At five minutes after midnight, Matthias stopped the black sedan on one side of the narrow bridge. The car had been borrowed from one of Luther’s security men. It blended well into the night. It was the sort of car one expected a couple of mob guys to use on a job like this one. Unmemorable.
He flashed the headlights twice. On the opposite side of the bridge the piercing beams of another set of headlights responded with the same signal. Both drivers left the lights blazing, illuminating the bridge in a fierce glare.
Luther, sitting in the passenger seat, a pistol in one hand, studied the night-darkened scene through the windshield. “He’s here. He wants the rotors very badly.”
“The Ares machine is just a busted typewriter without them,” Matthias said. “Besides, as far as Smith is concerned, he’s doing a deal with a couple of mob guys who have as much to lose as he does if they get caught with the critical components of a top secret cipher machine. He’s probably telling himself he’s in control of the situation.”
“He may be right,” Luther said. “He’s not the only one taking a risk tonight.”
The location of the meeting point had been arranged by the Broker after consultation with both parties. The single-lane bridge was in the hills above the town of Burning Cove. For several miles on either side it was the only crossing point that spanned the small Burning Cove River. There was no cover in the vicinity—no trees or large rocks that could be used for concealment. The thin vegetation along the banks consisted of low, scrubby bushes and grasses.
The details had also been established by the Broker. It was a given that neither side could fully trust the other, so both parties were expected to arrive at the scene with an armed bodyguard. The blinding headlights from the two cars limited visibility and made a shoot-out less likely.
The headlights of the vehicle on the other side of the bridge flashed again. Matthias responded. At the signal, both cars drove partway onto the bridge and stopped. Both drivers left the engines running.
“Here we go,” Matthias said.
He reached for his hat, angling it low over his eyes. Luther plucked his own hat off his knee and adjusted it in a similar manner. The blinding headlights would render everyone into dark silhouettes. It would be impossible to see faces. But there was a protocol for underworld business meetings, just as there was for the legitimate kind. Fashionable drape cut suits, wide ties, and fedoras constituted the appropriate uniform for a successful mob man. The primary distinction between the two classes of businessmen was that the criminals accessorized their suits with guns.
Pistol in hand, Matthias opened the door and climbed out from behind the wheel. Luther got out on his side. They both left the doors open to be used as shields in the event that the other side decided to start shooting.
The doors of the car on the opposite side of the bridge cracked open, the sound unnaturally loud in the deep silence of the night.
“Pell and Jones,” a male voice said from the driver’s side of the other vehicle. “I wondered if you would show. Couldn’t resist the cash, I see.”
Matthias recognized the voice. It belonged to the motorist who had stopped to offer assistance with changing the tire on the night of the blowout.
“Are you going to stand around and chat?” Matthias asked. “This is a business deal. We’re not here for a drink.”
“Fucking right. Where are the rotors?”
“There’s no deal until we see the money,” Luther said.
“My pal here has a briefcase full of cash for you. He has a gun, too, and so do I. But I’m sure you already figured that out. I do have one question. Did you find those rotors inside Pickwell’s robot? Is that why the thing went missing from Ward’s workshop?”
“We’re not interested in an extended conversation,” Luther said.
“Humor me. You took a risk stealing that metal monster. What made you think there was something valuable inside?”
“Why do you care how we figured it out?” Matthias asked.
“Personally, I don’t give a damn, but the client will want the answer.”
“Tell your client it’s a trade secret,” Luther said.
“Think you’re a couple of real smart guys, don’t you? You’re a pair of fucking amateurs, that’s what you are. Just a couple of nickel-and-dime mobsters who got into something that’s too big for them. You’re in way over your heads.”
“Word on the street is that the cipher machine is worth a fortune to certain parties,” Luther said.
“That’s true. But you two wouldn’t know the first thing about deals like this.”
“Don’t know about that,” Luther said. “You showed up real quick with an offer.”
“Forget answering my question. Let’s finish this.”
“Fine by us,” Luther said.
“We’re going to do this just like the Broker said. My associate takes the money to the middle of the bridge while I cover him. One of you brings the rotors to the middle. As soon as the exchange is made we all leave the scene, driving in opposite directions.”
“Believe it or not, we know what we’re doing here,” Luther said. “Jones and I may not be experts when it comes to international business deals, but we’ve each got considerable experience in this sort of transaction.”
“Let’s get on with it. Fucking amateurs.”
Matthias picked up the box of rotors and moved out from behind the cover of the Ford’s front door. He walked toward the center of the bridge.
The silent figure on the other side of the car moved forward, briefcase in hand.
The figure with the briefcase was a slightly built silhouette dressed in a jacket that looked too big for the slender frame, but that was all Matthias could make out. Bad Jacket set the briefcase down. Matthias put the box of rotors beside it and picked up the briefcase. It was surprisingly heavy. Cash in large quantities weighed a lot.
Bad Jacket scooped up the box and stepped back very quickly, but not before Matthias caught a hint of a fragrance. A lot of men wore cologne, but this brand had a strong floral note that seemed unusually feminine.
Bad Jacket opened the metal box and examined the contents in the glare of the headlights. Evidently satisfied, the figure started to retreat.
The rotors were real. There had been no time to manufacture convincing fakes.
“Nobody moves until Jones checks the briefcase,” Luther said.
“Yeah, sure,” the driver of the other car said. “But make it fast.”
There was a hint of anxiety in his voice now.
Matthias opened the briefcase. In the headlights he saw several packets of twenty-dollar bills stacked neatly inside. He closed the briefcase and picked it up in one hand.
“I’m impressed that you managed to come up with so much cash in such a short time,” he said.
“Don’t worry, it’s all there,” the driver said.
“It better be,” Matthias said, “assuming you want to do business with the Broker again. He never works twice with someone who cheats. He’s got his reputation to consider.”
The driver did not respond. He got behind the wheel and slammed the car door shut. On the other side of the vehicle, Bad Jacket jumped into the passenger seat. The vehicle reversed off the bridge, did a tight turn, and roared off down the dirt road.
Matthias waited a couple of beats and then he hurled the briefcase over the bridge railing.
“What the hell are you doing?” Luther said.
“Get in the car,” Matthias said.
Luther did not ask any questions. They both climbed into the sedan. Matthias reversed back down the road as fast as he dared.
The explosion ripped through the night. In the headlights a large spout of river water appeared, blasting skyward. The bridge crumpled and collapsed into the river.
The night sank back into silence. Luther regarded the scene through the windshield with a thoughtful expression.
“Out of curiosity,” he said, “did the money look real?”
“It was real,” Matthias said. “But they shorted us.”
“How did you know?” Luther asked.
Matthias changed gears and turned the sedan around to head back to Burning Cove.
“Remember when the driver said that the full amount of the payment was inside the briefcase?”
“Yeah.”
“He lied.”
“Talk about an amateur,” Luther said.
“The real Smith is not an amateur.”
“No, he isn’t.”
Matthias thought about the whiff of cologne.
“Maybe we shouldn’t discount the possibility that Amalie and Raina were right,” he said. “Maybe we shouldn’t assume that Smith is a man.”