Green Ice (34 page)

Other parts of it came back to Wiley now: his sweating it out through customs, his freezing his ass on the bench in Paris, the wear on his nerves, the fears and the guilt he’d endured. Not to mention the kick in the balls from Wine Face.

All the while Argenti had been looking down his throat.

Argenti had made him feel small.

Made him look bad.

Rubbed his nose in it.

That devious, welching son of a bitch, Argenti.

Now it was Wiley’s turn.

Argenti owed.

Would pay, Wiley vowed.

No effect from the five
aguardientes
he’d had. He walked straight and fast to where he’d left the Ferrari, drove it south on Carrera 10, went left on Calle 1 for three blocks and stopped. From there he had a good view of Número 1, The Concession’s building. He was only slightly surprised to see Argenti’s limousine parked in front. The chauffeur slouched in it, probably expecting an all-night wait. With the
barrio
all around, he’d better have the limo’s doors locked, Wiley thought.

The steel-and-glass tower was black against the night sky, defined only by the reflections of the city that played upon it. A section of the thirty-third floor was lighted. Conduct Section, Wiley recalled, was on thirty-three, and of course that was where the controls would be located, with someone on duty round the clock. The only other lights were on thirty-four, next to the top, Argenti’s private floor.

Wiley reminded himself that he wasn’t there to be jealous.

The building.

If he could, he’d blow it to bits, reduce it to rubble, bring it down to the level of the
barrio
that it stood in. But, hell, that would only inconvenience Argenti for a while. He’d just put up another building.

No. The ultimate satisfaction, Wiley thought, would come from the idea Lillian had latched onto: taking the frosting right off the top of Argenti’s piece of cake.

If possible.

Wiley sat there for over an hour, nearly two, and couldn’t come up with a way to do it. He considered every angle, every logical approach, and when he started offering himself ways he’d already rejected, he decided he was stumped. It was impossible to reach that top floor and the vaults. Argenti had made it impossible. As much as Wiley hated to admit it, Argenti had him outsmarted.

He gave up on it, drove back to the villa. It was shortly after midnight. He went up to Lillian’s suite, used her toothbrush and got into her bed.

She came in at five to four.

He pretended he was asleep with the light on.

She didn’t believe him. As she undressed, letting her clothes drop anywhere, she told him, “It was exactly as you said.”

“Huh?”

“He just stood there, and part of the wall slid open.”

Wiley lighted a cigarette.

She speared him with a look. “Please don’t smoke in here. I’ll wake up with a headache.”

He’d never seen her with such a bad disposition.

No ashtray. He got up, went to the bathroom door, took a final double drag and flipped the cigarette in the direction of the commode. The bathroom was dark, but he knew he’d hit target when he heard the extinguishing
phht
. He returned to the bed. She was on it, at the foot, sitting with legs crossed. She gathered her hair and tied it back with a ribbon.

“Nothing in his hands?” he asked.

“Nope. Both his hands were in sight and they were empty.”

“Good.”

“What the hell’s good about it?”

“You didn’t happen to take a close look at those walls, did you?”

“Not real, real close. Why?”

“How did all those emeralds grab you?”

“I thought how much better they’d look not there.”

“Argenti must have given you a bad time.”

“His hands weren’t always empty, if that’s what you mean.”

“Anything for the cause, I guess.”

“Relax your imagination. Argenti didn’t get lurid. Actually, he was in a serious romantic mood.”

“I got a haircut.”

“We had dinner at his club.”

“I almost got my pockets picked.”

“All through dinner he kept saying how well suited we are.”

Wiley decided it was better she didn’t know about the emerald quartz, what a mark he’d been. Someday he’d tell her.

“He caught me off balance with a ring,” she said. “An enormous diamond from Carrier. He opened the box and put it on the table in front of me. I was sure he’d insist on slipping it on, but he didn’t, never touched the ring. It was strange. He asked me to marry him.”

Wiley felt as though he’d jumped slightly out of his skin. “What did you say?”

“Maybe.”

“But you didn’t really mean maybe.”

“He didn’t like maybe, not at all, and he wanted to know why maybe and I told him because I doubted he could afford me in the long run. After all, I had noticed he couldn’t even pay his gambling losses.”

“Good girl.”

“With an absolutely straight face he said he paid his gambling losses annually, said he wasn’t about to submit a financial statement to me, but of course he was very well off, and I said so it appeared. For some proof he took me to his building, where, after opening some champagne, he also opened King Solomon’s high-rise mines.”

“Then what?”

“He popped the question again.”

“You told him to fuck off.”

“Not even in so many words. I told him I’d think about it.”

“Why?”

“There was no advantage in dashing his hopes. Anyway, tonight I didn’t learn a damn thing.”

Make some points, Wiley told himself. He waited a beat and said casually: “I figured out how the vaults work.”

“You didn’t really.”

“I did.”

“You’re just saying that because you love me and want to make me feel better.”

He shook his head, definitely not.

She was so delighted she dove on him.

“How?” she wanted to know.

“That’s what the Indian said to the mermaid.”

“Wiley, this is no time to sound your age. Can we get the vaults open, can we?”

“I’m almost sure of it.”

“How much is almost?”

“About eighty-twenty.”

“We’re eighty.”

“There’s still the problem of getting up there.”

She was on her elbows, the upper part of her supported. Her face above his, her breasts grazing his chest. The rest of her body lay lightly on his, stomach to stomach, legs to legs.

“Don’t worry, we’ll solve that somehow,” she said. “You’re remarkable. In and out of bed.” She kissed him.

He was scoring and loving it. He told her, “I already know a way to get up there.”

Since he’d arrived home, to keep his mind off Lillian and Argenti, he’d focused it on the building. Besides, it was like him to want to go an extra round. In his earlier bout with the problem, logic had gotten him nowhere, so he’d chucked that, told himself: Pretend you’re Jack the Ripper, the most resourceful man she’s ever known.

Top him.

Wiley had let his imagination fly, let it zoom and zap and woosh all over, up and down and around the place like an animated cartoon. All sorts of crazy ideas had come to him. He tempered them with reality, not logic, just reality.

The ideas had dissolved when reality was applied.

All but one.

One wild, desperate chance.

“Tell me,” Lillian demanded.

“First, you tell me.”

“Anything, what?”

He decided it wasn’t something he should bargain for: He substituted: “You want me.”

“Often at the most inopportune times, darling. Feel.” She guided his hand.

He doubted that could be from Argenti’s pawing. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,” he promised.

“No, now.”

“I’m tired of thinking.” True.

She was relentless.

He had to tell her or he wouldn’t get to sleep or anything. He made it as brief as possible.

Even during the most technical part she didn’t ask questions or interrupt. Afterward, however, she jumped off him and ran into the bathroom. When she came out, she explained she’d gotten so excited she’d had to go. She paced the room, recalling things Argenti had said and done that night that seemed to validate Wiley’s theory regarding the vaults. As for getting to the top of the building, Wiley’s idea, she said, was positively outrageous. A rating above sensational.

Wiley still thought it was ninety percent insane and ten percent slim, but he didn’t say so.

At dawn Lillian was still scribbling notes, diagramming, elaborating, expanding on Wiley’s ideas. Although Wiley wasn’t up to mental par, he contributed and kept her within reasonable check. By eight o’clock they had worked out many of the details and a timetable.

“I have to call Marianna,” Lillian said. Marianna, her personal secretary in Mexico City.

“That can wait.”

“I know exactly where to reach her at this hour. She’ll be over the garage with Bryan.”

“Her boyfriend?”

“My driver, her service man.” She direct-dialed the number, and spoke to Marianna for about three quarters of an hour, had her repeat every instruction.

Wiley imagined a sexually sated and soporific Marianna, so when Lillian hung up, he asked, “Do you think she got it all straight?”

“She’s extremely bright, and dependable as a hawk.”

Wiley believed that from past experience.

“Are you still sleepy?” Lillian asked.

He wasn’t. He’d passed through that barrier, felt wide awake.

She got a pair of jeans from the closet, put them on. They were a perfect snug fit and, Wiley noticed, her stomach was so flat and tight she didn’t even have to suck in when she zipped up the fly. Thinking aloud, she said, “I can’t wait to tell Miguel.”

24

The next three were tense, busy days for them.

The meeting with Miguel went well. Although he wasn’t enthusiastic, as Lillian had expected, he believed it was a better idea than a direct assault on an escorted armored truck. How would they finance such an operation?

Lillian was quick to say that according to her estimate, if they watched their pennies, it wouldn’t cost all that much, and that Wiley had just sold a family farm in Ohio and was glad to chip in.

Miguel put in that it would be easier if he saw to some of the arrangements because he knew the country and had underground connections of just about every sort. Never mind that he was being sought by F-2, army intelligence, as well as agents of the D.A.S., the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad. He wasn’t about to hole up, preferred being on the offensive. Did Wiley know that D.A.S. personnel were trained in torture techniques at Langley, Virginia? he asked offhandedly. Anyway, he would do his part. They could count on it.

The two black Cubans sat in on the meeting. They had been sent from Havana as advisors; however, they made no suggestions or comments.

It was Lillian’s opinion that someone should be in charge of the operation, and, all things considered, it should be Wiley. She thought that would get a rise from the Cubans. They merely nodded. Miguel gave it a moment’s consideration and agreed.

Wiley didn’t want the job but didn’t refuse it. On second thought, if he was going to die, better he should die under his own direction. He also realized that if Lillian remained true to character, she would surely be assuming much of the responsibility. That might have been her reason for nominating him.

First thing that afternoon they rented a house. A modest five-room unfurnished place, situated in a development among hundreds of similar others. In the western part of Bogotá, an outlying section called Ciudad Kennedy—Kennedy City. The house was about twenty blocks from the racetrack, which was perhaps its only distinction. It would serve as their safe house.

The Cubans moved right in.

Miguel remained in the
barrio
, for the time being.

By midafternoon Wiley and Lillian were at the gunsmith’s, the same small shop where she had bought those cartridges for the poaching expedition. The proprietor was Alberto Cordero, a man in his sixties. He had the mild, patient manner of a craftsman.

Lillian told him she wanted to buy two Llama nine-millimeter pistols with silencers. (Their previous pair had been confiscated along with their clothes in Barbosa.)

Cordero had only one such Llama in stock but could have another by tomorrow.

Fine, she’d also need four extra clips and two cartons of center-fire ammunition. And by chance did Cordero have a forty-five caliber Colt automatic for sale?

Yes. He showed it to her.

She’d take it …

Cordero’s eyes were like adding machines.

… along with some hollow-point ammunition.

Cordero was sorry to say he had no hollow points, by law was not allowed to sell them.

Lillian appeared disappointed enough to cancel the entire order. She told him unequivocally she wanted a large, heavy, slower-moving slug, a hollow point. She took out a thousand dollars, held it in her hand, ten hundreds.

Cordero tried to not look at the money. He also tried the excuse that he didn’t have the mold necessary for making hollow-point forty-fives. When he saw that fail, he asked how many rounds she would need.

Enough for two clips.

Only eighteen? Why hadn’t she said so. He really did not have the mold, but he could bore the points of eighteen.

She placed the thousand on the counter and asked when she could have them.

He placed the Colt forty-five on the money like a paperweight and promised they would be ready in three days.

From the gunsmith’s they went to a camera store. Bought a motorized Nikon that could take as many as five exposures per second, along with a two-hundred-millimeter lens. They also bought a Sony TC-56 tape recorder that was a little smaller than the average paperback book. It had a built-in electric condenser microphone that would pick up easily within a twenty-foot range, and a frequency response of ninety to ten thousand for excellent fidelity. It took a standard ninety-minute cassette.

That night Lillian dedicated the early hours to keeping Argenti optimistic. She let him win at gin rummy again and also consented to try on the engagement ring. She extended the proper finger, expecting Argenti to oblige. He gestured that she should help herself. It was as though he had a phobic aversion or allergy to diamonds, she thought.