"Access?" Cassetti said dubiously.
"You will take me to him."
" Si," Marco said with a shrug. "But we'll have to take the bus. I don't have my own car."
"You will take me."
"Right this way," Marco said, and walked off through the slightly shabby, dated International Style spaces of the Asuncibn international airport. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stir as the man fell into step behind him.
This had come from the beautiful blond angel that had hired him? What could be the matter with her? Was she collecting men of a certain type?
That thought prompted another. Perhaps she wasn't a beautiful angel. Perhaps she was some demented witch who actually was collecting men who looked like von Rossbach and was doing things to them. Certainly this one seemed to have been lobotomized.
In which case Senor von Rossbach was in trouble but not from any terrorist. He was in trouble because Marco himself was going to bring it to him. He felt his heartbeat pick up a little and a clammy prickle of sweat on his palms and under his armpits. Marco rubbed his hands unobtrusively on his slacks.
The Terminator, following behind him, noted the slight elevation in Cassetti "s heartbeat and queried the cause of it. The options listed at the query suggested that the Terminator itself was the cause and the solution might be to say something amicable, showing the quality listed as empathy.
The list presented offered:
1. Are we walking too fast?
2. Is it much further?
It opted to utilize the one that might explain the change in the human's heartbeat.
"Are we walking too fast?" it asked.
Cassetti's head whipped round so fast he got a crick in his neck. "Unh," he said.
"Ah, sorry, senor. You must be tired after your journey."
He slowed down to an easy amble. The Terminator had to adjust its walking speed to avoid stepping on Cassetti's heels, but didn't bother to adjust for distance… which meant that they were walking in perfect unison, two inches apart.
Calm down, Cassetti told himself. There was no need to distress himself like this. A woman who collected men who looked alike and then lo-botomized them? Absurd! He was working himself into a sweat over a pipedream, just as his mother so often said.
They got on the bus. It took off in a cloud of diesel fumes through the hot crowded streets; it was hot and crowded itself, but they managed to get seats, and sat without talking until they had to transfer.
The stranger asked Marco why they were getting on a different bus. This struck Marco as odd. Surely even in the United States they had to change buses.
This time they had to stand. The stranger never held on to anything and he never lost his balance… which was odd for a man as tall and heavy as he was.
Especially considering the number of bumps the driver managed to find in the road.
Cassetti told himself this was evidence of martial-arts training. Something he hoped to one day be able to afford for himself. With anyone else he would have asked questions, but not this man.
They got off near Griego's building. It was old, old enough to be thought an eyesore but not to be quaint. Griego's sleazy office was on the third floor. There was no elevator.
The Terminator looked around the tiny lobby, noted the staircase, and turned to Marco.
"Wait here," it said. "I'll be back."
Cassetti opened his mouth to speak, but the stranger had already turned away.
Marco figured that Griego was probably used to dealing with tough customers and so wouldn't be fazed by this one. And he knew he could use a break from the stranger's quelling personality. He leaned against the wall, put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, and began to practice rolling it from side to side with his lips.
The Terminator climbed steadily, using its sensors to take note of human activity in the building: heat traces, heartbeats, vocalizations. There didn't seem to be much going on presently. On the third floor it paused to give itself a better opportunity to gather data. From the sounds, it appeared this floor was deserted except for one human. The door from behind which the signal came bore Victor Griego's name and a number.
It opened the door and entered the small office. The human was seated in an old leather office chair with his feet up on the desk, smoking a cigar and reading the paper.
After a moment the man lowered the paper impatiently. Whatever he'd been intending to say died on his lips and he stared openmouthed at the Terminator.
"What the hell do you want now, von Rossbach?" Griego said, his face reddening. "Did you forget to make some self-righteous remark when you threw me out?" He flung the paper down on the desk. "Well, I don't wanna hear it! This is my turf you're on now and I don't have to put up with you looking down your nose at me. So you can take a hike, buddy! Get outta here!"
"I need weapons," the Terminator said.
Victor stared at it in wide-eyed disbelief for a moment. Then, gradually, he began to chuckle, then to laugh.
"You're a piece of work, von Rossbach," he said. He leaned back in his chair, his expression nasty. "So I'm still good enough to do business with, is that it?"
"I need weapons," the Terminator repeated.
Victor vowed to himself that von Rossbach would pay top dollar and then some for anything he bought.
"Sure," Griego said expansively. "What did you have in mind, and how many?"
"What do you have here, right now?" The Terminator looked around the office.
Nothing was visible.
"Let me show you," Victor said smugly.
He got up from his chair and sauntered around his desk to a painting beside the window, a copy of the Madonna and Child in an enormous rococo frame. Victor placed his fingers just so on the bottom of the frame and it swung open with a discreet click to show a recessed area cut into the wall holding a dozen different weapons on pegs. The Terminator reached in, took down a Galil assault rifle, and examined it minutely, working the action and looking down the barrel. The chrome-lined interior shone with careful maintenance; the sound of the bolt indicated wear, but well within parameters.
"You have ammunition for this?" it asked.
Griego frowned. "These are samples," he said.
"That is acceptable. You have ammunition?" The Terminator turned to look at Griego, who chewed on his cigar and swallowed with a sudden unease.
"Sure," he said. "But I don't like to sell my samples. And I don't guarantee them." He raised a cautioning finger.
The Terminator nodded. It turned back to the case and selected an Austrian Steyr machine pistol and an American grenade launcher that looked like a fat single-barrel shotgun.
"What are you doing?" Victor protested. "Are you trying to clean me out?"
"I'll need a case to carry these in," the Terminator said, laying the guns down on the desk. "You have something?"
Victor glared, but nodded. Of course he did. One frequently had to bring these
things in and out, and they looked a little conspicuous wrapped in plastic bags.
"It will cost you extra," he said between his teeth.
This was getting to be a bit much. Von Rossbach was conducting business with him as nearly as possible as though they were in different rooms. On top of the way Dieter had treated him the other night it verged on intolerable. Even the prospect of obscene profit from this transaction was waning in attractiveness, while throwing von Rossbach out began to appeal.
"The case? The ammunition?" the Terminator said, turning to look down at Griego, its face impassive.