Juan cocked an eyebrow, not liking the tone in the financier’s voice. “Yes?”
“I want John to accompany you.”
“Out of the question.”
“Monsieur, this is not a negotiable request. I believe the expression is ‘my charter, my rules,’ yes?”
“Mr. Croissard, this isn’t a fishing trip. We could be facing armed guerrillas, and I simply can’t allow an unknown man to come with us.” Cabrillo planned on bringing MacD Lawless, who was a bit of an unknown himself, but the financier didn’t need to know that.
Wordlessly, John Smith unbuttoned the cuff where he didn’t carry the knife. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal a faded blue tattoo. It showed a flaming circle above the words Marche ou Crève. Cabrillo recognized it as the emblem for the French Foreign Legion and its unofficial motto, “March or Die.”
Juan looked at him levelly. “Sorry, Mr. Smith, all that tells me is that you’ve visited a tattoo parlor.” It would explain Smith’s generic name, though—Legionnaires often adopted noms de guerre.
“About fifteen years ago, by the looks of it,” Max added.
Smith didn’t say anything, but Cabrillo could see the anger building behind the man’s dark eyes. Juan also recognized that he was between a rock and a hard place because ultimately he would have to cave if he wanted the contract.
“Tell you what,” Cabrillo said, and lifted up his trouser leg. Croissard and Smith were startled at the sight of his prosthetic leg. Cabrillo had several that had been tricked out by the wizards in the Oregon’s Magic Shop. This particular one was called the Combat Leg Version 2.0. He opened a concealed area behind the flesh-colored calf and pulled out a small automatic pistol. He popped the seven-shot magazine and cleared a round from the chamber.
He showed it to Smith for just a second, and said, “Eyes on me.”
Then he handed it over.
Smith knew what the test entailed, and, without moving his gaze from Juan’s eyes, he quickly disassembled the small pistol down to its basic parts and then just as quickly put it back together again. He gave it back butt first. It took him about forty seconds.
“Kel-Tec P-3AT,” he said. “Based on their P22 but chambered for .380. Nice gun to fit in a lady’s purse.”
Juan laughed, breaking the tension. “I tried fitting a Desert Eagle .50 cal in this leg, but it was just a tad obvious.” He slipped the gun and magazine plus the loose bullet into his coat pocket. “Where have you served?”
“Chad, Haiti, Iraq of course, Somalia, a few other Third World hot spots.”
Cabrillo shifted his attention back to Croissard. “You’ve got your deal. He passes.”
“Good, then it is settled. John will accompany you now back to your aircraft and then you will find my Soleil.”
“No. He’s going to meet up with us in Chittagong. In case you aren’t aware, that’s a port city in Bangladesh.” Smith wasn’t going to be aboard the Oregon a second longer than necessary. “And that, I’m sorry, is nonnegotiable.”
“D’accord. But if you do not pick him up as promised, do not think you will get my money.”
“Mr. Croissard,” Juan said solemnly, “I am many things, but a man who backs out on his word isn’t one of them.”
The two men studied each other for a moment. Croissard nodded. “No. I don’t suppose that you are.” They shook hands.
As they exchanged phone numbers with Smith, Max pulled their laser defeater from the window and packed up the bug detector. He snapped the briefcase closed and handed it to Cabrillo.
“If you hear anything from her, no matter the time, call me immediately,” Juan told Croissard at the suite’s door.
“I will. I promise. Please bring her back to me. She is headstrong and stubborn, but she is my daughter, and I love her very much.”
“We’ll do our best,” Juan said, because he would never promise something he couldn’t deliver.
“Well?” Max asked as they were striding down the hallway heading for the elevators.
“I don’t like it, but what choice did we have?”
“That’s why the face-to-face. To spring Smith on us at the last minute.”
“Yeah. Pretty cagey of him.”
“So, are we going to trust him?”
“Smith? Not on your life. There’s something they’re not telling us, and he’s the key.”
“We should back out of this whole thing,” Max opined.
“No way, my friend. If anything, I’m more interested than ever in what the lovely Miss Croissard was doing so deep into Burma.”
“Myanmar,” Hanley corrected.
“Whatever.”
They exited the elevator and started crossing the busy lobby when Cabrillo suddenly hit himself on the head as if he’d forgotten something and grabbed Max’s elbow to turn them around.
“What is it, did you forget something?” Hanley asked. Juan had picked up his pace ever so slightly.
“I noticed two guys hanging around the lobby when we first entered. Both look local, but they’re wearing long coats. One of them noticed us when we got into view and quickly turned away. Too quickly.”
“Who are they?”
“Don’t know, but they’re not with Croissard. If he wanted us dead, he would have had Smith shoot us as soon as we entered his room. And he knows we’re going back to the airport, so what’s the point of following us?”
Max saw no flaw in Cabrillo’s logic, so he just grunted.
They approached the express elevator for the SkyPark. By feel, Juan was able to insert the magazine back into his Kel-Tec automatic. He even managed to cock the weapon against his hip bone without taking it from his jacket pocket. The two men were making their move, coming across the lobby without taking their eyes off the Corporation duo.
The elevator door pinged open. Juan and Max didn’t wait for it to empty before shouldering their way in, all but ignoring the looks of indignation thrown their way. It wasn’t even going to be close. The men had waited too long, and now the elevator doors were closing. It was too public out in the lobby to pull any sort of weapon, so Juan threw them a taunting smile as the doors met with a hiss.
“Now what?” Max asked as they were carried skyward.
Juan took the opportunity to load the ejected bullet into the pistol. “We get to the top, wait about five minutes, and then head back down again.”
“And what will they be doing, pray tell?”
“Splitting up to cover the lobbies of the other two towers. They’ll never think we’d stay in this one.”
“And if they decide to follow us up?”
“Never happen,” Juan dismissed with a shake of his head.
“I still wonder who they are,” Max said as they neared the fifty-fifth floor and the SkyPark.
“My money’s on the local secret police. Something about our plane’s registration or our passports sent up a red flag, and these gentlemen want to ask us a few questions.”
“So how’d they know we’d be here at the—” Max stopped asking his question and then answered it: “They talked to the car service that brought us to the hotel.”
“Elementary, my dear Hanley.”
The doors opened, and they stepped out onto one of the greatest engineering marvels in the world. The hundred-thousand-squarefoot platform sitting atop the three towers was like Babylon’s famous hanging gardens, only these weren’t the exclusive environs of Nebuchadnezzar and his wife, Amytis. Trees provided excellent shade, while the flowering shrubs perfumed the air nearly a thousand feet above the streets. The long swimming pools, with their dizzying infinity edges, were sparkling blue and surrounded by sunbathers.
To their left was an eating area cantilevered off the third tower so that it hung suspended in space. Diners were lounging under bright umbrellas while waitstaff danced between the tables, bearing trays of food and drinks. The view over Singapore Harbor was absolutely breathtaking.