R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

‘My terms, if terms is an appropriate description, are simple, if perhaps a little peculiar,’ Perez continued. He seemed relaxed, unhurried. ‘I have some things to say, a great many things, and thus my request that Mr Hartmann be present.’

Hartmann looked up at the sound of his name.

Perez smiled, and once again nodded his head. ‘Perhaps I feel I owe you something, Mr Hartmann.’

Hartmann frowned. ‘Owe me?’

‘Indeed. We have crossed paths before, indirectly, never face-to-face, but in some small way our lives connected some little while ago.’

Hartmann shook his head. There was nothing about the man that struck a chord with him.

Perez smiled. His eyes were dark and intense. He seemed to be speaking of something for which he held fond memories.

Hartmann clenched his fists. He bit his tongue. He said nothing.

Perez lowered his head, and then looked up once more and scanned the faces of the men looking back at him. ‘I think it was Pinochet perhaps, yes it was Pinochet who said that sometimes democracy must be bathed in blood.’

Perez shook his head, and turned once more to Hartmann. ‘But that is past,’ he said, ‘and we must talk of the present. As I said, I feel that there is a small matter for which I owe you a debt, and thus I have asked for you to be here. There are a good many things of which I wish to speak, and Mr Hartmann will be present to hear them. Once I am done, once I have said all I wish to say, then I will tell you where you can find the girl and she can be returned to her father. Is that understood?’

There was silence, perhaps for no more than ten or fifteen seconds, but those seconds drew out infinitely, and it seemed that everyone present was waiting for another to speak.

Finally it was Hartmann. ‘Do we have a choice?’ he asked.

Perez shook his head slowly and smiled. ‘If the life of Catherine Ducane carries any importance at all then no, Mr Hartmann, you do not have a choice.’

‘And if we concur with your wishes, if we give you the time to say what you have to say, then what guarantee can you give us that Catherine Ducane will be found alive?’

‘No guarantee, Mr Hartmann. No guarantee at all save my word.’

‘And once we have her back, what will you ask for yourself?’

Perez was silent for some time. He once more surveyed the faces that looked back at him, and it was as if he was taking a mental note, a series of snapshots of his surroundings, the people present, so as to always have them to view in hindsight. Hartmann sensed that here was both the beginning and the end of something for Ernesto Perez.

‘For myself?’ he asked. ‘I will stand and face whatever justice is deemed fitting for a man in my position.’

‘You will give yourself up?’ Hartmann asked suspiciously.

Perez shook his head. ‘A man like me never gives up, Mr Hartmann, and that is perhaps where you and I share a little in common. No, I will not be giving myself up, I will merely be relinquishing my power of choice regarding my own fate.’

Hartmann said nothing. He turned and looked at Schaeffer, whose expression was one of total incredulity. There were things he wanted to say, questions he wanted to ask, but in some fashion his mind and his mouth failed to connect.

‘So be it,’ Hartmann said finally. ‘It seems we’ve been placed in a situation where we have no choice.’

‘So be it indeed,’ Perez replied. ‘I would ask for safe housing in a nearby hotel. We shall conduct our discussions either there or here in this office, that is up to you. You can escort me from one building to another under armed guard. You can place me under arrest and keep me watched twenty-four hours a day, but I would ask for sufficient time to sleep and for adequate food. You can record our discussions or have them transcribed by someone else in the room, again that is your choice. I make no conditions as to the security or retention of those things I tell you, and I will trust Mr Hartmann to make a decision as to whether or not any action is taken against any other person whose name I might divulge. Those are the parameters within which we shall work.’

Perez turned to Sheldon Ross and extended his hand. Ross looked at Hartmann, Hartmann nodded and Ross returned the overcoat and scarf to Perez.

‘Shall we?’ Perez asked Hartmann.

Hartmann turned and started walking, Perez following him, and after Perez the collective federal body moved slowly and in single file like schoolchildren crossing the junction.

They walked through the main offices and entered the room at the rear, and here Ray Hartmann and Ernesto Perez sat facing each other.

‘If I could perhaps have a cup of strong coffee, without sugar but with ample cream, and also a glass of water, Mr Schaeffer,’ Perez stated. ‘And while you are attending to that, perhaps you could have one of your people arrange for whatever recording facility might be required?’

Schaeffer nodded in the affirmative, and walked away, neither questioning nor challenging Perez’s right to ask these things of him.

A few minutes later Lester Kubis appeared in the doorway, carrying a case from which he produced desk mikes and cables. He was fast and efficient, and within ten minutes he gave a thumbs-up from a desk situated six feet from the doorway. On it was a large reel-to-reel tape recorder and additional cables running into a PC that would record the discussions directly to CD.

Schaeffer returned with coffee for both Perez and Hartmann, also a glass of water and a clean ashtray.

‘So,’ he said as he paused in the doorway. ‘I’ll be here if you require anything further.’

‘Thank you, Mr Schaeffer,’ Perez said quietly, and then with his right hand he reached out and gently pushed the door to.

Hartmann looked at the old man; his lined face, his intense eyes, his heavy-set brows. The old man looked back and smiled.

‘So here we are, Mr Hartmann,’ he said, and his voice possessed a rhythm and timbre that seemed both relaxed and direct. ‘You are ready for this?’

Hartmann shrugged. ‘I’m ready,’ he replied. ‘For what, I don’t know, but I am ready.’

‘Good enough,’ Perez said. ‘I have a great deal to say, and not a great deal of time to say it, so pay attention. That is all I can ask of you.’

‘My attention you have,’ Hartmann replied. He wanted to ask the man what he meant. How much did he want to say, and how much time did he possess? He wanted to know the answer to these questions, and he knew that it was not because of Catherine Ducane, not for fear of the girl’s life or what her father might think, it was because of Carol and Jess, the fact that what this man had done might make it impossible for him to be there come Saturday…

‘Okay.’ Perez smiled. He leaned back in his chair, and before he spoke again he took the glass of water and drank from it. ‘So… we shall begin.’

Hartmann raised his hand.

Perez tilted his head to the right and frowned.

‘I must ask you something,’ Hartmann said.

Perez nodded. ‘Ask away, Mr Hartmann.’

‘It’s just… well, you said that there was some debt you owed me, that we had crossed paths before-’

Perez smiled. ‘Later,’ he said quietly. ‘It is not important now, Mr Hartmann. What is important here is the life of the girl, and the fact that until this matter is resolved you and I will be sharing one another’s company, and that is something that can be either straightforward or complicated. I have no wish to prolong this matter any more than is entirely necessary, and I am quite sure you have matters to attend to that are an awful lot more pressing than the well-being of the governor’s daughter. You have your own family, I understand?’