The Negotiator

“So where do we go from here?”

“You go into hiding. I go after the Corsican. He’s the key. He’s the fat man’s employee, the one who provided the deadly belt and put it on Simon. Five will get you ten Zack was ordered to spin out the negotiations by an extra six days, switching his demand from cash to diamonds, because the new clothes were not ready. The schedule was being thrown out of kilter, moving too fast, had to be slowed down. If I can get to Orsini, take him alive, get him to talk, he probably knows the name of his employer. When we have the name of the fat man, then we can go to Washington.”

“Let me come with you, Qui

“It was the deal Washington made. The deal’s off. Everything Zack told us was recorded by that bug in your purse. They know that we know. For them now the hunt is on for you and me. Unless we can deliver the fat man’s name. Then the hunters become the hunted. The FBI will see to that. And the CIA.”

“So where do I go to ground, and for how long?”

“Until I call you and tell you we’re in the clear, one way or the other. As to where-Málaga. I have friends in the South of Spain who’ll look after you.”

Paris, like London, is a two-airport city. Ninety percent of overseas flights leave from Charles de Gaulle to the north of the capital. But Spain and Portugal are still served from the older airport at Orly in the south. To add to the confusion, Paris also has two separate terminuses, each serving different airports. Buses for Orly depart from Maine-Montparnasse in the Latin Quarter. Qui

“What about my clothes, my things at the hotel?” she complained.

“Forget them. If the hoods are not staking out the hotel by now, they’re stupid. And they’re not. You have your passport?”

“Yep. Always carry it on me.”

“Same here. And your credit cards?”

“Sure. Same thing.”

“Go over to that bank and get as much money as your credit card account can stand.”

While Sam was at the bank, Qui

“Your friend has five hours to wait,” said the ticket-counter agent. “Coaches leave from Gate J every twelve minutes for Orly South terminal.”

Qui

“I’m taking you to the bus right now,” said Qui

“Qui

“Don’t worry. These people all speak English.”

At the steps of the bus Sam reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Qui

“Not your fault, baby.” Qui

“Take care of yourself,” she whispered. A chill wind blew down the Boulevard de Vaugirard. The last heavy luggage was stacked underneath the bus and the last passengers boarded. Sam shivered in his arms. He smoothed the shining blond hair.

“I’ll be okay. Trust me. I’ll be in touch by phone in a couple of days. By then, either way, we’ll be able to go home in safety.”

He watched the bus head down the boulevard, waved at the small hand in the rear window. Then it turned the corner and was gone.

Two hundred yards from the terminus and across Vaugirard is a large post office. Qui

From the bank of international telephone booths he called Scotland Yard and left a message for Nigel Cramer. It consisted of an address near East Grinstead, Sussex. Finally he called a bar in Estepona. The man he spoke to was not Spanish, but a London Cockney.

“Yeah, all right, mate,” said the voice on the phone. “We’ll take care of the little lady for you.”

With his last loose ends tied up, Qui

He broke for di

While he slept a man sat quietly in the San Marco restaurant across the road from the Hôtel du Colisée and kept watch on the hotel’s front door. He had been there since midday, to the surprise and eventual a

At eleven the restaurant wished to close. The man left and went next door to the Royal Hôtel. Explaining that he was waiting for a friend, he took a seat at the window of the lobby and continued his vigil. At two in the morning he finally gave up.

He drove to the twenty-four-hour-a-day post office in the rue du Louvre, went up to the first-floor bank of telephones, and placed a person-to-person call. He stayed in the booth until the operator rang back.

“Allô, monsieur,” she said. “I have your call. On the line. Go ahead, Castelblanc.”

Chapter 16

The Costa del Sol has long been the favored place of retirement of sought-after members of the British underworld. Several dozen such villains, having contrived to separate banks or armored cars from their contents or investors from their savings, having skipped the land of their fathers one inch ahead of the grasping fingers of Scotland Yard sought refuge in the sun of the South of Spain, there to enjoy their newfound affluence. A wit once said that on a clear day in Estepona you can see more Category A men than in Her Majesty’s Prison, Parkhurst, during roll call.

That evening four of their number were waiting at Málaga airport as a result of a phone call from Paris. There were Ro

Sam emerged among the first three passengers. She had no luggage but her new, Orly-bought handbag and a small leather suitcase, also new, with a collection of toiletries and overnight clothes. Otherwise she had only the two-piece outfit in which she had attended the morning’s meeting at Chez Hugo.

Ro

“Gorblimey,” muttered Bernie.