"The president of a big concern handles that?"
"It's always been that way," she said.
"He's gathering up a new inventory, then. But what? And where's it coming from?"
She shook her head. "It's just numbers on a page to me, Nick. I don't know what the actual inventory is. I'm sorry. Do you think it's that important?"
"It might be."
"Once I remember sending a series of letters to a factory in Germany. I remember that specific incident because Mr. Ziegler seemed to be very worried about it."
"To Germany?"
"Yes, Mainz. It was something about a shortage of some items on a shipment."
"Where was all this shipped?"
"I don't know, Nick. It could have been anywhere. We have warehouses in sixteen different countries."
"Iceland?"
"No," she said. "Mostly in Europe, and here in South America."
"Here in Buenos Aires?"
"We have a lot of warehouses here."
"Where?" Nick asked. "Where specifically?"
"It depends upon what's being stored. I mean if it's paper goods, or hardware, or…"
"Something bulky, let's say," Nick interjected. "Something perhaps that might come in from Germany, and then would be immediately shipped out."
"Warehouse number four," she said without hesitation.
"What?"
"Number four. Avenida del Libertador. The Riacheulo District. It's the main clearinghouse for anything incoming or outgoing."
"Terrific," he said, sitting up. If Ziegler was supplying Iceland with anything — anything at all — it would probably go through this shipping point. It was worth a try.
Carter disengaged himself from Roberta and got up.
"You're not going out there now?"
He started getting dressed. "I have to find out what's going on there," he said.
She sat up. "But it's after one in the morning. And if they find you there, there's no telling what might happen."
Carter pulled her up to him and held her in his arms for a long moment. "I'm going to have to do this, but you're going to have to promise me something."
They parted, and she looked into his eyes but said nothing.
"I may have screwed things up for you at work. I don't want you going in until you hear from me. Do you understand?"
"No," she said, shaking her head.
"Your boss tried to kill me. Twice. Now he knows that you and I have spoken. He may know that we've had lunch, and that we've… been here together. Just stay here."
"All right," she said in a small voice.
He finished getting dressed, his weapons hidden in his jacket pockets.
"I get the terrible feeling that I'll never see you again. That I'm just going to have to hang around here in limbo for the rest of my life," Roberta said. Her eyes were glistening.
He kissed her. "I'll be back one way or the other," he said. "You can count on it."
They kissed again, and he left the apartment. In the elevator on the way down to his car, he promised himself that when this thing was over, he would take her somewhere. Perhaps the Bahamas. Hawk would have to give him the time off.
Downstairs in the Audi he strapped on his weapons, then studied the car agency's city map. The Riachuelo District was on the city's far south side. When he had some idea where to go, he started the engine and left.
He stopped at his hotel to pick up a few items from his suitcase — a camera and a packet of tools — then he continued on to the docks.
When he arrived he found the banks of the Rio de la Plata shrouded in fog. He turned left off the main street, up a cobblestone lane, and then bumped along, his headlights narrowed to cones, looking for the proper warehouse.
The numbers, for some reason, did not run consecutively, and it was only by accident that he finally came upon number four. The building was very large and well lit. The main dockside doors were wide open, with a lot of activity coming and going.
A ship was being unloaded. And everyone seemed to be in one hell of a hurry.
Carter continued past the warehouse, finding a spot for his car a block beyond the building. He hurried back on foot to a point just down the dock from the warehouse where he could watch what was going on.
Men drove forklifts in and out of the warehouse as loads of cargo were lowered from the ship. The cargo was mostly very large crates, but occasionally there were bundles of large-diameter pipe — apparently plastic pipe of some sort.
As he continued to watch, a security guard with a vicious-looking German shepherd watchdog at his side and an automatic rifle — what appeared to be an AK-47 — over his shoulder stepped into view in front of the doors. He nodded to one of the workmen, then walked to the other side of the building and disappeared around the corner.
Whatever was being unloaded must have been very important. They were taking no chances with its safety. Carter wondered if the armed guard was in any way a reaction to his visit to the company headquarters.
He slipped back into the shadows and, keeping low, raced across the narrow alleyway to a neighboring building.
The warehouse was dark, its service door at the side padlocked. It took him less than a minute to pick the lock and slip inside.
Even in the dark it wasn't hard to find the freight elevator and take it to the roof, but once he was outside he realized that the fog was thicker up here than at street level for some reason. The roof of number four appeared as nothing but a gray hulk lit from below. It was difficult to judge the exact distance from this roof to the other.
At the edge of the roof he looked across. It was fifteen feet, at least, to the roof of the next building. If he missed, it was at least fifty feet to the alley below. He'd end up as dog food for the German shepherd if he miscalculated.
Carter stepped back, counting off his paces until he was twenty yards away from the edge. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he raced toward the edge, putting everything he had into building up his speed.
There was no parapet on the roof, so one moment he was running and the next found him launched across the gap between the buildings.
His motion through the air seemed unreal in the dense fog; it seemed as if he were flying forever. But then the edge of the opposite building came up at his face, and he had just enough time to reach out with his arms to block his fall and hang on to the edge of the roof.
The impact nearly tore his arms from their sockets, but in the next instant he had heaved himself up onto the edge and lay there, his chest heaving.
The dog barked below, and seconds later Carter could hear the guard screaming at the animal to keep quiet.
He rolled over, got up, and moved silently to the nearest skylight. Below, in the warehouse, the crates were stacked nearly to the ceiling. He had to break one of the windowpanes in the skylight to get at the latch, but then it swung open easily, and he lowered himself inside atop the stack of crates.
He was near the rear of the warehouse. Most of the work being done now was toward the from. He flipped on his tiny penlight and examined the crate on which he was perched. Stenciled on the lid were the words FABRIZIERT IM DDR — Made in West Germany — giving Mainz as the point of origin. The logo was two lions holding up a shield with STEUBEN UND SOHNS lettered beneath it. He pulled out his miniature camera and took a photograph of the labeling, then let himself down crate by crate until he reached the floor at the rear of the building.
Wide aisles had been left between the tall stacks, and by keeping to the rear of the building, Carter could remain out of sight of the activity in the front.
His tiny camera was loaded with ultra-high-speed film, and as he worked his way past the stacks, he took photographs of the markings and numbers on the crates. Occasionally a piece of equipment was too large to be crated and instead was covered with plastic sheeting. He took photographs of these pieces of equipment as well.