Philip Kerr - The Shot

‘Even we don’t know his real name, Tom,’ said Davidson.

‘Won’t the Argentinian government guess that Israel is behind this operation?’ asked Tom.

Ilani shrugged. ‘Since the Argentinian government denies that this man is in their country at all,’ he said, ‘it is unlikely that they will wish to draw attention to the fact of his having been there by complaining about his assassination. In all probability they’ll sweep the whole matter under the rug. This is to your advantage, Mister Jefferson. You should be able to leave the country without too much trouble. Of course, supposing you take the contract, you will be assisted by a local team of Argentinian Jews. They’ve been keeping Gregor under surveillance since the arrest of Eichmann. They will supply you with everything you need on the ground. A suitable rifle, transport, hotel accommodation. With the help of the American Jewish League Against Communism I will supply you with a US passport and a suitable cover story.’

‘What about a visa?’

‘Visitors of US nationality are admitted on a passport without any consular visa.’

‘You’ll be travelling as Bill Casper, a Coca-Cola sales director, from Atlanta,’ explained Davidson. ‘It so happens that I’m a registered lobbyist for Coca-Cola among others. I’ve escorted teams of soft-drinks executives, including the real Mister Casper, on missions all over the world. Incidentally, the real Bill Casper is currently vacationing in Brazil. Enjoying the spas of southern Minas Gerais. When you get to BA you can hand out some Coke, make the hit, and then fly home.’ He shrugged as if to say that was all there was to it.

Tom nodded, holding off a smile as he held two of these images in his head: drink Coca-Cola, and make the hit. Simple. Maybe some Madison Avenue type could get an ad campaign out of that. The hit that refreshes. Only Israeli was shrewd enough to spell out the reality of what was being proposed.

‘Of course it won’t be that easy,’ he said. ‘Otherwise...’

Tom gave in to the smile, relieved that there was at least someone who recognised the existence of a few potential problems.

‘Otherwise,’ said Tom, ‘you wouldn’t be prepared to pay me twenty-five thousand dollars.’

‘Damn right,’ said Rosenstiel.

Tom wondered if it was Rosenstiel who was putting up the money for the contract. It was no longer just the diamond cufflinks that made Tom think he was loaded. By now he’d added on the Duoppioni label inside the coat of Rosenstiel’s silk suit, the Italian tasselled loafers, the Rolex watch, and the Dunhill gold lighter.

‘Since Eichmann’s arrest, Gregor is well guarded,’ said Ilani. ‘He has some powerful friends in the military government. Officials he has bribed with large sums of money.’

‘While we’re on that subject,’ said Tom, ‘my terms and conditions include fifty per cent of the consideration, in advance, in cash.’

‘No problem,’ said Moe Dalitz.

Then we have a deal,’ said Tom. He had been wrong about Rosenstiel. It was the casino that was going to put up the money for the contract. That was okay. They’d probably let him win at roulette, or something. Just as long as they didn’t expect him to take his money from a slot machine. He handed Davidson a sheet of paper.

‘My bank is Maduro and Curiel’s in Curaçao,’ he said. ‘That’s the cable address and my account number. When the service has been rendered, I’ll telephone to let you know so you can deposit the balance of my fee.’

‘There is one more thing,’ said Ilani. ‘We’d prefer it if you could go to Argentina immediately on your return to Miami.’ He handed Tom a ticket. ‘There’s a Braniff flight from Miami to Buenos Aires this Friday. We’d like you to be on it. It’s just possible Gregor may yet disappear altogether.’

‘I understand,’ said Tom. ‘I can be on that flight. But can you do the passport by then?’

‘You’ll have it by tomorrow morning,’ Ilani confirmed.

‘Then there’s just the deposit.’

‘Sure, sure,’ said Dalitz. ‘Ever play keno, Tom?’

‘I’m more of a golfer than a gambler.’

‘Keno was the national lottery in ancient China. Funds acquired from the game were used to build the Great Wall of China. Which ought to tell you that the house percentage is bigger than on any other casino game. Maybe in Disneyland they win money at keno, but anywhere else it’s the original hard way bet. Damned if I know why but it’s about the most popular game in the joint. Vegas loves a winner, Tom. And tonight, my friend, you’re it.’

Moe Dalitz handed Tom a keno form. It was divided horizontally into two rectangles. The upper half was numbered 1 through 40, and the lower half 41 through 80. Fifteen numbers had already been marked with a thick black crayon and, in the right-hand corner of the form, was the price of the ticket: $100.

‘Hand this in at the keno lounge desk,’ Dalitz told him. ‘Pay for the bet. The lady will give you back a ticket with the number of the game you’re playing. Then watch the keno board. After twenty numbers have appeared turn in your ticket and collect your money. Only don’t hang around before the next game, otherwise you’ll forfeit your winnings. All thirteen grand of it.’

Grinning affably, Dalitz toasted Tom, and said: ‘Congratulations. You’re leaving Vegas with a small fortune. To do that most people usually have to arrive in Vegas with a large one.’

It was the first time Tom ever played keno. And in view of the ease with which the fix had gone in, he thought it would be the last time, too. The whole experience confirmed Tom’s belief that luck was something only suckers believed in. Like God. And Justice. Perhaps there were those who might have seen some kind of Nemesis in what was about to befall Helmut Gregor. Tom was not one of these, however. He had no illusions with regard to what he was doing. However heinous the man’s crimes, this was plain murder. And plain murder was what Tom was good at. The way some guys were good at pitching a baseball, or playing a saxophone. Not much of a talent, maybe, but enough to make a good living. Tom would have put a bullet through Walt Disney’s head if someone had come up with the twenty-five grand.

For considerably more than that — a cool two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to be precise — a consortium of embittered Cubans, angry at Eisenhower’s lack of support for their now-exiled President, Fulgencia Batista, had contracted Tom to assassinate Ike during his state visit to Brazil, back in March. Had the Cubans managed to stay out of gaol — all of them were now imprisoned in the notorious Isle of Pines — and come up with even half of the money, it might have been the easiest of jobs: on the newsreels he’d seen Ike riding the length of Rio’s mile-long Avenida Rio Branco sitting right up on the back of the open-top limousine so that the crowd with its ticker-tape welcome could get a better view of him. It had been a rare opportunity. The car had been travelling at just eight miles an hour. Usually, American presidents were not so easy to kill.

‘Moloch. There he is,’ Sylvia reported. The biographical charm bracelet she wore on her wrist clinked noisily as she rocked up and down excitedly.

Her scent was in his nostrils. Something nice. Better than the stink of gunpowder that was to come.

‘I see him.’ Tom’s voice was calm, even appreciative, as if he was observing a rare bird, or a girl undressing in front of an open window. The man who had just rounded the corner looked respectable enough and like someone Tom had once known. Tall and dark-haired, Gregor cut a well-dressed, handsome figure and seemed hardly German at all. More like a typical porteño male: dressed with the care of a Frenchman, and possessed with the attitude of an Englishman. Josef Goebbels in a grey suit, with two good feet and an extra six inches. Tom could easily see how, for over ten years, the German had managed to fit right in.