Cooks Overboard (15 page)

Only a dim night-light was shining in the lobby of the Hotel del Sud when Paavo returned. He went to the house phone and called Livingstone’s room. No answer.

He took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor, but instead of going into his own room he stopped at Livingstone’s. On his key ring was a small pocketknife, and one of the implements on it was a steel toothpick. He couldn’t imagine using it on his teeth, but he’d managed to open a door lock with it before. The locks in this hotel were simple. He looked from the lock to the key ring and back again.

Livingstone had been sure there was no serious danger here. He’d been sure he’d carefully worked out his plan of action and didn’t even need a backup. Livingstone was a pro—an international pro with years of experience. Everything was fine. Paavo told himself he was simply
overreacting to a perceived danger, and that this was fallout from his experience with Ed Gillespie.

In about three minutes the door swung open and he walked into Livingstone’s room.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Not of death, but of blood. He took out his gun. He’d begun carrying it since they’d arrived in Mazatlán. Legal or not, he didn’t care. The wallpaper had a smear on it, a rust-colored smear, as if someone had hastily tried, and failed, to wipe it clean. And the dark wooden floor right by the door, when he bent down and touched it, felt strangely slick.

Livingstone’s suitcase was on the floor, and a few of his belongings were on the dresser and the nightstand by his bed.

He pulled open the closet door. The closet was empty except for a couple of shirts.

He walked into the bathroom. The smell of blood was stronger, more oppressive. An electric shaver and aftershave were by the sink. A toothbrush.

The shower curtain was pulled shut. With one hand clutching his gun, he reached out with the other, grabbed the curtain, and flung it aside.

His stomach turned. He jerked the curtain shut again, even though from a procedural view, it was a waste of time and effort. He was a homicide cop, and he’d seen all kinds of horror. But when half of a man’s face has been torn away, even hardened cops find it hard to take.

He backed up, taking several deep breaths to clear his head. More than ever now, he needed his training to kick in, in order to find the person who had done this. It was time to bring the police into this whole ugly mess.

He opened the door to the hallway and froze.

The door to his and Angie’s room was open, the lights on. A big man wearing a military uniform sat on a chair, three other men behind him. Paavo saw Mike Jones there, his hands awkwardly behind his back, as if they’d been tied. And in the doorway, looking straight at him across the hall, was a woman. A woman who looked strangely familiar.

“Won’t you come and join us, Inspector Smith?” she said, her voice low. Why hadn’t he recognized it as a woman’s voice before? “We’ve been waiting for you.”

By eight o’clock the next morning Paavo still hadn’t arrived at the airport. He’d had all night to find Livingstone, pick up his luggage, and get away from the hotel. If he hadn’t been able to handle it by then, it was probably because he couldn’t.

Angie shivered to think of what that meant. But maybe she was letting her imagination run away with her and everything was fine. Livingstone had insisted that the thieves, or whatever they were, were only after their luggage and that no one would be harmed. She hoped he still felt that way.

Periodically, throughout the night, she’d left her seat in the passenger lounge to check with the airlines flying to L.A. or San Francisco to see if Paavo had caught a different flight or made reservations, on the off chance that she’d somehow missed him when he entered the airport.

But he hadn’t, which meant he was still in Mazatlán.

By nine in the morning, she couldn’t stand it any longer. She phoned the hotel and asked to speak to Paavo. The clerk came back on the line telling her there was no answer in Mr. Smith’s room.

She caught a cab back to the hotel.

As the cab entered Avenida Olas Altas, she began to have second thoughts. Maybe returning to the hotel wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever considered doing. Livingstone was supposed to be inside watching her room, and he’d disappeared. Paavo probably had gone in looking for Livingstone, and now she didn’t know where he was. Should she chance it?

At the Plaza Republicana, across from the basilica, she asked the driver to stop. She paid him, then ran into the park to a spot behind a bush from which she could watch the hotel entrance. She doubted anyone at the hotel could see her peeking at it through the shrubbery.

If she saw Paavo or Livingstone arrive or leave, she could sprint across the park and reach them in no time.

But she sat on the bench, watching and waiting to no avail. Where were they?

“What do you think?” George Gresham and the other ex-spies stood in a semicircle, watching the Hydra stare at the hotel. They’d noticed her in the park as they were strolling back to the hotel from the central market, where they’d been arguing over what to do about the colonel and the Hydra—or if the situation was too big and too dangerous for them to take on.

“Should ve grab her?” Béla asked.

“For vhat, dahling?” Grundil said. “You can’t just go about snatching people, even if you suspect they are dangerous.”

“
Especially
if you suspect they are dangerous,” MacDougall added nervously.

“We can get her for what she did to MacDougall here,” George said. “Look at his limp. She’s a menace!”

MacDougall was using a cane this morning.

Grundil put her hands on her hips. “Don’t take this as an insult, dahlings. I know you are all good spies. But frankly, I don’t think she is any more the Hydra than I am.” She paused for them to protest, but they said nothing, waiting for her to explain. “Look at her. Anyvon vith half a brain can see how scared she is. Vhere is her handsome boyfriend? That’s the qvestion ve should be asking. I think ve should talk vith her. Find out vhat this is about.”

“Where
is
her boyfriend?” MacDougall asked.
“Weren’t you watching him, Grundil?”

“I vatched him sit in the lobby vith her until midnight. Then the two of them vent for a valk. Béla and I tried to follow, but they moved too fast for Béla to keep up vith. Ve debated vhat to do—should I go alone? Ve decided it vas easiest to go to a bar and vait for them to pass by again on their vay back to the hotel. But they didn’t. Vhen it vas closing time, ve returned to the hotel and vent to bed.”

“You know, Grundil, I’m getting a bit old for all this,” Béla said. “Let us just forget it and open our restaurant.” He turned to the others and continued, “I even have a name for it—A Taste of Transylvania, in honor of our homeland.”

“Sounds yummy,” George said with a smirk.

“He expects me to be the barmaid,” Grundil said, glaring at her husband. “He has lost his marbles, as you vould say, George.”

Béla shrugged.

“I repeat,” Grundil announced, “ve need to go over there and talk vith her now. Find out vhat this is all about”

No one moved.

“Maybe just one of us should go,” MacDougall suggested. “I’d do it, but—” He motioned to his leg. “Obviously a man with an injury such as this…” He sighed.

“MacDougall’s right,” George said. “Just one should go. And I’ve already put myself in danger by scouting around in her room. What if
she’d walked in on me? I’d have been dead meat!”

“I vould go,” Grundil said. “But I know Béla vouldn’t vant to put his vife in danger.” She smiled sweetly at him, then pulled out a cigarette, walked over to a bench, sat down, and lit it.

“All right,” Béla said with a sigh. “I’ll go.”

The little man walked toward Angie, coming up from behind her as she watched the hotel. He hoped she wasn’t the sort who would shoot first and ask questions later. He’d heard Americans were big on that. He stopped and made lots of throat-clearing noises. No sense taking chances.

She turned. A flicker of caution appeared on her face, but as her gaze swept over him, he saw her relax. He knew he wasn’t one to bring fear into any heart.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“Are you alone?” he asked. “I don’t see your friend.”

“He’ll be back soon.” She was obviously lying.

“May I join you?” He pointed to the bench where she sat. She nodded. “So,” he began, “how are you enjoying Mazatlán?”

“It could be better,” she admitted soulfully.

“It isn’t vhat you expected?” he said in a voice that as much as admitted he felt that way, too.

She glanced up at him, as if surprised. “To tell the truth,” she said, “I hadn’t thought about Mazatlán at all. We were headed for Acapulco.”

“So, you vanted to vacation there?” Béla asked.

“Vacation, plus I had an assignment.”

“Assignment?” The word had connotations that alarmed him—shades of
The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
, which had been popular all over Europe in his heyday. He’d always identified with Ilya.

“I had an assignment to write an article about dining out,” Angie explained. “I’m a restaurant reviewer sometimes, and I planned to check out the best restaurants by night, and the beach by day, combining business with pleasure, so to speak.”

Had she said what he thought she’d said? “You are a restaurant reviewer?” Overcome with relief, he laughed. “You know about cooking? Restaurants?”

“Yes,” she said, puzzled by the amusement he seemed to find from that. “Somewhat.”

“Oh, my good voman, you don’t know vhat a surprise, and vhat a pleasure it is to hear that. You can’t imagine vhat I first thought. Vell, enough of that already. To know vhat makes a fine restaurant…that is my dream, to own a restaurant of my own. I vould cook Romanian and Hungarian food. Of course, there isn’t too much Romanian food that people in the Vest vould vant to eat, I’m afraid. Ve have a poor country, and ve eat vhatever ve can. Our best food is close to Hungarian cooking.”

“Hungarian cuisine is wonderful,” Angie said.
“I know it well. I’m particularly fond of foods like, let’s see if I’ve got this right,
borgrácsgulyás?
”

“You know
borgrácsgulyás?
” Béla clapped his hands. “You
are
a cook!”

“Let’s see,” Angie said slowly, trying to remember, “beef, onions, potatoes—”

“Plus add beef heart to make it even better,” he said.

“Really? I didn’t know that. Okay, caraway—”

“Peppers and paprika.”

“Lots of paprika, always, in a goulash.”

“Just to speak of it makes my mouth vater,” Béla cried. “So, vhy are you here instead of in Acapulco?”

Angie was frantic with worry over the strange goings-on around her, over not knowing where Paavo was or how to go about finding him. Ordinarily, under these circumstances, she would have been more wary. But somehow, this downcast yet friendly man who liked to cook appeared safe to talk to. Even if he couldn’t help, he seemed like he’d at least offer sympathy.

“Someone seems to think I have something that I don’t,” she began. “And that person is apparently dangerous. It’s a woman—and they call her the Hydra.”

She watched Béla’s eyes widen in alarm, but he said nothing.

She continued. “My friend and I were advised to stay here, but now I don’t know where he is. He’s”—it was harder to talk about this than
she’d thought—“he’s disappeared.” Tears welled up. “I’m so worried about him, I don’t know what to do!”

“Don’t cry, please,” Béla said. “Ve vill help you.”

I’m not crying.” She dabbed at her tears. “I don’t dare. I’ve got to keep an eye on the hotel. To look for Paavo.”

“Vait here,” Béla said, and hurried over to his friends. They huddled together; every so often one head would pop up and look at her. Soon all four of them trooped across the lawn and sat with her on the bench.

“Ve have decided you are not the Hydra,” Grundil announced.

Angie stared at them a moment, shocked. “You thought I was some deadly assassin?”

“Vell, some of us did,” Grundil said, frowning at George. “But now, based on vhat Béla told us, ve see you have a serious problem. Ve think ve can give you some information that might help you; but after that, you must continue vith this on your own. It is too dangerous, and ve have decided ve aren’t interested in it any longer.”

“I see,” Angie said, although she really didn’t. But to get some information, she’d agree to almost anything at this point.

They told her that they’d been watching a man called Colonel Ortega, a man with delusions of grandeur, striving to be big, powerful, and profitably corrupt. Actually, he was already corrupt—it was the big and powerful part he
was still working on. In fact, the only things truly big about him were his ego and his girth.

He was also superstitious and, when crossed, extremely dangerous. They warned her that one could never tell how he’d react to anything, except that it usually wasn’t what was expected. Recently, he’d shown interest in the
Valhalla
. His men, and even the colonel himself, had been seen at the harbormaster’s office asking about the freighter.

“We thought,” George said, “he was waiting for a shipment. The
Valhalla
is a container ship, after all. But that doesn’t seem to be the case. I overheard him say the name Hydra. Then one of my old FBI buddies told me he thought the Hydra was on her way to Mazatlán, and that rumor had it she was on a ship. We put two and two together.”

“You’re right about the Hydra,” Angie said. “One of the other passengers is an Interpol agent—I won’t say which one—but he’s been watching the ship. He told us the Hydra was on it.”

“Aha!” Grundil exclaimed. “Livingstone! Now I remember! I knew him many years ago. In Prague. He vas much thinner then, and had long hair. Such a time ve had! Those vere the days.” The smug, satisfied smile that flickered across her lips suggested potent memories, much to Angie’s amazement—and curiosity.

Well, so much for keeping secrets
, Angie thought. “What do you know about the Hydra?”