"Parcel?" he repeated after only a second. Now he wasn't entirely sure what it was the man was after. Was he in collusion with Grimes, demanding that Irene be handed back to his portly conspirator? Or was this visitation entirely coincidental?
"Yes, Kismet. Quickly, or I shall have to use a more persuasive argument; a threat to your life perhaps. Or to the health of your…ah, guest?"
"No," Kismet replied, trying to sound casual. "That won't be necessary. It's just that I'm not sure what it is you want."
"Do not be obtuse, Kismet. You are trying my patience."
He was getting nowhere. It was time to try a different tack. He snapped his fingers as if experiencing a revelation. "Hey, I remember you now. You were in Morocco."
A faint smile tilted the corners of the man's lips. "Yes. And I've come back to finish that business."
Realization dawned. "The calf. You want that statue of the golden calf."
"I do," replied the man. "Please get it for me now."
"You know it's a fake, don't you?"
The man did not reply, not even a flicker of emotion at the statement. Kismet could not for the life of himself understand what was so important about the statue. It had no cultural value and not much artistic importance. Its precious metal content might gain the attention of a petty crook, but would certainly not justify an international retrieval effort, unless there was something else at stake that he had not considered. He understood only one thing: the German wanted the statue badly, therefore he must not be allowed to have it. Kismet needed options. "It's in a safe place," he stated cautiously.
"I would expect so. You will show me." The fellow gestured with his gun for emphasis.
Kismet glanced around his apartment. It was no longer the place where he lived and slept but a battlefield. His eyes roamed every corner, every stick of furniture, as if he were a field marshal organizing a defense against an overwhelming enemy. His gaze settled on the refrigerator, and a plan began to take shape.
"It's in there," he revealed, pointing toward the kitchen. He moved, a little too eagerly, in that direction. "I'll get it."
"Stop," ordered the German. Kismet halted, allowing the German to push past him. "Where?"
Kismet again moved quickly, kneeling before the sink. "I put it down here."
"Do not open that. Back away, slowly."
Kismet did, trying to appear confused. "I thought you wanted me to get the statue."
"Indeed. But will I find the statue down here, or perhaps you have a hidden weapon? I shall be very disappointed if that is what I discover." The German knelt, his pistol trained on Kismet, and opened the cabinet under the sink with his left hand.
Kismet took a careful step backwards. He was now standing in front of the refrigerator. Two more steps in that direction would take him out of that room; closer to his bedroom where the Smith & Wesson revolver he had captured earlier in the evening lay in the pocket of his destroyed suit coat.
A small wastebasket was the first thing the German's searching hand encountered. He risked a brief look then thrust the can aside, spilling some debris on the tile floor. He continued to reach and probe with his left hand, but because he was unwilling to lend his eyes to the search, he was limited to a very small area of movement.
"It's farther back," volunteered Kismet, evincing defeat.
The German grunted, trying one last time to reach into the unseen depths of the cupboard. Finally he eased forward, squatting on his haunches. He switched the gun to his left hand freeing his right for the search. "Let me assure you that I am equally capable shooting with either hand."
Kismet suppressed an urge to laugh. If the man were truly ambidextrous, as he claimed, he would have had no difficulty reaching into the cabinet with his left hand. He added this fact to the body of his overall scheme. Now he had only to wait until his trap was sprung. He gauged his distance to the refrigerator door; he needed to be closer.
"What's the big deal with that statue anyway?" he asked, taking a half step sideways. The German stiffened to an alert pose, waving the pistol to reaffirm his control of the situation. Kismet raised his arms submissively then lowered them when the moment of tension had passed. His left hand came to rest on the handle of the refrigerator door. He wrapped his fingers around it and waited.
"You are better off not knowing," remarked the German. "Some things are better left—"
The German yelped suddenly and snatched his hand back as though it had been burned. Kismet noted with satisfaction that the mousetrap, which he had left set beneath the sink drain, had snapped across the tips of the man's first two fingers.
Kismet pulled on the handle, opening the refrigerator door, and threw himself behind it. The heavy door swung out, shielding him from the view of the frustrated foreign agent. The man nevertheless retained the wherewithal to discharge his weapon. A series of soft coughing noises instantaneously heralded a chaotic pattern of ruptures in the metal skin of the door. Even as a carton of eggs, a plastic jug of milk and a jar of mustard exploded on one side of the barrier, Kismet felt blows slamming into his chest; sharp hits, like a hammer striking against his body but did not let the wounds slow him. Grasping the back of the refrigerator with both hands and bracing one foot against the wall, he pulled the top of the appliance toward himself.
The refrigerator tilted away from the wall, slowly at first, until gravity's downward influence assisted his efforts. The heavy appliance disgorged its contents in a rush upon the unsuspecting German, and then it crashed down on top of him. There was a grunt as the freezer compartment struck him in the head, knocking him senseless, just before the wire shelves pinned him to the floor.
Kismet inspected the mayhem. All that was visible of the man were his feet and his right hand; his swollen fingers were still locked in the jaws of the trap. The intruder did not seem to be moving, but Kismet was nevertheless cautious as he knelt and pushed the refrigerator aside.
He turned the appliance over on its back, so that it resembled a waiting sarcophagus. The cavity inside was now totally vacant, the food and shelves in broken disarray all around the stunned spy. Three holes, each no bigger around than a pencil, perforated the door, and two similar piercings had ventilated the side panel.
Before the German could regain control of his faculties, Kismet kicked the silenced automatic pistol out of reach. He then inserted one arm under the fellow's head, the other under his legs, lifted him up and dumped him unceremoniously into the ruined refrigerator.
The German grunted again, the pain of striking his head a second time rousing him. He started thrashing briefly as his awareness returned, then stopped moving when he realized that his prey now held the upper hand. Kismet picked up the pistol and trained it on a point roughly in the area of the other man's nose. "Now will you tell me why that statue is so important, mein Herr?"
There was a flicker of an eyebrow in response to the last two words, but the foreign agent quickly mastered his emotions. He would give nothing away. "You may as well shoot me, Kismet. I have nothing to say to you."
"How unfortunate," mused Kismet, taking a step closer. He slid his foot under the door and leaned over the German. “However, I have no intention of killing you. I'm sure the authorities have more persuasive ways of getting answers from you, and I know they'll be interested in what kind of operations the German intelligence service is running on American soil."
The man did not react at all; his face was an unreadable mask. Kismet frowned as he considered his options, and then decided to play one last wild card. "If you see him, give my regards to Halverson Grimes."