Over his dead body, he thought, and he wasn’t planning on checking out anytime soon.
“That information is for Warner,” he said. “When I see him, I’ll tell him.”
Her lips curled, and she practically hissed at him-bitch. She could hiss all she wanted. He only had one shot at doing this. He reached out and took his phone back. Yeah, he was pretty fast, too, and pretty damn strong.
When they reached the street, he was unceremoniously relegated to the front seat of the Humvee, shotgun, which was fine with him. On this job, he was working for Warner.
He glanced over at the driver, a young guy, sharply dressed in a spic-and-span black T-shirt with camouflage pants, who looked like he took himself and his job very seriously. Fine with Dax, he liked serious guys. He was kind of a serious guy himself. But it would be damn nice to know whose Humvee he was riding in, and even better to know where they were going. Regardless, he figured his “minute flat” with Warner was hell and gone.
He let out a heavy sigh and relaxed back into his seat.
“Caray! La mujer está loca, sabes?” he said, shaking his head. Cripes, the woman is crazy, you know?
The young driver kept his eyes on the road and didn’t say anything, but Dax saw the small grin he couldn’t control.
That’s all he needed, a little something to work with, and by the time they pulled up to a walled compound an hour out of Ciudad del Este, Dax and Pedro were on a first-name basis, and Dax knew exactly where they were-Joaquin Vargas’s estate, and he knew Pedro’s life story and Vargas’s business.
Drugs and guns-that’s what made the world go around, especially on the Paraguayan frontier.
They drove past Vargas’s elaborate villa and came to a stop half a mile down the drive, under a smaller house’s portico. There were guards everywhere, all over the grounds, all of them armed. Dax was told to stay in the car until Pedro drove around to the garage entrance of the house.
That’s right. He was the hired help, and he very much wanted to keep it that way-low-key, important but not equal, not worthy of too much notice.
Pedro led him inside, all business again, down a long marble-floored hall to a large library, where he was directed to wait.
He’d been slumming it in the market and at the Posada Plaza for three days, and been in muck up to his knees for half of today, and this place was stunning, like a museum, everything pristine and expensive from the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and rich wool carpets to the huge mahogany desk commanding attention on the far side of the room. There was a fireplace on the near wall, flanked with leather chairs and a couch, and various exquisitely inlaid tables.
Dax took up a position slightly off to one side of the fireplace, where he could see the whole room, and he kept a good hold on his duffel bag, and tried not to think too much about the phone burning a hole in his pocket, or about the last call he’d gotten.
He needed to stay cool, to play it as it lay, and somehow, without anybody knowing it, get exactly what he needed here tonight.
“Have you failed me, Mr. Killian? Or does this Suzi have what I want?” The tone was bored rather than strident, but Dax could instantly see the strain on Erich Warner’s face when the man walked into the room.
Good. For what Dax needed him to do, strain was the perfect motivation.
He also saw the iguana draped on Warner’s shoulder, a young one, not very big, with a jeweled collar and a linked-chain leash, an odd accoutrement for somebody who looked more like a fresh-faced German schoolboy than anyone over eighteen should. Warner’s hair was very blond, thick, and bluntly cut, his features straight out of the Aryan handbook, which Dax knew was a tremendous source of pride for the man.
Dax also knew he was into some pretty strange stuff on the side, genetic research or some such, which under the best of circumstances he didn’t believe belonged in the hands of an underworld kingpin. But he’d heard things about drugs and procedures, and the truth of it, in Dax’s opinion, was the walking advertisement for strangeness that was always at his side.
Shoko, gliding in behind him, was neither bored nor strained. She always just was-oddly present in the moment and dangerously ready. Even considering the size of the room, he was well inside her “reach out and touch you before you can blink” perimeter again-and her boss was unhappy with him.
Sometimes he thought he needed a new job.
“I haven’t failed,” he said with the utmost confidence. “Do you have the information?”
No information, and Dax would kill the bastard himself.
In answer, Warner pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. “A terrorist cell, the names you need, just as we agreed. You sounded so sure of yourself when we spoke earlier,” the German said, stepping over to the front of the desk and pouring himself a short shot in a highball glass. He downed it in one swallow and poured himself another. The envelope went back into the inside pocket on his jacket.
Nerves. Yeah, Dax understood. The night was wearing on his nerves, too. The same way the whole damn day had worn on his nerves.
“When we spoke earlier, I was headed into a meeting with one of the dealers from Beranger’s. I made it clear that I was willing to beat anybody’s offer on the Sphinx, and was told to wait for a phone call. The phone call came shortly after Ms. Shoko arrived.” He nodded in the bitch’s direction. He was a good liar, so he didn’t have many qualms about Warner not buying his line.
“And Beranger is now dead, you said?”
“Yes.” And probably still lying on the floor in his gallery.
Warner downed his second shot and set the glass back down.
“It makes more sense, really,” he said, “him being dead, than it ever made that this unknown little Frenchman in Paraguay had acquired the Memphis Sphinx.”
Dax agreed. He’d been running in the art world for a few years now, and while it wasn’t unusual for some rare and wonderful thing to show up in a dump every now and then, the Memphis Sphinx was not merely a rare and wonderful artifact. It was a legend. The name of Howard Carter, its finder, attached instant cachet. That the piece had never been formally or academically displayed had created a mystery that had remained unsolved for nearly a hundred years.
“And this phone call? This Suzi, the dealer, did she give you the location of the Sphinx?” Warner’s tone sounded a little frayed, and he glanced toward the Blade Queen, looking, Dax supposed, for some kind of reassurance, and for a moment Dax wished that he’d been spending a little more time at the range. Marksmanship was a frangible skill, and if that woman made any kind of a move whatsoever, his skill in that area was going to be put to the test.
“Suzi gave me the first mark. I’m to call her when I reach it, and she’ll give me the second.”
“And the first mark is?”
“Five kilometers up the Paraná. I was just heading out when Ms. Shoko arrived at the Posada.” Mostly true. He’d cut the distance in half, not wanting to give too much away, but needing them headed in the right direction.
“You do understand the time constraint we’re dealing with here, don’t you, Mr. Killian?” A more frazzled edge definitely crept into Warner’s voice with the question.
Of course he did. Time was the whole raison d’être of the quest. Warner was looking for immortality, actually thinking he was going to get it off a hunk of granite in the moonlight.
“Yes, sir. I do. My plan was to get up there tonight, make the deal and call for a funds transfer, just as we’d planned, and have the Sphinx back here by tomorrow afternoon, in plenty of time for the…uh, ceremony.” He didn’t know what else to call this unlikely transfer of immortality that had Erich Warner’s boxers all in a wad. All he knew was that he’d hoped to be long gone before that moment arrived.