Withers sat in the high-backed booth at the rear of the bar. His outsize martini arrived and he sipped it, tempted to go to the front window and look again at the AstonMartin automobile. It was the real thing! He couldn't wait to tool around the roads in it, couldn't wait to show it off to Anita Griswald-especially couldn't wait for his daughter Kimberly to see it! It was a hell of a lot more exciting than anything his former snotty in-laws or his bitch exwife could chauffeur her around in! His enjoyable reverie was cut short by a heavyset man in a checkered shirt who suddenly appeared and slid into the booth opposite him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Withers. I'm sure you saw the DBFour. Nice set of wheels, aren't they?"
"Who the hell are you? You're not Sidney, you're twice his size."
"Sidney was unavailable, so I'm taking his place."
"We've never met. How did you know it was me?"
"A photograph."
"A what?"
"It's trivial."
"I've been here at least five minutes. Why did you wait?"
"Just checking," said the intruder, continually glancing at the front door.
"Checking what?"
"It's nothing really. To be honest with you, I'm a bearer of great news and considerable riches."
"In my pocket are four untraceable bearer bonds, each in the amount of fifty thousand dollars, for a total of two hundred thousand. Along with these is an invitation to visit Germany, all expenses paid, of course. We understand that you haven't taken your summer holiday; perhaps now you can schedule it."
"My God, I'm speechless! This is great. Then my contribution was appreciated, I knew it would b&! I took a hell of a risk, you all know that, don't you?"
"The proof is in the fact that I'm here, isn't it?"
"I can't wait to get to Berlin, because you're right, we're right!
This country's going to hell in a handbasket. Talk about ethnic cleansing, we'll need fifty years of it-"
"Hold it!" whispered the stranger harshly, his eyes again on the door.
"The fellow who came in after you, the one in the white shirt."
"I didn't notice. What about him?"
"He had a couple of swallows of beer, paid with a deuce, and just left."
6'so?" I
"Wait here, I'll be right back." The man slid out of the booth, walked rapidly around the bar to the far end of the filthy front window, and peered outside. Instantly, he moved away from the glass and returned to the booth, his expression grim, his eyes narrowed.
"You stupid fool, you were followed!" he said, sitting down.
"What are you talking about?"
"You heard me, you idiot! There are three men out there talking to the white shirt, and believe me, they're not patrons of this dump.
They've got federal government written all over their faces."
"Jesus! A deputy director named Kearns called me last night asking dumb questions, but I set him straight."
"Kearns of the CIA?"
"That's where I work, remember?"
"All too well." The stranger leaned forward over the table, his left hand on it, his right underneath.
"You're a liability to those who expect me to do my job, Mr. Withers. "
"Just give me the money and I'll get out of here through the back door, where they make deliveries."
"What will you do then?"
"Wait in an empty cabin until they leave, bribe one of the hookers to swear she was with me if it's necessary, and head home.
It's clean, I've done it before. Call me later about the Aston-Martin.
Come on!"
"I don't think so." There was a burst of raucous laughter from the bar, accompanied by four muted spits under the table. Bruce Withers lurched back in the seat, his upper body pinned to the banquette, his eyes wide as blood trickled down the corner of his mouth. The stranger in the checkered shirt sidled out of the booth and walked calmly toward the rear delivery entrance while slipping the silenced pistol under his belt. He opened the door and Mario Mamhetti's henchman disappeared. The Don of Pontchartrain was living up to his concordat.
Nine minutes and twenty-seven seconds passed until the shouts, joined by female screams, erupted from inside the motel bar. An overly made-up woman raced out the door screeching.
"For Christ's sake, somebody call the police! A guy was shot to death in there!"
The agents of the CIA, accompanied by their director and Wesley Sorenson, ran inside. Everyone in the bar was ordered to remain where they were and not try to make any phone calls. A frustrated, dejected Knox Talbot, Sorenson at his side, came