“That’s half a loaf. We don’t get Wiley.”
“Not this time. But they must have fixed another meeting. This is a back-and-forth negotiation. She might tell us where and when.”
“Better to hit her now. She thinks her job is done. She’s coming down off a high. Her adrenaline is low. She’ll be braver in the morning.”
Bishop said, “I’ll call Ratcliffe,” and he hung up, crackly and distant.
—
The new messenger was touched on the leg by one man and on the bottom by another, but she ignored them both and pushed on through the throng. She wondered if they thought she was an employee of the club. Western behaviors had been explained to her. She could see Wiley up ahead, watching her. A frank and interested stare. Maybe he thought she was an employee, too. She walked up to him and leaned close to his ear, so he could hear above the noise, and she said in carefully practiced English, “I bring greetings from your friends in the east. The elevation of Sugar Land Regional Airport is eighty-two feet above sea level.”
Wiley said, “Well, don’t this just beat the band.”
She said, unsure, “Does it?”
“They sent a girl.”
“Yes, sir, they did.”
“And you speak English.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Then suddenly Wiley said, “Why? Why did they send a girl? Are they saying no?”
“No, sir, that’s not the message.”
“Then what is?”
“The message is, we accept your price.”
“Say that again.”
“We accept your price.”
“What, all of it?”
“Sir, what I am permitted to know is, we accept your price.”
Wiley closed his eyes. Bigger than Rhode Island. Visible from outer space. His new Swiss friends would be delighted, too. It was double what he had told them. He had never expected to get it all. He would have plenty left over. A massive fortune. He would have a portfolio. Guys in suits would call him on the phone.
He opened his eyes.
He said, “When?”
The messenger said, “I believe you agreed on a delivery date. Your friends in the east expect you to honor it.”
“No problem,” Wiley said. “As agreed is fine.”
“Then that is the response I will carry back.”
“Tell them it’s a pleasure doing business. And tell them thanks for the extra gift. Much appreciated.”
She said, unsure again, “Sir, I brought nothing with me.”
“You brought yourself,” Wiley said. “You’re the gift. Right? I mean, get with the program. Why else would they send a girl with the good news? You’re the icing on the cake. Like when you get a bottle of Scotch when you buy a car.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You like this place?”
On the stage a naked woman was lying on a plastic sheet. Three men were urinating on her face.
The messenger said, “It seems very popular.”
“We could go to a hotel.”
She had been coached.
She said, “Sir, this is a business arrangement. It can’t proceed any further until I get home safe and sound.”
“OK,” Wiley said. “I get it. But you got to give me some little thing. We’re friends. We’re celebrating here. I’m giving you people something you never had before. One more button.”
“What?”
“On your shirt. Right here. Like a token. To seal the deal.”
Great struggles require great sacrifices. And it was a small enough price, she thought. The room was dark. No one was looking. They were all watching the stage. She undid the third button. She parted the seams. Wiley looked and smiled.
He said, “I knew I could make you do it.”
She walked away, through the crowd, ignoring the grabbing hands, up the stairs, past the doorman on the stool, out to the street, where she walked twenty paces and flagged down a cab. She settled in the back seat and said in carefully practiced German, “The airport, please. International departures.”
Chapter 23
In a different club two miles away two men were having dinner. The club was small, but paneled in oak. The tables were cramped, but the cloths were linen. More wine was served than beer. Lamb chops were on the menu. One of the men was an importer of shoes from Brazil. He was a solid figure, about forty-five years old. His hair was blond, going gray, and his face was red, also going gray. His name was Dremmler. He was in a suit, with a high lapel.
The other man was similar in appearance. Mid-forties, bulky, a little redder, a little less gray. He was also in a suit, a chainstore label, but not cheap. His name was Muller. He was a policeman.
Dremmler said, “One of our members is a man named Helmut Klopp. He saw an Arab talking to an American and reported it. Guess what happened?”
Muller said, “Nothing, probably.”
“Two secret investigators came here from America. In a big hurry. Your chief of detectives was kissing their ass.”
“Griezman?”