Chapter 5

The reporters were waiting, cold drinks in hand, when Ari returned from the Embassy. They glanced at the unprepossessing figure incuriously, and he might easily have escaped their attention except that one, more enterprising or less thirsty than the others, was waiting at the desk when he asked for his room key. In an instant he was surrounded by a group talking excitedly in three languages; none of it made sense to him. He noticed a photographer hurriedly adjust his lens and raise his camera with the air of a hunter making a snapshot; he flung his arm before his face just as the light exploded. He felt very tired and nervous, confused by the babble; his heart seemed to be pumping in a peculiar fashion, and he only wanted to reach his room quickly. The noise of the crowd about him made him dizzy; he tried to push through, blinding himself to the pressure of bodies bearing against him and fingers clawing at his jacket.

There was a sudden burst of outraged Portuguese, a firm hand on his elbow, and he found himself being piloted through the crowd to the elevator. Another flash of light from a hastily raised camera only succeeded in recording the nape of his neck. The elevator door shut, cutting away the noise of the lobby, the open protesting mouths of the reporters, the startled gaze of the other guests. His arm was released, and he stared in wonder at the tall man beside him.

“Your pardon, Herr Busch,” said the other apologetically in German. “I am the manager of the hotel.” Ari noted the reddish brush of hair fringing a bald head, the heavy, almost theatrical eyebrows, the square white porcelain blocks of teeth. “I realize that you have had a hard day. I am here to help you. If you wish, I shall make some excuse to the newspaper people.” He paused questioningly, his eyebrows shooting up onto his forehead; Ari could only nod. “Then,” began the manager, but the elevator came to a smooth halt and the doors slid back. They left the wideeyed operator and turned down the hall. “Then,” continued the other suavely, “if you wish I can have your telephone calls held until tomorrow.”

He leaned forward and inserted a master key in the lock, swinging the door wide for Ari to enter. The light switch was pressed; Ari sank to the bed gratefully. The manager blocked the doorway, looking solicitous. “I realize there will be many who might wish to disturb your, ah… your vacation,” he said, much as if the words had been forced from him by circumstances unfortunately beyond his control. “I assure you that we will do everything in our power to see that you are not bothered. If you wish it, that is, if you wish it,” he added hastily.

“I would certainly appreciate it,” Ari said, wishing the man would take his teeth and his eyebrows elsewhere so he could lie back against the inviting pillow.

“The dining room now,” said the manager, out of nowhere, rubbing his cheek with one finger and staring at the ceiling in contemplation. “I’m afraid…” He came to sudden resolution, clarifying his non sequitur. “If the Herr might care to dine with me in my private apartment…?”

“I would really prefer…” Ari began desperately, and then paused in sudden thought. One had to begin sometime. After all, it was why he was here. And also, one had to eat. He looked at the manager with the faint smile of deprecation reserved for small kindnesses. “Or possibly the Herr Manager might care to dine with me, here, in this apartment?”

“Of course! The halls and elevators!” The voice admitted its stupidity in not recognizing this obvious fact. “But…” Embarrassment crept into his tone. “I had invited a friend, yes? An official…”

“Perhaps another time, then,” Ari said, beginning to feel better, and also beginning to enjoy the match. He saw the doubtful hesitation, waited until the exact moment, and then added dubiously, “Or perhaps your friend would care to join us?”

“Excellent!” cried the manager, raising his eyebrows in delight. “Excellent! I can assure the Herr that my friend is not of the police….” He frowned as if he had inadvertently said something in poor taste, and then hurried on, solicitous once more. “But the Herr will undoubtedly wish to rest first! At ten, then? Ten o’clock is all right? And of course, for the account of the hotel!” This last was said so fiercely that Ari almost smiled. The door slowly closed behind the bowing figure, the face disappearing last into the gloom of the corridor, like the gradual fading of the Cheshire Cat with a mouthful of sugar cubes.

Ari slid the bolt and fell back on the bed. It had been a very busy day, a very busy day indeed, and he was exhausted. Nor was he through; the thought of the dinner ahead was tiring, even though he was sure it would be of interest as well as use to their overall plan. I wonder who this official, not of the police, might be, he thought. Well, we shall soon see. At least we are on our way; the three years of preparation will soon prove themselves to have been useful, or they shall soon prove their tragic waste. He was pleasantly reassured by the thought of Da Silva and Wilson; one thing, he was no longer alone. He smiled at the thought and closed his eyes. A faint breeze whispered through the room; he slept.