When the doorbell rang and Greta hurried from the kitchen, Strasser signaled her to go into their bedroom. He turned the radio on the bar to Viennese dance music and opened the front door.
Pytor Vayetch folded his coat over a chair and put his hat on top of it, but Herr Rauch sat with his overcoat on, his big shoulders hunched forward, face impassive, like a man who did not expect to stay long and who had not wanted to make this visit in the first place.
Both men refused Strasser’s offer of drinks and Vayetch began to pace back and forth. When he finally spoke, he talked slowly, picking his words carefully, savoring the tutorial role.
“The background of our operations, the financing, contracts, who’s who, none of that is relevant to your contribution to our project, Mr. Jackson. Everything is planned to move as smooth as honey, and you have to know only your function, your responsibilities, nothing more.” He paused and looked expectantly at Lasari.
“Goddamn it, soldier! Answer the man!” Strasser snapped.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Vayetch, yes, sir.”
“Even though you and I are not users, we share mutual knowledge. From your experience in Vietnam, I know you are well aware of how dependent servicemen can become. And our civilian users, too, of course. Worldwide, it is a seller’s market. Take Thailand, for instance. It used to be a major export country in our market. But the Thais began to enjoy their own product. Now that country imports more heroin than it exports. There are continuing shifts in both demand and supply.
“Some time ago the reliable Marseilles connection was permanently interrupted. That created a real hardship, especially in the United States, we learned. There are supposedly five hundred thousand heroin users in your country, but I believe that estimate is low by more than one hundred percent. Without Marseilles, the suppliers tried to fill their clients’ needs with Mexican brown and whatever medium-quality stuff they could get from South America. My partner and I were not idle,” He nodded formally at Herr Rauch. “It took time, but we were able to get our hands on a steady source of white, the finest there is, pick of the world market, worth top dollars. It is a quantity of this excellent product that you will be kind enough to take into the United States for us.”
Lasari glanced at Strasser, standing near the bar, and noted the tremor in his hand as he poured gin over ice cubes.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Vayetch,” he said again.
“Here is how you will proceed. In about two hours you will be taken to the bus station and boarded. You will be met in Regensburg. Tomorrow, at first call, you and a group of servicemen, regular NATO troops on assignment, will be flown by Army plane to Kassel in West Germany, a few kilometers from the Czech border. Sergeant Strasser has made all the necessary paper arrangements. You will be expected, there will be no surprises.
“The sergeant has requested you be put on the duty roster starting at ten tomorrow night. Your battery, a guard unit, moves out to grid coordinates A-12, a forward observation post. There are nine nations represented in the maneuvers, and one extra soldier in the area will be next to invisible. All you’ve got to do is keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and follow the scenario we’ve laid out for you.”
He turned suddenly to Strasser. “Turn off that music, sergeant, if you please. We are men of business here, not senile fools in wigs and waistcoats.”
When the gemutlich strains had faded away, he turned again to Lasari. “At 2:00 a.m., you’ll get an order for a cigarette break. You use that break to take a nature call. The latrines will be five hundred yards south of your positions, approximately at grids A-14.
“Stay in the latrine for exactly five minutes. When you come out, a soldier will ask you for a light. Hand him these matches.” Vayetch took a book of matches with the homed devil symbol of Teufel’s Atelier on the cover and tossed it on the table. “The soldier takes the matches and leaves behind a duffel bag with your initials and ID number on it.”
“How will I know him?” Lasari asked. “What uniform will he be wearing?”
“You don’t have to know him,” Vayetch said. “He has seen pictures. He knows you.”
Herr Rauch put his hand into his overcoat pocket, brought out a small plastic bottle and handed it to Vayetch, who said, “With the duffel in your possession, you will promptly swallow three of these pills. They are harmless but powerful emetics; they will not blur your senses but you will be completely nauseated and run a high fever for twenty-four hours.”
He held the bottle out to Lasari.
For the first time Herr Rauch seemed interested, even amused. “Don’t worry,” he said to Lasari. “They are smart little pills. They know who their friends are.”
“Take your duffel bag and your sickness and get back to platoon headquarters immediately. Check in with a medic and get permission to bed down. In the morning insist that you be examined by a doctor. These pills will simulate all the symptoms of morbid dysentery and acute food poisoning. You and your precious knapsack will be back in Regensburg on sick leave two days from now. From then on, you’re on your way back to the States. Sergeant Strasser knows how to do his job.”
Strasser spoke then, but his words had begun to thicken. “The next friendly face you see, Jackson, will be at O’Hare Airport in Chicago. Just one more GI on leave, carrying regulation duffel, right size, right weight, right initials, right ID number. You’ll be met by friends.”
The sergeant passed the back of his hand over his dry lips. “Customs does want to look at your gear, all they see is a couple of presents for the girl friend back home and a few changes of Army wardrobe.”
“And the heroin, where am I carrying it? How do I know you’re not tricking me?” Lasari said.
“That information is not relevant to your contribution to the project,” Vayetch said. “You just don’t need to know.”
The doorbell rang, four short rings, and Strasser called out, “Hold it, Eddie.” He turned a mirthless smile to the two visitors. “Change of guard reporting for the ginzo here.”
Herr Rauch stood and Vayetch did the same, pulling on his overcoat and creasing the crown of a velour fedora between his fingers. He put his hand out to Duro Lasari and the two men shook briefly and formally.
“As I said, Herr Rauch and I are businessmen. We have been successful in our ventures because we keep the operations simple and leave nothing to chance. ‘There is no greatness where there is no simplicity...’ The great Russian, Count Leo Tolstoy, said that, and I honor his words. I like to think that Count Tolstoy would have found us interesting men, self-reliant and alive to the realities of our times.”
Vayetch put on his hat, then took suede gloves from a pocket. He pulled them on slowly, smoothing the fine leather into the grooves between each finger, studying Lasari with a final, thoughtful appraisal. “I regret that we shall not meet again,” he said. “But even though you do not see us, Mr. Jackson, please do not make the mistake of thinking we do not see you.”
Eddie Neal held open the door with insolent courtesy and the two men passed him without speaking.
At a mumbled command from Strasser, Lasari helped the sergeant off the bar stool, steadying him as they walked toward the bedroom door. Lasari tapped the wood with the toe of his boot and Greta opened it.
She pointed to Strasser. “I’m not going to stay in here when he’s drunk. He promised me he wouldn’t spoil your last day.”
“Do what you like, Greta,” Lasari said. She slipped out of the bedroom and he pushed the door shut behind her. He guided the sergeant to the bed, letting him fall back across it, his weight creaking the springs.