Breaking Lorca

TWENTY-EIGHT

As he backed away from the windows, Victor’s knees shook beneath him. Still a coward, he thought, no matter how I spell my name. He went down the hall to Lorca’s room and banged on the door. “Lorca!” He tried to open it, but it was locked. He could hear the hiss of the shower.

A room-service waiter trundling a cart eyed him suspiciously, and Victor took the elevator to the ground floor.

Beyond the lobby, a corridor led to various business suites and conference halls. Two men in identical blue suits sat at a table, partially blocking the hall. From the suite of rooms behind them, eager voices issued. Victor told the guards he needed to see Bob Wyatt.

“You have some identification, sir?”

“No. I am a witness at tomorrow’s hearing. I have to speak with Mr. Wyatt. An urgent matter. Can you find him for me?”

“I’m not paid to find people. I’m paid to keep unauthorized persons out of this area. Now, unless your name is on my list-”

A small knot of people came out of one door and crossed the hall toward another. Wyatt’s booming voice filled the hall, even though he was almost hidden behind a glossy young man with very thick hair and a beautiful pinstripe suit. Victor called out over the heads of the security guards, “Bob! Bob, I must speak with you!”

Two lines of annoyance formed between Wyatt’s luxurious brows. “What is it, Ignacio? I’m busy.”

Victor motioned him away from the crowd, away from the security guards.

Wyatt cursed under his breath. “Ignacio, really. I don’t have time for this now.”

“Lorca is in danger. Men from the little school are here. They are watching us from across the street.”

Bob gave a short, skeptical laugh. “In Washington? Get a grip, Ignacio. I understand you’re nervous, but let’s not get totally paranoid. I’ll see you a little later. We’re planning strategy here.”

“Your strategy won’t be worth anything if your best witness dies. They are here, Bob. They are right across the street.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. How could they possibly know Lorca is here? How could they even know she’s alive?”

Victor waved his hands at the crowded hall. “Obviously because you told everyone in the world. We have to hide her, keep her somewhere safe until tomorrow.”

“I can’t leave now. We’re wrapped up in strategy here. If you want to take it up with the reception desk, go ahead.”

The pinstriped young man had been moving closer as they spoke. Now he laid a cautioning hand on Wyatt’s arm. “Couldn’t help but hear, Bob. If this man has legitimate security concerns, we should take them straight to Greg.” He shook hands with Victor. “Roger Carey, chief coordinator.”

Competence shone from the young man’s features; he had the smile of a Kennedy. Victor shook his hand with relief.

“Come on, I’ll take you through. It’s okay, guys,” he said to the guards. Then, to Victor: “Greg is our security wizard. Actually, he’s the Senator’s security wizard. State Department coughed him up.”

The three of them passed through a living room full of flowers and fruit, as if someone were in hospital. The bedroom next to it had been converted into an office where students typed at computers and talked urgently into telephones. Carey rapped on the next door. “Greg! It’s Roger!”

A voice told him to enter.

“Give me a second,” Carey said, flashing his Kennedy smile, and slipped into the room.

Wyatt turned on Victor. “How did you recognize these so-called hit men? I thought you were blindfolded at the little school. How did you see them, Ignacio? How can you possibly recognize them now?”

“They took my blindfold off for the land transfer ceremony. Believe me, I can recognize them.”

“From that one instance? Are you sure, Ignacio?”

“My name is not Ignacio.”

The furry brows contracted. A meaty paw rose to stroke the great beard. “Oh, really. Really. That’s interesting. That’s extremely interesting. Maybe you’d like to tell me-”

Carey appeared at the door again and beckoned them inside.

“So what the hell is your name?” Wyatt hissed as they went inside.

A man was on the phone, his back to them. He swivelled from side to side in a chair with a high back, so that all they could see of him was his hair-flat, blond, schoolboyish. It was the colour of corn and flashed each time he swivelled toward the desk lamp. “Is that so?” he was saying on the phone. “Is that what he thinks?”

Victor tried to get a better look at him, but Wyatt’s bulk was blocking his view. Wyatt turned to him now and said, “You’re going to have to explain yourself, you know.”

“Everything will be explained. Just now, Lorca is more important.”

Carey watched them quizzically. The blond man was still hammering at the same point on the phone. “Well, you ask him this,” he was saying. “You just ask that son of a bitch who does he think is paying the bills down there.”

His words flicked a switch in Victor’s memory. He could not immediately place the phrase, but it sent his nerves, already straining at the top notes of fear, up another semitone.

“No, you ask him,” the man was saying into the phone. “Just you ask him: who does he think’s paying the bills down there?”

The flat blond hair flashed again, and Victor remembered now. The American had said those same words to Lorca. They had echoed harshly off the tile walls of the little school: “Who do you think pays the bills around here?”

The phone was slammed down.

The man swivelled around and introduced himself to Wyatt. “Greg Wheat. What can I do for you?”

Carey answered for him. “Gentleman here thinks he saw some personnel from El Salvador. Military personnel.”

“Who did?” He aimed a thin finger at Wyatt. “You? You’re personally familiar with the El Salvador military?”

“Not me,” Wyatt said. “Ignacio here thinks he saw them.” He turned to indicate his annoying charge, but the space where he had been standing just a moment ago was empty.