“I was on my way to do some shopping when we got sidetracked.”
“That’s inconvenient. Can you still keep the appointment?”
Bolan glanced at his companion, Jorge Guzman, who responded with a cautious nod and said, “I will make the arrangements.”
“Maybe we should just surprise him,” Bolan said. “I’d hate to find another welcoming committee waiting on the doorstep.”
Guzman flared. “You think I told them where to find us? If you doubt me—”
“Chill out,” Bolan warned. “If I thought you were doubling on me, you’d be lying back there at the factory.”
“What, then?” Guzman asked, slightly mollified.
“There are too many leaks around this town. Make that, around this country. We don’t telegraph our moves from this point on. No tip-offs to our plan for friend or foe. We’ll drop in for the hardware when your dealer least expects it, and he won’t know where we’re going when we leave.”
Finished threading the needle, Cohen dipped it into alcohol and turned toward Guzman. He observed the needle, nodded grimly, and she went to work, distracting Guzman and herself with words.
“Krieger and Rauschman met you at the airport,” she reminded Bolan. “That means they were either following your friend here, or they knew beforehand when you would be landing.”
“I’d prefer the first choice,” Bolan said.
“Of course. In that case, they may not know who you are, or why you’re here in Bogotá. You’d have a chance—although a slim one—to surprise them, yet.”
“That’s still the plan,” Bolan replied.
“Americans are always optimistic.”
“Not Americans, in general,” he said. “I set a goal and do my best to reach it, after planning for the worst contingencies that I can think of.”
“Is it sometimes wiser not to try?” she asked.
“If you believe that,” Bolan challenged, “why aren’t you at home in Tel Aviv?”
“I go where I am sent,” she said. “And I was not sent here to storm Colonia Victoria.”
“You think I was?”
She shrugged, aware of Bolan watching her. Not only following the movements of her hands.
“I’m not a mind reader, of course,” she said. “But you impress me as a soldier, not a spy. I don’t think you were sent to simply build a dossier on Dietrich and his cronies.”
“No,” he said. “Were you?”
“I am supposed to gather evidence that can be used to blow his cover, as you say. Perhaps to shame the government that shelters him. Myself, I’m not convinced it will be an effective strategy. Colombians appear to have great tolerance for such embarrassment, and very little shame.”
“You went beyond your brief tonight,” Bolan observed.
“In a good cause, I hope.”
“So, when we’re finished here,” he said, “Jorge and I will get out of your hair.”
“You plan to walk?”
“Well, maybe you could drop us at a rental agency,” Bolan said, smiling ruefully.
“Maybe,” she told him, “I can do better than that.”
“SLOW DOWN,” the man in black advised his driver. “They’re already nervous, and you know they’re trigger-happy at the best of times.”
The driver slowed their black Mercedes to a crawl, passing between the rows of factories that smoked and fumed around the clock. Downrange, six cars with flashing lights on top surrounded three more vehicles, their headlights highlighting the damage suffered by those other cars. Armed men in quasi-military uniforms scurried around the scene, peering at bodies scattered on the ground.
“I see him,” said the driver as they neared the scene of orchestrated chaos.
“Yes,” the man in black replied. “I wondered if he’d come out at this hour, himself.”
“Maybe he hasn’t been home yet,” the driver said with a smirk. “You’ve seen his mistress, eh?”
“The new one? I’m surprised her parents don’t impose a curfew.”
“Would they dare?” the driver asked.
“You have a point. Stop here. Stay with the car. If anything goes wrong, get out at any cost and warn him.”
“Herr Hauptmann—”
“I order it!”
“Yes, sir!”
Of course, something already had gone wrong. If Krieger had completed his assignment as commanded, Otto Jaeger would be sleeping at the moment, maybe dreaming of his wives at home. Instead, he had to deal with corpses in the middle of the night and listen to Joaquin Menendez complain.
With one hand on the Walther P-5 compact pistol in his coat pocket, Jaeger approached the scowling DAS chief. There was no reason to think that he would need the gun tonight, but given the dramatic mood swings Menendez was famous for, it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Perhaps he’s crazy, Jaeger thought.
And said, “Good morning, Herr Director. It’s unfortunate that your subordinates disturbed you for a matter of this sort.”
“Unfortunate, you say? With eight men dead.”
Krieger’s whole team? It seemed impossible, but would explain why no one had called Jaeger to report their failure. There was no one left.
Jaeger was cautious in replying to Menendez. He might easily have said that eight dead meant a sluggish night for Bogotá, but he preferred not to antagonize Menendez. It was dangerous and unproductive.
“Only eight?” he asked instead.
“You were expecting more?”
“I had expected none at all,” Jaeger replied with perfect honesty. Krieger was good enough—had been—to simply make his targets disappear, unless there were examples to be made.
This night, it seemed, Krieger and Rauschman, with their native help, were the examples.
“May I view the bodies?” Jaeger asked Menendez.
The Colombian considered it, then dipped his chin in the affirmative. “Touch nothing.”
“That’s a promise.”
Jaeger left the DAS director, turning toward the shot-up vehicles. He needed to replace the Volkswagen and the Mercedes. Both of them were badly damaged, and it left him short of rolling stock in Bogotá. He had another Benz on hand, besides the one that had delivered him to this grim scene, and half a dozen motorcycles. Not enough for fifty men by any means.
Now forty-eight, he thought as he approached the nearest corpse.
The third car, facing toward the others, was a cheap Fiat, run-down even before it ran into a hail of bullets and expired. The relative positions of the cars told Jaeger that the Fiat’s driver had been taken by surprise, or else pursued here, where he turned to fight. The latter seemed more likely, but Jaeger supposed he’d never really know.
Jaeger found Rauschman sprawled between the Benz and the VW, lying on his back. A slug had entered through his left eye, taking out the right-rear portion of his skull. He looked surprised and vaguely guilty.
So you should, Jaeger thought. You have disappointed everyone.
Was there a Hell for failures?