"Agreed," the man replied, but the crooked smile beneath the beard told Carter the truth.
He had just made a cardinal error in the purchase of munitions from an illegal arms dealer. Oakhurst had fifty thousand, and he still had the cargo.
Ergo, he could run with the down payment and sell the arms to the next bidder.
It was unethical but very practical.
A man like the bearded one before him wouldn't worry about losing a good customer like Jasmine. There were too many other good customers right around the corner, and fifty thousand was a good night's work if one didn't have to deliver anything for it.
But Carter had made this cardinal error on purpose. If there was one thing a man like Oakhurst feared more than making a bad deal, it was death itself. He would go to any lengths to protect his own skin, even to the point of remaining honest. He simply had to be shown the way.
Carter meant to do just that.
"By the way, give me the number here — in case there is a change of plans after I make my delivery contact tonight."
The two men exchanged wary glances, and then the bearded one seemed to shrug with his eyes.
Carter could almost read his thoughts: Why not give the number to this fool? He'll never live long enough to dial it!
He clipped it off between thin lips, and Carter left the room.
On the street, Carter paused to light a cigarette, the corner of his eye on the fourth-floor window. When the light went off and on twice, he moved off at a steady, brisk pace.
Five
It was cat and mouse for almost fifteen minutes. Carter never saw them behind him, but he heard their heels matching his pace as he moved farther and farther into the old part of the city.
The streets had long since given themselves up to narrow alleys, and streetlights were nonexistent. The only illumination came from an occasional barred window high in the walls through which he passed.
As he searched for just the right place, Carter made no effort to elude them. On purpose, his own heels left a clearly audible trail that only a deaf person wouldn't be able to follow.
And then he saw it, a tiny alley. It was no more than a corridor between low buildings.
He turned into it and immediately broke into a run. They were still behind him, making the turn themselves, as Carter veered between the buildings. As he sprinted, he paused at every alcove to try the doors he found.
Behind him, he could hear two sets of pounding feet. He wondered how close behind them the woman would be.
Carter was about to halt and try the game where he was, when the alley before him swerved in a Y to the left and right. He chose the left and, around the corner, checked his flight with a growl of satisfaction.
The alley ended with a heavy, iron-studded double door. The entry was slightly ajar, and a bare bulb cast eerie yellow light through the crack between door and jamb.
It was perfect.
Behind him, the footsteps slowed in caution. They thought they had Carter boxed, and now. hopefully, they would move in for the kill.
Carter darted through the opening and left the heavy door open a crack behind him.
It was a large wine cellar, fitted with long rows of racks on which rested many hundreds of dusty bottles under a whitewashed stone roof. He darted along the wall, glancing hurriedly down each row. Each ended in a blank stone wall…except the last. At the far end of that was a small vaulted door.
Carter checked it and smiled in satisfaction when he found it locked.
There was no other way out.
Now, Carter thought, settling into a crouch behind one of the high wine racks, the hunted becomes the hunter.
A tenseness in the muscle of his right forearm released the spring in Hugo's sheath, sending the deadly stiletto sliding forward into his hand.
There was a deathly silence, and then the faint creak of the entrance door opening. Without hesitation, Carter clutched a half bottle of wine from one of the racks and threw it unerringly at the bulb.
There was a popping sound as the light went, and then a louder crash as the bottle shattered on the stone floor. This was quickly followed by guttural curses and the sound of falling bodies as the two of them rolled into the room. Then Carter heard the dull thud of the door closing behind them.
He's not armed, the squat man had said after patting Carter down.
Hopefully, he had relayed this information to the two outside men and the woman.
Now the cellar was completely dark. Clutching the stiletto in his hand, Carter crouched in a comer and reasoned his next move. There were two of them, and they might be joined shortly by a third, the woman.
They would probably use knives, but Carter guessed they would have guns as well. He could only hope that they, like himself, wanted to keep this thing private. If so, guns wouldn't be a factor.
Since there were only two of them, they couldn't search the passages between the rows of wine racks one by one and be sure that he hadn't slipped by at the unguarded end.
Carter guessed that one would start by feeling his way carefully around the perimeter walls, either to drive him toward the other one who would be waiting for him, or to make Carter move and perhaps betray his whereabouts by some slight noise.
If Carter was guessing correctly, what was the best maneuver to counter it?
His only hope was to get at one of them first and hope the other would go for the sound in the confusion.
The problem was, which way to go? He didn't know which way around the outer walls they would be moving.
Still crouching, he listened intently. There were no footfalls, but then, if they were moving, it was probably on their hands and knees.
Then he thought he heard a faint clink, as though one bottle had been touched against another. It seemed to have come from the far end of the right-hand wall leading away from his corner.
Still in a half crouch, his toes barely making a whisper on the stone floor, Carter moved to his right. As he came to the corner at the far end of the wall along which he was moving, he stopped to listen once more. He was sure that the wall he had now reached was the one that led to the entrance door.
He thought of making a noise and drawing them in, when he heard the breathing, almost beside him.
With the greatest care, Carter groped for the end of the nearest wine rack and eased himself across the space and into the passage between that rack and the next. In spite of the exertion, he managed first to hold his breath, and then to breathe cautiously and silently.
What he could not decide was whether, a moment or two earlier, his own breathing had been as apparent to the man as his had been to Carter.
The breathing could no longer be heard. He dug in the pocket of his slacks until his fingers found a book of matches. Carefully, he tucked the flap under the matches and folded two of them down. Holding the match heads in place with his thumb over the striking surface, he concentrated hard, trying to discern the slightest indication of where his prey was.
And then he heard it: the barely perceptible scrape of a toe or the leather sole of a shoe against the stone. It came from the wall directly opposite him.
Tensing his whole body, Carter scraped the matches over the striking surface.
They had fooled him. One was directly in front of him, staring at the flaring matches in Carter's left hand in surprise. But the other one wasn't across the room as Carter had thought. He was in the next aisle over, and already moving around toward him.
But now Carter only had time for the one in front of him as the man lunged. Carter thrust forward with his left hand, smashing the burning matches into the man's face. His right hand, holding the stiletto, flashed up from the floor.