33

 

Sledge felt a surge of exhilaration as he watched Dietrich Staab react to his challenge. A widening in the hulking bodyguard’s eyes showed Sledge’s thrust had struck home. The rifle remained pointed at Sledge’s chest as they stared at each other. Sledge could almost see Staab’s mental machinery grinding its ponderous way from shock toward the only tenable decision. Sledge tried to act as if confrontations like this were his everyday business.

Finally, Staab lowered his rifle and muttered to the other guard, “Keep him covered. I’ll see what the boss wants to do.”

He turned and walked from the gate into a wooden frame building some fifty yards distant. The thick growth of trees prevented Sledge from seeing either end of the building. From what he could see, he judged it a long structure with a single square room grafted onto its side at the midpoint. Staab disappeared into that room.

The other guard kept his rifle trained on Sledge’s midsection. A tremor of his hands and erratic twitch of one eye revealed a nervous state that any slight stimulus might provoke into rash action.

“Relax,” Sledge said. “I don’t have a weapon, and I’m not going anywhere.” To emphasize the latter point, he eased himself down into a sitting position in the middle of the trail, careful to keep both hands in sight. “What’s got you spooked?” he asked. “I can’t do anything from this side of the fence.”

The man hesitated, then spoke. “Weird things have happened. Somebody has it in for us.”

Sledge shrugged. “Not me. I just want to do business.”

The other looked doubtful. “You’re not the guy that zapped Capozzi?”

“I don’t even know Capozzi. You say somebody got to him?”

“Dead as a mackerel. In our Jeep, halfway up the trail. The note said he was impolite.”

That sounded like something Raúl would do. Could he be the “Mexican” the shopkeeper said was hanging around?

In any case, Sledge saw an opportunity to create dissension among the enemy. “Sounds like an inside job. One of your people probably had a grudge.”

The man’s mouth drew tight. “The Staabs say they were all accounted for.”

“Who accounted for the Staabs?” He made a mental note that both Staabs were in residence.

The other made no response as Dietrich Staab returned, carrying his rifle in one hand. His free hand lifted the latch on the gate, and a jerk of his head signaled Sledge to enter. Handing his rifle to the other guard, Staab spread-eagled Sledge against the fence and frisked him, then pointed toward the frame building. As Sledge complied, Staab recovered his rifle and followed.

Hairs prickled at the back of Sledge’s neck as he entered. He’d cleared the first hurdle, but now he had to face the real pros. The room itself was a simple square furnished only by a desk, a chair, a table that held two crowded plastic file boxes, and a few straight chairs that had known hard usage. Dietrich Staab stood at Sledge’s left, his rifle held in front of his chest with its butt available as a club. To Sledge’s right, beside the desk, stood another blond bruiser Sledge took to be Erich Staab. This one wore a holstered pistol of a make Sledge couldn’t identify at this distance.

At the desk sat the dark-haired man Sledge had seen beside the weapons factory in Colombia. The man tapped the spread fingers of both hands against each other in front of his chest. The quickness of his cold blue eyes reflected a facile intelligence capable of devising the terrible weapons whose results Kristin’s photographs recorded.

“My name is Williams,” the man said. “What do you want with me?”

Your name is Koenraad, Sledge thought. But he saved that bombshell for later. Deliberately, he lounged against the wall beside the door. “I thought we might make a deal,” he said. “You cut me in on the weapons sales, and I don’t give my information to the FBI.”

The man did not change expression. “You said something about Colombia. Tell me the details.”

Sledge held the man’s gaze. “I had a problem with Diego Contreras and stumbled onto the factory. Matter of fact, I watched while you and these two goons met with him by the airstrip.”

Both Staabs tensed, but subsided when Williams raised a finger.

Sledge pressed his advantage. “Contreras had sponsored one assassination too many, so I told the right people about his factory. You know what happened.”

Williams tapped his pencil on the desk. “I know what happened. Why do you think it earns you any consideration?”

“It doesn’t.” Sledge showed an insolent smirk. “It’s what else I know that does.”

“For instance?” He stopped tapping the pencil.

“Did you know that Contreras committed the massacre at Chozadolor?”

Williams gripped the arms of his chair. His pencil fell to the floor, which squeaked as the Staabs shifted positions.

“That’s right,” Sledge said. “He needed some guinea pigs to see if those chemical weapons really worked.”

The dark-haired man pursed his lips. “I read that the men were killed by conventional means. By right-wing death squads.”

“Contreras dressed his guerrillas as paramilitaries when they raided the village. Most of the village men were simply butchered. But Contreras held out twenty for his experiment.”

Williams said nothing, so Sledge continued. “He led those twenty into a field and killed them there with your weapons. I don’t know what means of delivery he used, but I do know the results.”

“So that’s why there was a shortage—” Erich Staab took a step toward Sledge.

Williams stopped him with a gesture but said nothing.

“That’s not all,” Sledge continued. “Contreras kept enough of your munitions to stage a coup against the Colombian government. His guerrillas were moving into position when the U.S. airborne troops hit the factory. Contreras was playing you for a sucker.”

Williams stirred in his chair. “How do you know these things?”

Sledge took the plunge. “I helped raid the factory, and I interrogated Contreras’s second-in-command afterwards.”

“That is all very interesting.” Williams relaxed and intertwined his fingers in front of his chest. “But it’s ancient history. What do you know that’s worth cutting you in?”

“For openers,” Sledge said. “Your name isn’t Williams. It’s Wevers Koenraad, and you’re supposed to be dead.”

The dark-haired man’s widened eyes proved Sledge’s bomb had hit its target, but the man’s manner became more deliberate as he asked, “What makes you think that?”

Sledge knew he was skating on thin ice. Even Brinkman didn’t have this one nailed down. “The weapons had to come from somewhere,” Sledge said, “and the old South African program is as good a guess as any. But that’s not the most important thing.”

He paused to let the tension grow. “I told you Contreras killed some of the villagers with your weapons. A colleague of mine photographed the results. The photos are in a safe place, and they’ll be turned over to the FBI if I don’t check in by tomorrow morning.”

“This still doesn’t buy you a piece of the action.” A mirthless smile appeared on Koenraad’s lips. “What if Contreras did commit an atrocity with chemical weapons? There’s nothing there to implicate me.”

“On the contrary.” Sledge took a deep breath and lied. “I also have photographs of you and Contreras handling some of the weapons at the factory.”

The cold blue eyes narrowed. “Were you with your colleague when she took the photographs?”

Sledge refused to walk into the trap, though his heart leaped at the first indication of what could have happened to Kristin. If he played this right, he might find out. “I have two colleagues,” he said. “One has the photos in a safe place. As it happens, the other is a woman, and she’s been out of pocket since yesterday.”

“Well,” Koenraad said, his manner suddenly relaxed, “it seems you have the advantage, Mr…I didn’t get your name.”

“Sledge, Jeb Sledge.” What was Koenraad up to? Why the change in manner?

“And what kind of a cut did you have in mind?”

“Twenty percent should be enough. Mama taught me not to be greedy.” This was too easy. Something told Sledge he was being trapped, but he couldn’t see how.

The dark-haired man again showed his mirthless smile. “Why not hold out for twenty-five percent? Wouldn’t that be better?”

Sledge started to say “Twenty is enough.” But even as his mouth formed the words, something hard smashed onto the back of his skull. The floor rose to smash him again, and someone kicked him twice in the ribs. Dimly, as he descended into a whirlpool of spinning black, he heard a voice commanding, “Tie him up and throw him in with the woman.”