Chapter Sixteen

 

          Otto had the door open when Yaro got there, waiting. He was dressed to go out, not wearing his apron. That was good. Yaro stepped inside and saw the silver Haliburton sitting on the floor, by the entrance.

          “You’re late,” said Otto, looking at his watch. “I said I had to leave by two.”

          “We still have a few minutes,” said Yaro, closing the door behind him. “This won’t take much time.” He glanced over at the Haliburton. “It’s all ready?”

          “Yes. It’s all ready. Do you have my money?”

          “Of course. Can I take a look inside?”

          “Sure, if you’re tired of living. It’s already set and ready to go. I told you I was in a hurry.”

          “How do I know it’s really in there?”

          Otto gave him a disgusted look.

          “This is not Prague. I’m not going to sell you a fake bomb, Yaroslav.” He handed Yaro a manila envelope. “Here are the pictures and instructions.”

          Yaro opened the envelope. There was a picture of the Haliburton, open, with a fancy looking apparatus inside. In the center was an LED with glowing red numbers. He looked at the other sheets, a blueprint, and some instructions. Otto reached into his pocket and handed him a key.

          “When this key turns, it goes off. There’s enough Cemtex in there to take out this whole machine shop. Good enough?”

          Yaro nodded, stuffing the papers back into the envelope.

          “What about my money?”

          “Got it right here,” said Yaro. He produced an envelope of his own, smaller, and handed it to Otto.

          “I’ve got another little job for you, too,” he said, watching Otto take out the small wad of bills.

          “Yeah?” said Otto absently, as he started to count out the money. It was in fifties. “What’s that?”

          “I need a silencer for my gun.”

          “No problem,” said Otto, still counting. “... nine, ten.” He looked up. “I’ll have some time tomorrow. What kind is it?”

          “Here,” said Yaro, reaching into his coat. “I’ll show you.” He pulled out the PPK. Otto stared at it for a second, then up at Yaro. He had a funny look on his face.

          “It already has a silencer.”

          “That’s right,” said Yaro. “So it does.”

          He shot Otto through the heart, twice, being careful not to hit the money.

 

 

 

           The Hilton parking lot was filled with cars, and Yaro spent almost ten minutes cruising up and down the aisles, looking for the Granada. He hadn’t really expected to find it there, not after what happened in the park. Whoever was driving had had plenty of time to return it and get something else. He parked, left his gun in the Trans Am and entered the hotel, taking the elevator to the seventh floor.

          He tried to get himself into the proper mood of outrage as he knocked on their door. When it opened, Petr, looking fatter than ever wearing nothing over his belly but an undershirt, did a pretty good job of looking surprised.

          ”Yaro? What the fuck are you doing here?”

          “Give me a break,” said Yaro. He walked past Petr and into the room, holding his coat open so they could see he wasn’t packing. Pavel and Hunza were at the small table by the window, playing cards. They looked like they were trying for Oscars too, staring at him, then at each other, then at him again, then at each other again. Yaro stood still for a moment, very conscious of Petr, just behind him.

          “Yeah,” said Pavel. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

          “Oh, please,” moaned Yaro, holding up his hands. “Cut the crap, alright?”

          Nobody said anything.

          “I told you guys, if you keep following me around, the deal is fucking off! So stop it, alright, just stop it!” He plopped into the easy chair and lit a cigarette. “It’s only ten days until I get my delivery, clear? I’ve ordered an extra six keys for you, and my supplier will be pissed as hell if I can’t pay for it. I simply don’t have time for this fucking B movie bullshit.”

          “Listen, asshole,” said Hunza, “we haven’t been do-“

          Pavel slapped him on the arm.

          “Let’s all sit down,” he said, sinking into his chair. Petr came around and sat on the couch. Hunza stayed standing for a minute, then he sat down, too.

          “Now,” said Pavel, “you caught us following you today, is that right?”

          “You fucking know that’s right,” said Yaro. Peter and Hunza were giving Pavel startled looks. He turned to them, opened his hands.

          “Hey, he caught us, OK? He’s a smart guy.” He turned back to Yaro. “We just got a little nervous, that’s all. We haven’t been following you. But we figured it wouldn’t hurt to check one more time, see if you got relaxed, maybe stopped by the station house.” He laughed. “I mean shit, we got to be careful, you know? It’s not our town, and you dress like fuckin’ Elliot Ness.”

          Yaro didn’t say anything, just took a drag on his cigarette and gave them all disgusted looks.

          “OK,” said Pavel. “OK. We want this deal to happen, too. Don’t be so pissed off. We’ll back off. Maybe you should call us every couple of days, just keep in touch, how would that be?”

          “If it’ll make you feel better, I could call every fifteen minutes, but I am not the heat, is that fucking clear? Stay off of my ass.” 

          They all sat still for a moment, cooling off.

          “You want a drink?” said Pavel.

          “No,” said Yaro. He stood up, started buttoning up his coat. “I have some things to do.” He felt naked, sitting in a hotel room with three guys sent to kill him, without his gun. At the door he turned around, facing them.

          “I won’t be coming here again until I have the shipment. See you on Saturday, at the Jungle Club. Ciao.”

          He walked down the hall to the elevators. There was another guy there, waiting. They got into the elevator together. Even in his current mood, Yaro couldn’t help noticing the guy’s suit. Expensive, really sharp, Armani or something like it. Nice tie, too. Silk. It had a picture of a pear on it.

 

 

 

          “What the fuck was that all about?” said Hunza, as soon as Yaro closed the door. “We haven’t done anything for the last week but sit in this dumb shit hotel room, play cards and watch fucking porno movies. Why did you tell that asshole we’ve been following him?”

          “Because somebody has,” said Pavel, rubbing his chin. “And if he finds out it isn’t us, he’s liable to rabbit out of here faster than Road Runner.”

          “Then we should have whacked him right now,” said Hunza, “before he does.”

          “Maybe,” said Pavel. “Shut up a minute. I’ve got to think.” He got himself a drink and a cigarette, and finished them both before he said anything else. Hunza stood at the window, sulking and rubbing his brow. Petr went to the icebox and made himself a salami sandwich.

          “It’s got to be DEA,” Pavel said finally. “DEA or regular cops, but whoever it is, they’ve probably made us by now, either at that fucking jazz club or maybe even here. We don’t know for sure he actually lost them today. If he thought it was us he wouldn’t give a shit.” He was quiet another minute, watching Petr eat his sandwich. It was the only sound in the room.

          “Christ, Petr,” said Hunza. “How can you fucking eat now?”

          “Relieves stress,” said Petr, between mouthfuls.

          Pavel stood up, started putting on his coat.

          “I’m not sure we should risk whacking him at all. Drug related murder is a capital offense in America. I’m going to call Milan before we do anything else.” He started for the door.

          “What does that mean, exactly, capital offense?” asked Hunza.

          “That means they kill you.”

 

 

 

           Pineapple was waiting in the parking space with the Granada when Pear pulled up. He backed out, let Pear put the battered up Toyota back where he had stolen it from, and pushed open the passenger door.

          “No problems?” said Pear, getting in.

          “No. The sign we put on the meter worked until I got here.”

          “Nobody showed up for the Toyota?”

          “No. The fucker will probably never even realize it was stolen.”

          They pulled away into the street. Pear lit a cigarette and settled back into the seat.

          “So what happened?” said Pineapple.

          “He didn’t pay much attention after running you off. Went to some machine shop out near the beach, stayed five minutes, came out with a silver Haliburton.”

          Pineapple raised his eyebrows.

          “Some kind of payoff?”

          “Maybe. I don’t know.”

          “Then what?”

          “Then he went out to the airport Hilton. Room on the seventh floor. I know which one. I saw what floor he stopped on, went up and waited by the elevators until he showed. We can check it out later. But he’ll know me if he sees me again.”

          “He took the case?”

          “No. Left it in the trunk.”

          “How long was he in the room?”

          “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

          “But no case?”

          “No.”

          “Weird.”

          “Yeah, I know.”

          “Why do you think he switched cars?”

          “Beats the fuck out of me. But the Trans Am is pretty high profile. Maybe he didn’t want to take a chance getting pulled over with the case.”

          They stopped in front of a Sushi Bar on Geary, near Sixteenth Avenue.

          “You hungry?” asked Pineapple.

          “Yeah,” said Pear. They went inside and sat at the bar. The sushi chef was going so fast he looked like he was on amphetamines. They ordered and watched for a while.

          “So what do you think?” said Pineapple. “Is he a cop? You were pretty sure he was, before.”

          Pear took a couple of bites of hamachi, looking thoughtful.

          “Yeah. Well, fuck, that’s what we expected to find. And he and the guy with the pony tail don’t act much like they’re in love. It’s a classic surveillance setup.” He added some more soy sauce to the green mustard in the little dish in front of him. “Man, they don’t fuck around with the wasabi in this place,” he said, fanning his mouth.

          “And now?” asked Pineapple.

          “Now I don’t know. He reacted pretty strangely to being tailed, for a cop, don’t you think? And cops are usually pretty clueless about even spotting somebody following them in the first place. That’s what they do, they think like that. Took it pretty casual, if you ask me.”

          “There’s something else funny, too.”

          “What?”

          “You remember, before he took the Nova, he reparked a Nissan pickup. Took it off the street that was going to be cleaned, and moved it around the corner.”

          “Yeah.”

          “I don’t know why he has so many cars, but why park them directly on the block behind the house he’s watching? Even if he wants to keep out of sight, why not behind his own place? Especially if he wants to keep out of sight.”

          “Yeah,” said Pear, “I thought about that.” He waved to the chef for another order of sashimi. They sat sipping their beers, thinking.

          “So what next?” asked Pineapple.

          “I’ll go back tomorrow to the hotel, see if I can get a make on whoever is in the room. It doesn’t matter if he sees me there. He thinks I’m staying on that floor, anyway. You watch the back stairs to the surveillance house, try to figure how many guys are in there. I’ll call Amar, see if he can figure any of this shit out.”

          “OK. Sounds good.”

          “I’ll tell you one thing, though.”

          “What’s that?”

          “If it turns out these guys aren’t the heat, we take ‘em out.”

 

 

 

          Rimone parked his rent-a-car a block or so away and walked back to the house. The van had just gotten back from the day’s deliveries, and he carried some empty trays on his way in. He met Ghassan coming down the stairs.

          “What has happened?” asked Ghassan. “Have you any news?”

          “Finish your work and meet me in the kitchen,” said Rimone. “We have a strange situation.”

          Ghassan gave him a puzzled look and hurried down the stairs. Rimone went directly to the kitchen, where Botrass was sitting, drinking a cup of coffee.

          “Where is Mirna?” asked Rimone. “Is she at home?”

          “In her room, resting,” answered Botrass. “She is tired today, and asked that we fend for ourselves for dinner. I think she would rather not be disturbed.”

          Rimone did not answer, but went directly to Mirna’s bedroom door.

          “Mirna?” he said, knocking.

          “Yes?” Mirna answered, after a moment.

          “I am sorry to bother you, but I have important news.”

          “I will be there in a moment.”

          A few minutes later, the four of them were gathered around the kitchen table. Botrass was still drinking his coffee and smoking nervously.

          “I have good news and bad news,” said Rimone. “And still more questions than before.”

          The others glanced at each other. Botrass waved his hands impatiently.

          “Please,” he said, “do not be so dramatic. Just tell us what you have discovered.”

          Mirna gave him a strange look.

          “I mean,” said Botrass, smiling and attempting to look more relaxed, “we are all anxious to know. Give us the bad news first.”

          “The bad news,” said Rimone slowly, “is that the house is definitely under surveillance, and this surveillance is quite professional.” He paused.

          “And the good news?” said Botrass, as the others sat in silence.

          “The good news, and I am not quite sure how good it is, is that I do not think that we are the objects of this surveillance.”

          “What?” said Ghassan. “What are you talking about?”

          “The police, or whatever agency they in fact are, seem to be actually interested in our strange neighbor, Mr. Yaro Hrubesh.”

          “You mean,” said Mirna, “that he is not one of them?”

          “Apparently not. This explains his peculiar behavior. It would seem that he is using the back stairs, not to join them, but to avoid them.”

          “Please tell us,” said Mirna, “what exactly you saw today.”

          “I decided to wait in back with the rented car until Yaro came out. I apparently missed him, because when he did appear, it was driving a Yellow Trans Am. When he parked, I noticed two other cars that arrived at the same time, a Blue Ford Granada, with the look of a rented vehicle, and a beat up old Toyota. Both stopped far enough away to avoid his detection, but they did not seem to notice my presence, even though they stopped quite close to me. When Yaro got out of his car, the driver of the Toyota got out also, and followed him on foot, keeping a very professional distance. I decided to remain in my car, since I had a feeling that the two cars were connected, and the other driver remained inside, watching. They both disappeared around a corner, and I waited, along with the driver of the Granada. After some minutes, Yaro reappeared, but instead of going to the Trans Am, he got into an Old Chevy Nova, parked almost a block away. When he drove off, the Granada pulled out and followed. I was about to go after them, when suddenly the first man showed up, moving fast. He jumped into the Toyota and drove out, in the direction of the other two, who were out of sight by this time. I noticed as he passed me that he was talking on a cell phone.”

          Rimone stopped long enough to light a cigarette. It was clear that he was puzzled by his own narrative.

          “I followed the Toyota. The driver continued to talk on his cell phone, and I was certain that he was keeping in communication with the Granada. We made a big circle out to the beach and ended up going almost to Cliff House. We drove into the park, and he pulled over, in the vicinity of the Greenhouse. We waited there for only a few minutes. The other cars were not visible. Suddenly he restarted his engine, and almost immediately I saw the Granada pass us, going fast in the other direction. The Toyota pulled out and I followed. Sure enough, I saw Yaro up ahead, walking on the other side of the street across from the Greenhouse. He got into his car and we both followed him to a machine shop in the Sunset district. He drove there quite directly, making no attempts to detect anyone following.”

          “He must have confronted his tail,” said Ghassan, “and then not suspected a second.”

          “That is my conclusion,” said Rimone.

          “But this means he knows he is being followed.”

          “Of course he knows. That, as I said, is why he uses the back stairs. This must have been the first time it didn’t work.”

          “Yet he didn’t catch the second tail.”

          “Yes. It would indicate that he is not a complete professional. A little bit strange, since he is getting attention worthy of Al Capone. At any rate, it was easy to follow him, and the driver of the Toyota, involved as he was, paid no attention to me.”

          Botrass was drumming his fingers on the table.

          “Then what?” he said impatiently.

          “He spent only a few minutes in the machine shop, and came out carrying a silver Haliburton suitcase, the same kind Toufic uses. Then he went back to Nineteenth Avenue and took highway two-eighty. He used the airport crossover, and we all ended up at the Hilton. He went inside, followed by the tail, and stayed about twenty minutes.”

          “With the case,” said Ghassan.

          “Without the case.”

          “Strange.”

          “As I said, I have more questions now than before.”

          “Did you follow?”

          “I decided it would be too risky to track both of them inside. Don’t forget, Yaro knows me by sight. I don’t know what happened, but when he came out the tail was gone. I followed him back here. As far as I know, he is next door now.”

          “This is bizarre,” said Ghassan, running his fingers through his hair. “What do you think we should do now?”

          “I don’t know. I am too tired to think clearly about it at the moment. Mirna, what is your feeling about all this?”

          Mirna, maintaining her usual composure, took a moment before answering. She spread her fingers on the table and looked at each of them as she spoke.

          “If the house is under surveillance, we should proceed as we have planned, even if we are not the target. Search warrants in this country apply to the entire address for which they are written. It would be idiotic for us to get caught up and exposed by a routine search, directed at someone else. Rimone, I suggest that you use the key I gave you at the earliest opportunity. We must find out as much as possible about what is going on.”

          “I will definitely do so. But I am wary of pushing Yaro any farther today. I will try tomorrow sometime, if the opportunity arises.”

          They all sat silently, absorbing this new development.

          “There is one other thing, also,” said Rimone.

          “Allah,” said Ghassan. “Now what?”

          “I am not sure, but I think there may be someone else living in Yaro’s apartment.”