“The Seal,” I said, getting right to business. “I have it. You want it.”
“Ah. And your price?”
I took a deep breath. “Twenty-five million dollars.”
He didn’t say anything at first, but I could almost feel those dark eyes of his, staring at me behind the dark glasses.
“I must say, that is unexpected.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for Samuel. I want him taken care of.”
“I see. Well, twenty-five million would do that—and quite nicely!”
“See, here’s the thing, Nueve. There’s no other way out of this mess. It’s me they want. Take me out of the equation and everything’s equal again.”
“Equal?”
“Back to normal. Back the way it was. So the first thing to take care of is Samuel. He left the Company for me and I don’t think you’d consider hiring him back, so I want to make sure he’s taken care of, plus a little extra for his trouble.”
“It’s a generous severance, Alfred. But I cannot see how that balances this particular scale.”
“That’s the second part,” I said.
“I thought there might be one.”
“I want you to extract somebody from the civilian interface.”
“And that somebody would be ...?”
“Me.”
05:06:01:41
After breakfast, two doctors came in, escorted by the policeman Detective Black had stationed outside my door. At least, the cop thought they were doctors. One carried a stainless-steel valise. The other walked with a cane.
“More tests, huh?” I asked.
“More tests,” the one with the cane said.
The cop left. Nueve leaned his cane against the bed rail and sat in the chair while his buddy got to work. He gently peeled off the bandage over my nose and leaned over me, examining the damage. His breath smelled like cinnamon.
“How bad is it?”
He sniffed. “Seen worse. We’ll make it work.”
He dug into the valise. I glanced at Nueve, who was smiling without showing his teeth.
“We’re stopping by Samuel’s room before we leave,” I told him.
“Unnecessary. It increases the risk.”
“I don’t care. I want to say goodbye. I owe him that.”
He shrugged. Cinnamon-Breath was leaning over me again, applying latex prosthetics piece by piece, using a small brush and a foul-smelling adhesive.
“What did you find out about Jourdain Garmot?” I asked Nueve.
“Age: twenty-two. Citizenry: French. Marital status: single. Occupation: president and chief executive officer of Tintagel International, a consulting firm based in England that specializes in the research and development of security-related systems and software.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means its business is war.”
“War?”
“Fighting them, winning them.”
“And it’s big.”
“There is no bigger business than war, Alfred.”
“Hold still,” Cinnamon-Breath scolded me. “Look up at the ceiling and don’t move. I have to do your eyes.”
“The lavender goes better with the outfit,” Nueve said to him.
Cinnamon-Breath rolled his eyes. “Do I tell you how to kill people?”
Nueve shrugged. I said to Cinnamon-Breath, “He shrugs a lot.”
“He’s European,” he said. “They’re world-weary. Close your eyes.”
“Tintagel’s board of directors voted him to the presidency after the untimely demise of our friend Monsieur Mogart,” Nueve said. “Prior to that he was a university student in Prague.”
“Why would a superrich, multinational corporation put a twenty-two-year-old college student in charge?” I asked.
“Watch him,” the makeup man said. “He’s going to shrug.”
Nueve was holding himself very still in his chair.
“He fought it back,” Cinnamon-Breath said. He reached into the valise again and removed a gray wig.
“I don’t know why I have to be so old,” I said.
“Who do you see the most in hospitals? Huh? What’s the demographic?”
He shoved the wig over my head and began tucking my own hair up into it. He gave a soft whistle and said, “Hey, love your hairstyle and I’m really digging the gray—very post-mod radical chic—but we really should shave it off.”
“You’re not cutting my hair,” I told him.
“Maybe I should just wrap some gauze around it. Like you have a head injury. We’re gonna be too lumpy this way.”
“Where is Jourdain Garmot now?” I asked Nueve.
“Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania?”
“He flew into Harrisburg two nights ago, where he rented a car and drove to a tiny hamlet called Suedberg.”
Something clicked when he said the name, but I couldn’t pin down why Suedberg sounded familiar to me.
“What’s a Frenchman who runs a company in England doing in a tiny hamlet in Pennsylvania?” I wondered aloud.
“Here it comes,” Cinnamon-Breath said. Then Nueve shrugged. “Maybe it’s more a tic than a gesture.”
“More of a mannerism,” Nueve said.
“You mean affectation.”
Nueve shrugged.
Cinnamon-Breath gave the wig one last violent tug, then fluffed the tight gray curls with his fingertips. He tsk-tsked at the effect.
“Think I should have gone with a darker shade. All this hair underneath is making it bulge. And the color—you look like a human Q-tip. Oh well. All done but the lips.”
“Don’t do the lips,” I said.
“I gotta do the lips. I don’t do the lips, people are going to notice the hair. And we don’t want them noticing the hair.”
“Why would an old lady be wearing lipstick in a hospital?” I asked.
“She’s leaving the hospital, Kropp. A Southern hospital. Jeez! Now make like you’re going to kiss me.”
“Make like I’m going to what?”
“Kiss me! Give me a smooch.”
“Perhaps you should purse your lips, Alfred, as if you’re going to whistle a happy tune,” Nueve suggested.
I pursed my lips and avoided Cinnamon-Breath’s eyes as he applied the lipstick.
“Now that completes the picture!” he said.
“Too red,” Nueve said.
Cinnamon-Breath ignored him. He held a hand mirror in front of my face.