Chapter Nine
Fred dispensed with the waiter’s profuse thanks with an airy wave of his hand. He could still vividly remember his high school days working as a busboy, and as a result, habitually overtipped.
“Incredible! You feel it necessary to offer bribes even for the simplest of services.”
“Have you ever tried waiting on tables for twelve hours solid, Ivan, old friend?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I have. My pay for the entire twelve hours was less than you just gave that man as a tip. But I did not mean to start another argument, my friend. I was merely commenting on the differences between how money is handled here and how it was in my old homeland.”
“Well, you’re in America now.”
“Yes, and as I said, I apologize. I meant no offense.
Please, for once let us end our meeting on a pleasant note.”
“Fine by me.”
Still maintaining an annoyed air, Fred rose to leave. However, he was puzzling over Ivan’s last remark. Strange. It was the first time Ivan had ever apologized for getting under Fred’s skin. If anything, he usually enjoyed doing it. In fact, Ivan had been acting strange all evening—no, make that all day.
Fred habitually spent more time studying his enemies than he did his friends, trying to memorize their quirks, their moods, anything that might give him an advantage in a confrontation. Quickly reviewing Ivan’s reactions or lack thereof during the entire day, Fred would be willing to bet a month’s wages that there was something bothering him. But what?
He paused for a moment to light a cigarette, and was rewarded by having Ivan rise to join him.
“Please, Fred. Might I walk with you for a bit?”
“Sure. I’m heading back to my hotel. Tag along and I’ll buy you a drink. It’s just across the park.”
Ivan fell in step beside him and they left the restaurant in silence. Fred played the waiting game as they crossed the street and started down the sidewalk through the park. The night sounds of the city filtered through the air, giving a feeling of unreality, a persistent counterpoint to the deep shadows of the trees.
“Fred, we have been meeting privately at dinner for two months now. During these unofficial talks, I feel we have grown to know each other, yes?”
“I suppose.”
C’mon, you bastard, spit it out. What’s in the wind?”
“I have a personal favor to ask of you.”
Bingo! Deep in Fred’s mind, a bright-eyed fox perked up its ears. If this was what it sounded like, he’d finally have his rival right where he wanted him. Nothing like having a member of the opposition over a barrel.
“What’s the problem?”
“It is my daughter. I have recently received word she is alive…ah, I am getting ahead of myself. When I escaped…when I left my homeland, I was told that both my wife and daughter had been killed. Now word has been smuggled to me that my daughter is alive and living with friends. However, there is danger of the authorities finding her and I wish very badly to have her join me here in America.”
“Have you told them at Oil?”
“Yes, but they cannot help me. They say I have not been working for them long enough.”
“Bastards!”
“I have saved some money, but it is not enough. They say they can give me a loan in another six months, but I am afraid. My fellow workers will not help me. I am not well liked because of my many promotions. I thought that perhaps…”
His voice trailed off into silence.
Fred’s mind was racing. He’d help Ivan, of course. If Communications would not spring for the money, he’d do it out of his own pocket. This was too good an opportunity to miss. The big question was what could he get out of Ivan in return? Fred could probably shake him down for one big favor before Oil found out that their number two negotiator had sold out, but if he played it right, one would be plenty.
“Tell you what, Ivan—”
“All right, you two! Hand ’em over!”
The two men spun to face the source of the interruption. A youth was standing on the sidewalk behind them; he must have either followed them or been waiting in the bushes. His voice was firm, but the gun in his hand wavered as he tried to cover the two men.
“C’mon! Give!” The boy’s voice cracked.
“Steady fella, we’re giving.”
Fred reached for his wallet, taking care to move slowly. If the kid had a knife he might have tried taking him, but he had a healthy respect for guns, particularly when they were held by nervous amateurs.
“No!”
All movement froze at the sound of Ivan’s voice.
“What’d you say, Mister?”
“Ivan, for God’s sake…”
“I said, ‘No!’ ”
He began to move toward the mugger.
“All my life I have been ordered around!”
“Stand back!”
“Ivan! Don’t!”
Fred’s mind was racing. He had to do something quickly.
“You have no right to—”
The gun exploded in a flash of light, the report deafening in the night.
Ivan lurched backward. Shit! Fred threw his wallet at the mugger’s face. The boy instinctively flinched away, raising his hands, and Fred was on him.
There was no style or finesse to Fred’s attack. He snared the boy’s gun hand with one hamlike fist, grabbed his shirt with the other, picked him up, and slammed him to the pavement. The boy arched and let out a muffled scream from the pain of impact. The scream was cut short as Fred hammered him into unconsciousness with two blows from his fist.
Breathing heavily, he pried the gun from the boy’s fist, rose, retreated a few steps, then turned to look for Ivan. He was lying where he fell, unmoving, a large pool of blood oozing from beneath his loose-jointed form. Fred scrambled crabwise over to look at him. His eyes were open and unseeing.
Shit! So close! So damn close!
For a moment, Fred was filled with an urge to stand up and kick the unconscious mugger.
You son-of-a-bitch! You’ve ruined everything!
He was still swearing to himself two and a half hours later when he left the police station. It had taken him almost half an hour to flag down a cop, a glowing testimonial to police efficiency. Now the body had been carted away, the mugger was safely locked up, and Fred was left with nothing.
Shit! Of all the bad breaks! Just when Ivan was about to bust open! Now he’d have to start from scratch with another negotiator. Well, maybe not from scratch. C’mon, Fred. Think. You’re supposed to be able to make an advantage out of anything, even a disaster like this. Think!
He ignored the hail of a taxi driver and started the long walk back to his hotel. He covered nearly eight blocks lost in thought, when suddenly an idea stopped him in his tracks. He stood there as he checked and rechecked the plan mentally, then looked around and ran back half a block to a pay phone.
He fumbled for some loose change, then fed a coin into the phone and hurriedly dialed a number.
“Mark? Fred here. I’ve got a hot assignment for you.…I don’t give a damn…Well, kick her ass out, this is important…All right, I want you to get down to the police station and bail out the mugger that just killed Ivan…That’s right, Ivan Kramitz…Yes, he’s dead…Look, I don’t have time to explain now. Get down there and spring that mugger. I don’t care how much it costs—spring him! And Mark, this time don’t be too careful about covering your tracks…That’s right. I said don’t be…right, let them know you work for Communications.…Look, I don’t have time to explain now. Just do it.”
He hung up the phone and sagged against the side of the phone booth. For several minutes he sat there, smiling. It was not a pretty smile.
“Before any business is transacted today, the negotiating team from Oil would like it read into the record that we are attending today’s meeting under protest. We are both shocked and disappointed that Communications has insisted on convening today’s meeting despite the death last night of one of our teammates. We only hope you will at least have the decency to keep today’s business brief so that we might attend the funeral this afternoon.”
A low growl of assent rose from the rest of the Oil team.
“We thank the First Negotiator of Oil for his comments. They will be duly noted in the records. The Chair now recognizes the Third Negotiator from Communications.”
“Thank you, Mark.” Fred rose to face the assemblage.
“May I assure you I will try to keep my proposal as brief as possible.
“Ivan’s death last night was a serious blow to the Oil team. We share your grief and will miss him greatly. But, gentlemen, this should serve as another example of the hazards of war!”
There was a sudden stirring in the Oil team.
“Just as you pointed out in your one-for-one proposal that logistics is a real part of military strategy, so is assassination!”
“Are you trying to say you had Ivan killed?”
Fred smiled placidly at the interrupter.
“I have said no such thing. I merely point out that assassination of key personnel is as much or more a part of military tactics as moving boxes of ammo. Because of this, Communications proposes a conditional rider to your one-for-one proposal: that in a similar effort to insure realistic combat, all key personnel of both corporations be required to wear kill-suits at all times and be subject to the same rules of combat as the mercenaries. If we want realism, let’s go for realism throughout. If not, we junk both ideas. Gentlemen, the time has come to put up or shut up!”