Portuguese communists. If Enrique was not there, they would at least know where he could be found.
The crowds made the maze of narrow streets even more disorienting, and he had to ask directions several times. The smell of fish and unfamiliar spices assailed him. At last he found the place, no sign above the door and no windows, but three tables on the sidewalk outside.
He drew instant attention from the five men, small and lean and hard, who sat inside drinking pungent tea. Poole walked to the counter where an old man with a white beard that hung to his waist said something to him in Portuguese.
“I’m looking for Enrique.”
“Don’t know him,” the old man wheezed.
“I don’t have time for this. I’m Ethan Poole. Carla Hallestrom is my girl.”
The man stared at him impassively.
“I was at the strike.”
A man at one of the tables got up and walked over to Poole. His breath stank of garlic. “I saw him there. The police cracked his head with their nightsticks.”
The old man looked at the man with the garlic breath and then at Poole. “Upstairs.” He motioned with his hand for Poole to go back to the street, then around to the left.
She must have heard his footsteps on the stairs because when he reached the landing, the door was open and Carla was waiting for him. They embraced, Poole lifting her off the floor so that her feet dangled around his shins.
“I was so worried,” she said, letting go of his neck, as he lowered her to the floor. “How did you . . . oh my God.” She noticed his hand.
“They were at the warehouses, arresting kids.”
“Casper?”
Poole shrugged. “Could be.”
“And you?”
“They chased me. I got away, but they got a good look at me. They know I was there.”
Enrique was in the doorway. “Come in. We’ll clean your wounds.”
Later, his hand cleaned and wrapped in gauze, Poole sat on Enrique’s ancient couch with Carla. Enrique was in the kitchen with his wife, and the smells wafting from there had Poole’s stomach grumbling.
“Tranghese from the apartment above us met me on the street and warned me,” Carla explained. “He said they came asking questions about us.”
“How long before they look here, do you think?”
“I don’t know, but we shouldn’t stay long. I don’t want to put Enrique’s wife in harm’s way.”
“Okay. Maybe we eat and go. Did you have your meeting?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “It had the effect we wanted.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Frings watched Ed, the assistant, struggle through the newsroom to catch him before he reached Panos’s office. Frings sped up a little, making Ed practically break into a run.
“You got something for me?” Frings asked.
Ed was clearly annoyed. “You asked me to run those names by Lonergan, see if there was anything in the papers about them in the past five years.”
The names from Puskis’s list. “That’s right. Anything come up?”
Ed shook his head, a little smile creasing his face at the thought of Frings coming up empty.
Frings nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
Ed shook his head and walked away to other business, muttering.
Panos was talking to a young reporter whose name Frings couldn’t remember. He looked up as Frings walked in unannounced, his face turning from annoyance to pleasure.
“Frank. Good to see you this afternoon. I’m briefing Caskin here about the big gala tonight to which I am sending him.”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Panos.”
“What? You want to go to the big party and drink some champagne and eat those beautiful little treats that they always have? Is that why you want to talk to me about this thing?”
“I, you know, I apologize, buddy,” Frings said to Caskin, “but I really need to talk to Panos privately.”
Caskin got up from his chair. Frings carried a lot of clout in the newsroom, especially among the new reporters, who were still intimidated by his reputation.
Panos said, “Go get some coffee, Caskin. I’ll talk to you again when I am done with Frank here.”
When Caskin was gone, Frings closed the door and Panos sat forward in his chair with his forearms on the desk.
“What is this, Frank?”
“It’s the big one, Panos. I’ve got the big one. Red Henry could go down within the week.”
Panos’s eyes widened. “What is this you are talking of?”
“Panos, I’m going to tell you. But you’ve got to let me play it my way. Can I trust you on that? There are other factors.”
Panos gave a look of exaggerated hurt. “You know you can trust me,