Дональд Уэстлейк - Castle in the Air

Manuel nodded again. “Yes, my love.”

“Alert at all times,” Lida said.

“Yes, my love,” Manuel said and, still nodding, he fell asleep.

“We must be prepared for treachery at any instant,” Lida said, then noticed that Manuel’s eyes were closed, his body relaxed, his mouth open and his breathing regular. She frowned at him. “Are you asleep?”

Manuel gave the only possible affirmative answer to that question — none.

“Oh, Manuel,” Lida said. “I need you. I—”

A knock at the door.

Manuel opened bleary eyes. “It’s the secretaries,” he said. “The secretaries are back.”

“Hush,” Lida told him, and stood silently looking at the door.

And now Eustace’s voice sounded through it: “Lida? Are you in there?”

Lida hesitated, then called, “Yes. I’m here.”

The doorknob rattled, but just before their lovemaking Lida had locked it. Eustace called again: “It’s time to go.”

“Just one moment,” Lida called, then turned to Manuel. “You must help me, Manuel,” she whispered urgently. “You’re the only one I can trust.”

“Oh, you can trust me,” Manuel said. His thirty-second nap had refreshed him, and a gleam was returning to his eye.

“Later, Manuel,” Lida said. “We’ll have time. Later.”

Driving up the Boulevard Raspail toward the Pont de la Concorde, in a new white Renault freshly stolen by Vito Palone, were Vito himself with Rosa Palermo and Angelo Salvagambelli. Rosa was driving, with Angelo in the passenger seat beside her and Vito in back, grumbling. “I was happy in my retirement,” Vito was saying.

“You were in jail,” Rosa reminded him.

“I was in retirement,” Vito insisted. “I had my flowers. I was writing my memoirs.”

Interested, Angelo half turned in his seat, asking, “Memoirs? Am I in them?”

Spiteful, Vito shrugged, saying, “A footnote, only.”

Hurt, Angelo said, “After all we’ve been through together?”

Rosa, glancing in the rearview mirror, said, “What was this footnote about?”

Vito said, “That Greek sailor we kidnapped from the British lord.”

“What?” Angelo stared. “You put that in the book?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t!” Angelo cried. “Take it out at once!”

“Now you don’t want to be in the book.”

“If you put me in the book like that ,” Angelo told him, “you’ll put me in jail.”

With an offhand wave, Vito said, “So you’re out of the book.”

Heartfelt gratitude in his expression, Angelo said, “Thank you, Vito.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Rosa glanced at her companions, seemed to have it in mind to say something, and then seemed to think better of it. She shook her head, and steered the Renault across the Pont de la Concorde, around the Place de la Concorde, and northwest up the Champs Elysees.

On the Boulevard Périphérique, the elevated highway ringing the city line of Paris, Herman Muller stood at an overpass, looking south along Avenue Gallieni, watching the endless traffic rolling northward toward the city. From time to time he looked at his watch, and betrayed his impatience only with a slight frown.

Similarly, when at last he saw the two large orange trucks coming his way, his reaction was no more than a thin smile, quickly gone. He walked at an easy pace to the on-ramp, watching the trucks grind heavily up the ramp, and showed another brief thin smile when the Volkswagen appeared behind it, top down, Rudi driving and Otto sitting next to him. The Volkswagen stopped at the top of the ramp and Herman vaulted over the side and into the back seat. Pushing a walkie-talkie out of his way, he settled himself as Rudi drove out onto the highway, following the orange trucks.

“Hello, Major,” Otto said.

“Corporal. Any difficulty?”

“None,” Otto said.

“Good.” Herman leaned back, permitting himself yet another smile. “A fine day,” he said. “An excellent day for a tactical exercise.”

As he finished speaking, the walkie-talkie on the seat beside him piped up, in a tinny approximation of Eustace’s voice: “Group A? Come in, Group A.”

Herman glanced at the walkie-talkie, first in surprise, and then in some amusement. “Group A,” he repeated. “That’s us.” Picking up the walkie-talkie, he pressed the button on its side and said, “Yes, yes, here we are.”

The tinny voice said, “Where are you, Group A?”

“In the automobile,” Herman said, with exaggerated exactitude. “On the Boulevard Périphérique. Behind the trucks.”

“Are you on schedule?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” Herman said. “But then, the drivers of those trucks don’t know about our schedule, do they? I would say we are approximately twenty-five minutes late.”

“Well, it can’t be helped,” said the tinny voice, in a brave manner.

“Very true.”

“Well, anyway,” the tinny brave voice said, “I’m in position now. Keep in touch.”

“Without a doubt,” Herman said, and put the walkie-talkie down as though it were a three-day-old fish.

In Ménilmontant, in the London taxi parked on a narrow side street, Sir Mortimer and Bruddy and Andrew were having a discussion concerning a number of profound subjects: loyalty, finance, personal security. Bruddy was saying, “The rest of them would bloody well take the whole thing, if they found it.”

From the walkie-talkie on the front seat next to Bruddy came the same tinny voice that had spoken to Herman. This time it said, “Group B. Come in, Group B.”

Bruddy, ignoring the interruption, went on talking: “If we find the lolly,” he told Andrew and Sir Mortimer, “ I say we do the lot of them just the way they’d do us.”

“Group B? Come in , Group B.”

Bruddy picked up the walkie-talkie, apparently considering the discussion at an end, but Sir Mortimer said, “Wait, now, Bruddy. Don’t answer that yet. Let’s sort this out first.”

“It’s sorted,” Bruddy told him. “Far’s I’m concerned it is.”

“Group B? Can you hear me, Group B?”

Thoughtfully, slowly considering each separate word, Andrew said, “I must admit, Sir M, I do lean toward agreement with young Bruddy.”

“I do not intend,” Sir Mortimer said firmly, “to spend the rest of my days in hiding. I like Maxwell Manor.”

“Then take it with you,” Bruddy suggested, “like this bloody twit’s castle from South America.”

The tinny voice, clearly becoming desperate, sounded again from the walkie-talkie: “Group B, what’s wrong? Do come in, Group B.”

“I’d better answer this thing,” Bruddy said, picking up the walkie-talkie, “before the bloody man has a stroke.”

“This discussion,” Sir Mortimer said, “is not over.”

“Right, right,” Bruddy said carelessly.

“Group Bee- eee! Where are you?”

Bruddy pushed the button on the side of the machine, and spoke. “Keep your trousers buttoned, here we are.”

The tinny voice expressed delight and relief: “Bruddy! There you are!”

Bruddy, his voice dangerously soft, said, “The idea of the group numbers was, we wouldn’t be mentioning anybody’s name.”

“Oh!” said the tinny voice. “I am sorry!”

“Aff a mo,” Bruddy said, and turned to the two in the back seat. “Time for you to hop it.”

“Right you are,” said Andrew.

“This discussion,” Sir Mortimer insisted, “is still open.”

“Right, right,” Bruddy said.

The two older men got out of the cab, as the tinny voice, nervous again, said, “Bru-uh. B. B? Group B?”