He leaned forward and inserted a master key in the lock, swinging the door wide for Ari to enter. The light switch was pressed; Ari sank to the bed gratefully. The manager blocked the doorway, looking solicitous. “I realize there will be many who might wish to disturb your, ah... your vacation,” he said, much as if the words had been forced from him by circumstances unfortunately beyond his control. “I assure you that we will do everything in our power to see that you are not bothered. If you wish it, that is, if you wish it,” he added hastily.
“I would certainly appreciate it,” Ari said, wishing the man would take his teeth and his eyebrows elsewhere so he could lie back against the inviting pillow.
“The dining room now,” said the manager, out of nowhere, rubbing his cheek with one finger and staring at the ceiling in contemplation. “I’m afraid...” He came to sudden resolution, clarifying his non sequitur. “If the Herr might care to dine with me in my private apartment...?”
“I would really prefer...” Ari began desperately, and then paused in sudden thought. One had to begin sometime. After all, it was why he was here. And also, one had to eat. He looked at the manager with the faint smile of deprecation reserved for small kindnesses. “Or possibly the Herr Manager might care to dine with me, here, in this apartment?”
“Of course! The halls and elevators!” The voice admitted its stupidity in not recognizing this obvious fact. “But...” Embarrassment crept into his tone. “I had invited a friend, yes? An official.”
“Perhaps another time, then,” Ari said, beginning to feel better, and also beginning to enjoy the match. He saw the doubtful hesitation, waited until the exact moment, and then added dubiously, “Or perhaps your friend would care to join us?”
“Excellent!” cried the manager, raising his eyebrows in delight. “Excellent! I can assure the Herr that my friend is not of the police...” He frowned as if he had inadvertently said something in poor taste, and then hurried on, solicitous once more. “But the Herr will undoubtedly wish to rest first! At ten, then? Ten o’clock is all right? And of course, for the account of the hotel!” This last was said so fiercely that Ari almost smiled. The door slowly closed behind the bowing figure, the face disappearing last into the gloom of the corridor, like the gradual fading of the Cheshire Cat with a mouthful of sugar cubes.
Ari slid the bolt and fell back on the bed. It had been a very busy day, a very busy day indeed, and he was exhausted. Nor was he through; the thought of the dinner ahead was tiring, even though he was sure it would be of interest as well as use to their overall plan. I wonder who this official, not of the police, might be, he thought. Well, we shall soon see. At least we are on our way; the three years of preparation will soon prove themselves to have been useful, or they shall soon prove their tragic waste. He was pleasantly reassured by the thought of Da Silva and Wilson; one thing, he was no longer alone. He smiled at the thought and closed his eyes. A faint breeze whispered through the room; he slept.
Chapter 6
He woke at nine-thirty, automatically, somehow pleased that this inexplicable mechanism still functioned, and also pleased that there had been no dreams. It was a good sign. He went into the bathroom and washed his face in the tepid water that ran from the cold-water tap, shook his head to clear it of the last remnants of sleep, and returned to the bedroom. Considering changing his shirt, he opened his bag and stood staring at the contents in thoughtful satisfaction. The evidences of search were slight but unmistakable. I suppose they didn’t know how soon I would get back, he thought with a sigh that was half pleased, half annoyed. At any rate, you might think they would have tried to be neater.
There was a discreet knock at the door. He closed the bag and went over to admit a white-jacketed waiter wheeling in a table set for three. “O gerente vêm logo,” the waiter said, and dodged back into the hallway to reappear with three folding chairs carried awkwardly in one arm, and an ice bucket clutched manfully in the other. From the bucket, champagne bottles lolled, their necks neatly swathed in white napkins. “Com licença.” The waiter swallowed the words, well aware he was speaking a nonunderstood tongue, and disappeared, closing the door carefully behind himself. Another rap succeeded this exit immediately.
Grand Central Station, Ari thought, and opened the door once again.
This time it was the manager, who bowed himself in, teeth flashing brilliantly. Bowing oneself out is relatively simple, Ari could not help but think as he acknowledged the greeting, but bowing oneself in requires talent, if you don’t wish to appear like a carpenter’s rule being awkwardly folded. He does it very well.
“Ah, good evening, Herr Busch,” said the manager in a tone of voice that indicated both surprise and appreciation that Ari had not completely disappeared since their last meeting. He went over and examined the table expertly, silently moved a fork a fraction of an inch, and then proceeded to withdraw a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket. “A drink while we wait, yes?” he said with forced joviality. “My friend should be here very soon.” He twisted the wire free as he spoke and gently manipulated the cork with practiced fingers. There was a sharp plop and the cork, expertly directed, flew out of the window. The manager quickly filled two glasses; a tiny puff of smoky vapor from the bottle dampened his fingers.
“Local champagne,” he said, carefully wiping his fingers on a napkin, his face falling tragically. Then he brightened. “But really, not so bad.” He offered one of the glasses to Ari with a flourish. This man has a face of rubber, Ari thought, accepting the glass. I wonder what he looks like when he is asleep.
“Your health,” said Ari pleasantly.
“To a long and happy stay in Brazil,” replied the manager sententiously. He sipped and set his glass down, automatically placing it upon the glass dresser top to avoid marking the furniture. “By the way, I’m afraid I never even introduced myself.” His chuckle was self-insulting. “My name is Mathais. Herbert Mathais. If there is anything I can do for you during your stay here, I am yours to command!”
“You are very kind,” Ari began, when another knock came at the door. Mathais waved Ari aside grandly and opened it. A broad smile creased his face.
“My friend, Herr Gunther,” he said, ushering another man into the room. Ari moved over slowly to shake hands.
“Herr Gunther?” he said with a surprise he did not actually feel. “But we have met!”
“Herr Busch?” said Gunther. He turned to Mathais reproachfully. “But you did not tell me that we were dining with Herr Busch!”
“You know each other?” The attempt to inject a tone of puzzlement came close to being successful.
“But of course! Herr Busch passed through customs while I was on duty.” He turned apologetically to Ari. “You must please forgive us, Herr Busch, for the embarrassment you were caused. Believe me when I say it is not our habit to treat visitors so poorly.”
Mathais was pouring champagne and at this statement his eyebrows went out of sight. “They treated Herr Busch poorly?” he asked in a voice that pictured thumbscrews and the Iron Maiden. “Why did they do that?”
I suppose they had little time for rehearsal, Ari thought; but even so, it is really such Schmaltz. He almost giggled at the thought of the word, and spoke quickly to recover. “A misunderstanding,” he said lightly. He took his glass and seated himself negligently in the largest chair in the room, as if it were his right. He raised his glass slightly in Gunther’s direction. “This Captain Da Silva. Just who is he?” This time Gunther’s sneer was genuine. “Da Silva?” he said sourly. “He’s in Interpol. International Police. A busybody. As if we need his help to do our job!” He was sincerely annoyed. He turned to Mathais. “He also removed Herr Busch’s passport!”