“If you will.”
“A pleasure.”
“For us both,” Kek said sincerely, and trotted up the wide steps, his exotically wrapped candy dish in his hand. He certainly hoped the professional thief would like it, or if not him, at least his wife, girlfriend, or mother. If she or they weren’t on a diet, that is, so many women were. Fortunately, Anita had no need to.
The lobby was abandoned at the moment, the clerk apparently off on a chore. Through the facing doorway the castle’s famous gardens could be seen stretching down to the blue Atlantic beyond. Kek took a deep breath; Barbados was one of his favorite spots on earth, and Sam Lord’s Castle as lovely a hotel as he knew. For a moment he considered abandoning his plan to return to the ship immediately, but then he knew that he would rather be with Anita even more than enjoying Barbados. Ah, well — to work!
The Cobbler’s Reef Bar was open, and after the brilliance of the morning sun, seemed to be pitch dark. Kek paused just inside the doorway, allowing his eyesight to adjust. By the light used to illuminate the cash register he could see the aproned bartender looking in his direction, and beyond the bartender he could see a bulking shadow at the extreme far end of the bar. Kek closed his eyes a moment, squeezing them tightly shut, seeing a parade of weird shapes and lights behind his eyelids, and then opened them to find the room had miraculously cleared to a great extent. There was indeed a man at the end of the bar, his huge broad back turned resolutely away from the room, staring into a corner as per instructions; and there was, indeed, a drink before the man in a glass consistent with a sour, being neither a shot glass nor a tall glass.
There was, indeed, only one thing wrong with the script. There was no package of any sort on the bar before or near the man.
Kek had a sudden cold presentiment that his ebullience that morning had been premature to say the least. There was, of course, the possibility that this man staring so intently toward the corner was not his contact, and that his contact was merely delayed, but Kek doubted it. He sighed and walked over, seating himself next to the man, surveying the outsized shoulders, then turned and faced the bartender who had come up.
“A Benedictine sour,” he said clearly, and added: “Have you ever made one?”
“Yes, sir!” the bartender said proudly, resenting this impugnment of his knowledge of his craft. He did not add that he had made his first one only minutes before, nor did he show his amazement that two people in a row should demonstrate such inconsideration for their stomachs at that hour of the morning. Instead, he dutifully went back to his post and began mixing the ingredients, trying not to shudder as he did so.
So the bartender was familiar with Benedictine sours? Then the man beside him was his contact and something had apparently gone very wrong. Merde! But, in that case, why the frozen back? Which, in comparison with himself — and Huuygens was not small and knew it — belonged to an extremely large and well-muscled individual. Kek reached over and tapped one of the bulging shoulders a bit peremptorily, not at all surprised to find the jacket was not padded and that he was rapping on something very solid. He had hoped to carry out the assignment without the need for personal contact, but it seemed this was not to be. Life!
“Mister,” he said softly.
The man swung about abruptly. There was a sheepish look on his large, battered face.
“Hello, Kek,” he said.
There was a moment’s silent tableau. Then Huuygens looked at the ceiling, found no comfort there, and looked down again. He sighed mightily.
“Oh, no!” He shook his head. “André!”
“How’ve you been, Kek?”
“André,” Huuygens said, “do me a favor—”
“Sure, Kek. Anything. You know that. What is it?”
“Tell me you never heard of a man named Victor Girard. Tell me you’re vacationing in Barbados and had no appointment to meet a man here carrying a package from Harrison’s...”
André looked embarrassed. “Well—”
“On second thought,” Kek said, “don’t tell me.” He paused. “Bartender, we’ll take our drinks in a booth.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Kek,” André said in a pleading voice, “do we have to drink this—”
“And throw that stuff away,” Kek added to the bartender. “Bring us a bottle of brandy, preferably a good Portuguese or Spanish brandy rather than French, and two glasses. Not balloons.”
“Sir!” It was said happily. The contents of a mixing glass went into the sink.
Kek climbed down from his stool, walked to a booth, and slid in. André Martins followed, squeezing his large bulk into the restricted space across from his old friend. The two stared at each other until the bottle was on the table and the waiter had withdrawn. Kek’s face was expressionless; André looked as if he were waiting for the ax to fall. He quickly poured two drinks and took his own down in a single gulp, as if to give himself courage. Huuygens sipped his more slowly and then put his glass down. He shook his head at the other man sadly.
“André!” he said chidingly. “Whatever made you tell Girard that you were a professional thief?”
André preferred to postpone serious discussion for as long as possible. “How’s Anita?”
“Flourishing. And you didn’t answer my question.”
It had been a short enough interlude, but it had at least partially served its purpose; André had had time to pour and down a second cognac. The worst of the dreaded encounter over, he felt better. And the two brandies had done no harm to his self-confidence, which had certainly waned during his wait for Kek to arrive.
“Well,” he said defensively, “you know I can open any lock you can name. And any safe.”
Huuygens nodded agreeably. “Then you should have told Girard you were a professional burglar, not a professional thief.”
André was stung. “I’m not a burglar!”
“I know you’re not. You’re also not a thief. Certainly not a successful one. Unless you have the carving in your pocket?” The red on André’s face answered that question. Kek took pity on the large man. “I know you can open any lock or safe made, and you are also a master where explosives of any kind are concerned. And I’ve seen you break a man’s back with the back of your hand.”
André smiled proudly; it made his rugged face look almost boyish. The brandy was taking effect. “You have, haven’t you?”
“So,” Kek went on, his voice conversational, “after you knocked out the museum guards with one finger and blew up the museum with your exceptional talents, what happened? Why no carving?”
André looked down at his glass, his face reddening again. Kek continued, but this time his irritation got the better of him. He sounded aggrieved. “What in God’s name led you to tell Girard you were capable of robbing a museum? Have you ever been in a museum in your life?”
André looked up and swallowed. He fingered his empty glass nervously.
“Well,” he said, “I heard through the grapevine that this Girard was going to ask you to bring something into the States for him, and then I heard he was looking for someone to steal it for him, and—” He paused, staring at the table shamefacedly.
“And?”
André’s head came up. “And... well, I needed the job, so I told this guy to introduce me to Girard. With a strong recommendation. Or else.” A faint smile appeared on the lined face momentarily. “And he introduced me. With a strong recommendation.”
“I’m sure.”
“Well,” André said reasonably, reaching for the bottle again, “he didn’t want to get his neck broken.” He filled his glass and drank.
“I can understand his point.”