigh of relief. He wasted no time getting down to business. “I can pay you 750,000 pesetas. Five thousand American dollars.” It was half what he had on him but probably ten times what the ring was actually worth.

Rocio raised her eyebrows. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Yes it is. Do we have a deal?”

Rocio shook her head. “I wish I could say yes.”

“A million pesetas?” Becker blurted. “It’s all I have.”

“My, my.” She smiled. “You Americans don’t bargain very well. You wouldn’t last a day in our markets.”

“Cash, right now,” Becker said, reaching for the envelope in his jacket. I just want to go home.

Rocio shook her head. “I can’t.”

Becker bristled angrily. “Why not?”

“I no longer have the ring,” she said apologetically. “I’ve already sold it.”

Tokugen Numataka stared out his window and paced like a caged animal. He had not yet heard from his contact, North Dakota. Damn Americans! No sense of punctuality!

He would have called North Dakota himself, but he didn’t have a phone number for him. Numataka hated doing business this way?with someone else in control.

The thought had crossed Numataka’s mind from the beginning that the calls from North Dakota could be a hoax?a Japanese competitor playing him for the fool. Now the old doubts were coming back. Numataka decided he needed more information.

He burst from his office and took a left down Numatech’s main hallway. His employees bowed reverently as he stormed past. Numataka knew better than to believe they actually loved him?bowing was a courtesy Japanese employees offered even the most ruthless of bosses.

Numataka went directly to the company’s main switchboard. All calls were handled by a single operator on a Corenco 2000, twelve?line switchboard terminal. The woman was busy but stood and bowed as Numataka entered.

“Sit down,” he snapped.

She obeyed.

“I received a call at four forty?five on my personal line today. Can you tell me where it came from?” Numataka kicked himself for not having done this earlier.

The operator swallowed nervously. “We don’t have caller identification on this machine, sir. But I can contact the phone company. I’m sure they can help.”

Numataka had no doubt the phone company could help. In this digital age, privacy had become a thing of the past; there was a record of everything. Phone companies could tell you exactly who had called you and how long you’d spoken.

“Do it,” he commanded. “Let me know what you find out.”

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