“He’s at a residential motel in Hialeah, near the race track,” the Washington man said. He gave McGarvey the address. “Make certain that you are not followed.”
McGarvey hung up. He went to his car and drove immediately over to the address although they weren’t expecting him for an hour. He wanted to see who else might show up. The only way to survive, he figured, was to understand the possibility that Baranov had ears everywhere.
The Surfside Motel was a full five miles from any of the beaches and looked as if it had been neglected for a lot of years. It was located six blocks from the racetrack on a broad street that specialized in car dealerships and fast food restaurants, but was tucked behind a low cement block fence that was further screened by a mostly unkempt line of bamboo. There was a sad, dirty, little outdoor pool between the fence and the driveway that McGarvey could just see through the brush. A few plastic chaise lounges and two rusting patio tables flanked the pool. McGarvey pulled into a MacDonald’s just across the street and went inside where he got a cup of coffee and took a seat by the window. He could see the motel office beneath the canopy down the short driveway, as well as the line of second floor units, barely a third of which seemed to be occupied. There was no movement. McGarvey checked his watch. It hadn’t yet been fifteen minutes since he’d telephoned Washington. They were not expecting him for another three quarters of an hour. It would have taken more than fifteen minutes for even Baranov to arrange something. He was fairly confident that if anyone was going to show up here tonight, he’d beat them. But then we were never certain, were we? It was part and parcel of the business. It had been a long time for him, this over the shoulder feeling, this sustained watchfulness, the edge that made the difference between survival and failure. Christ, it galled him to think that he’d been so easily sucked back into the morass. “Once it’s in your blood there’s no going back,” he’d been told once, but for the life of him he could not think who’d said it. His trouble now was that he had begun to have difficulty distinguishing between what was good and real and what was not, between what was truth and what were lies. Who to trust, who to love, where to run, where to hide. He thought again about Evita and about Darby Yarnell. They both were under Baranov’s spell. They were the man’s strength, but they also were his weakness.
Traffic was light. No one had entered or left the motel. McGarvey went out to his car and drove at a normal speed twice around the block, watching his rearview mirror, watching the other cars, watching the few pedestrians. But there was no one there. No one watching. No one had come.
He pulled into the motel’s driveway, passed the office, and parked at the far end of the building. He switched off the headlights and the engine and sat in the darkness for a few moments, watching, listening, waiting for someone to come, for a curtain to part. But the motel could have been a haven for the dead or the deaf. He took out his gun, checked to make sure it was ready to fire, then got out of his car and climbed the stairs to the second-floor balcony, where he stopped in the shadows. The light in the exit sign was burned out. The place smelled of garbage and of sulphur water and urine and something else, something spicy and exotic. He slipped the Walther’s safety catch off and moved quietly along the balcony on the balls of his feet. Now he could hear music from one of the rooms, and conversation, perhaps from a television, from another. Basulto was being kept in 224, which was four rooms from the end. When McGarvey reached the door he paused before knocking. No light came from behind the curtains, nor could he hear any sounds from within.
He knocked. Softly.
“It’s open,” someone inside said.
McGarvey flattened himself against the cement block wall, brought his gun up, and with his left hand eased the door open a couple of inches.
The room stank of stale beer and cigarettes. It was dark.
“It’s me, Artime. From the house in Switzerland. Do you recognize my voice?”
“It’s him,” Basulto said cautiously after a second or two.
“Are you sure?” someone else asked.
“Yeah,” Basulto said. “It’s okay, Mr. McGarvey. Just a minute, we’ll have a light.”
McGarvey remained against the wall as the light came on. He could see into the room. The double beds were unmade. Dirty laundry lay everywhere, along with empty beer cans and liquor bottles. Ashtrays were overflowing, the bureau and a small table were piled with MacDonald’s bags and wrappers, the remnants of a large pizza still in its flat cardboard box, and several potato chip bags. Basulto, wearing nothing more than baggy trousers and a dirty tank T-shirt, stood by the bathroom door. A husky man with thick dark hair stood next to him. His weapon was drawn.
“I’m alone,” McGarvey said, making a show of lowering his gun as he stepped around the corner into the room.
“You’d better be,” the agent across the room said.
The second man stood in the corner at the window, his gun out, his eyes wide. He wore a jacket. McGarvey got the impression he might have just come in.
“I’m here to talk. Nothing more.”
The two agents looked at each other, and then they lowered their weapons, uncocking the hammers. “You’re five minutes late,” the one by the window snapped. He was nervous.
McGarvey closed the door, then pushed the window curtain aside so that he could look out. Nothing moved below. No one had come. No one was out there, and yet he could not shake the feeling that someone was looking over his shoulder. That Baranov, or whoever, knew that he was here and was watching him.
“Is this it?” Basulto asked. “Are we ready to get that bastard, Mr. McGarvey? You and me?”
He turned back.
“I hope to Christ you came in clean,” the one by Basulto said, gruffly. “It’s one thing being cooped up in this pigsty, but it would be another defending this little prick.”
“See?” Basulto cried. “See what I have to put up with here.”
“Why don’t you two take a walk. Give yourself a break.” McGarvey looked at Basulto. “I’d like half an hour with my friend here.”
Again the agents exchanged glances. “What the hell.” The bigger one shrugged. “They said cooperate, so we’ll cooperate.”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” McGarvey said.
“You’re goddamned right you will,” the big one said. He grabbed a jacket and he and his partner left without bothering to look back.
McGarvey locked and chained the door. Alone, Basulto seemed a little more sure of himself than with Trotter’s two men. He didn’t seem so tense, though there still was a wariness about him. His life, at least, according to what he had told them in Switzerland, was on the line. Which meant he would cooperate so long as it would benefit him, but only as far as he felt was necessary and no farther. McGarvey swept the debris off the table with a clatter, sat down, put his feet up, and lit a cigarette. Basulto wasn’t impressed, but McGarvey knew he had his attention.
“There’ve been some killings,” McGarvey said.
“What killings? Where? Nobody’s told me a thing down here. I just sit and wait and sweat in this stink hole. What are you talking about?”