He read it over, decided That should do it, and clicked on the SEND button. Then he picked up the telephone and told the hotel operator to connect him with British Airways.
The British Airways representative told him their next flight to London would depart Luanda tomorrow, at 2305. If Mr. Gossinger really had to get to London and then Frankfurt am Main as soon as possible, there were of course other ways to do this, but, unfortunately, they required changing planes and airlines at least once.
The British Airways representative spent fifteen minutes detailing other travel options available. The best of these alternate routes involved catching the once-a-week Air Chad flight to N'Djamena, which was conveniently departing Luanda at ten-fifty tonight, which would arrive at N'Djamena at five tomorrow morning. After a six-hour layover-which, unless he had a Chadian visa, and he didn't, he would have to spend in the transient lounge at the airport-he could catch Egyptian Airways Flight 4044 to Cairo, where he would have his choice between three different flights to London, or, for that matter, to his ultimate destination, Frankfurt am Main. Presuming there was space on them. Making reservations in Luanda for flights departing from N'Djamena or Cairo sometimes was difficult.
"Just make sure I have a seat on your flight to London tomorrow night, please," Castillo said.
"Our pleasure, Herr Gossinger."
Castillo decided that it was beer time, no matter what time the clock said it was, and went to the minibar under the television. The key was in the lock, which surprised him until he opened the door and found the minibar empty.
I will just have to run the risk of running into Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson in the hotel bar, in which I will take the most remote table possible. Not only am I thirsty but the rumble in my stomach just reminded me that I didn't have lunch.
[ELEVEN]
The lobby newsstand offered the international edition of the Herald Tribune, which was published in Paris. It was four days old. It also offered Le Matin and Paris Match, which were also published in Paris. They were two days old. He wondered if this was coincidental or whether the newsstand had two-day-old copies of the Trib hidden somewhere in order to promote sales of Le Matin and Paris Match.
Then he saw, partially hidden behind a stack of the local newspaper, which was in Portuguese, Die Frankfurter Rundschau. It was yesterdays paper.
What is that, another manifestation of all-around Teutonic efficiency?
He bought the Rundschau and took it with him into the bar, where he found a table that was not only deep inside but mostly behind a thick pillar. He could not see into the lobby and, therefore, someone in the lobby would not be able to see him.
A waiter quickly came to the table and laid a bowl of cashews and a larger bowl of what looked like homemade potato chips before him.
Castillo asked for a local beer and a menu.
The waiter said he was sorry but not only was there no food service in the bar after four o'clock-it was now four-oh-five-there was no local beer, either. There were three kinds of French beer, and two kinds each of German, Holland, and English, plus one kind of American.
"What time does the restaurant open?"
"Half past five, sir."
"I'll have a Warsteiner, please," Castillo said as he scooped a handful of cashews from the bowl.
Three Warsteiners and one bowl each of cashews and homemade potato chips later, as he was reading the Rundschau 's nearly vitriolic opinion of the Social Democrats' notions of fair severance pay, he sensed movement near him and lowered the Rundschau just in time to see Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson slipping into the banquet seat beside him.
This is not a chance encounter, my love; you didn't just happen to see me as you walked through the lobby. You were looking for me.
"Hi," she said, showing him a mouth full of neat white teeth.
I had really forgotten how good looking you are. Watch yourself Charley!
"Hi, yourself," he replied.
"How was your day?" she asked.
"Not bad. Yours?"
"I was out to the airport," she said.
"So was I," he said.
"You want to swap what you found out for what I found out?"
"I think you would come out on the short end of that," he said. "I didn't really learn much that hasn't already been written."
"Much, or nothing?" she asked.
He didn't have to answer. The waiter appeared with fresh bowls of cashews and homemade potato chips.
"I can't drink beer," Patricia said, indicating his nearly empty glass. "It makes me feel bloated."
That's my cue to suggest something for her to drink.
"Somehow you don't strike me as someone who drinks anything that comes with a paper parasol and a chunk of pineapple," he said.
She laughed, and there was something appealing about the laugh.
"How do you feel about martinis as a reward for a day's hard work?" she asked.
"If I knew you better, I'd tell you what my boss says about martinis."
She laughed again, softly, shaking her head the way a woman does when something naughty is intimated, telling him she knew the joke.
"Martinis, please," she told the waiter. "Beefeater's gin, if you have it." She paused and looked at him. "Okay?"
I don't think I need a martini right now. But let's see where this goes.
"Fine," he said.
She smiled at him again.
"I missed lunch," Castillo said. "And I was five minutes late to get anything to eat in the bar. The restaurant opens at five-thirty."
"I tried to get something to eat at the airport," she said, "and failed at that, too. It was supposed to be a chicken sandwich but somehow it didn't look like chicken."
"As soon as the restaurant opens, I'm going to try my luck there," he said. "Will you join me?"
"I'd hoped you'd ask. I really am hungry." She paused. "You were telling me what you'd found out."
"No, I wasn't," he said. "I belong to the get-your-own-story school of journalism."
As he spoke, he thought: That should light up her curiosity. Now she'll really want to know what I've come up with.
What if I show her the story?
For some reason, she doesn't want the Russian connection to come out. Maybe learning that I'm bringing it out in the open will make her worry a little.
Or is it the hormones speaking? "Come up to my room, mon petit cherie, and I will show you my story. "
"We're not really competitors, Karl," Patricia said. "I'm not trying to beat you into print. I work for Forbes, remember?"
"I bet that's what you tell all the newspaper boys, that you're not trying to beat them into print," he said, tempering it with a smile.
"And what do you tell all the newspaper girls?" she countered.
"That I'm lonely and my wife doesn't understand me," Castillo said.
"You're married?" she asked, sounding surprised.
He smiled and shook his head.
"That's so they don't immediately start thinking of marriage," he said. "A lot of women my age, unmarried women, regard an unmarried man my age as a challenge to be overcome."
"You are a bastard, aren't you?" she asked, laughing.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "And if they don't believe I'm married, I have pictures of my cousin's kids to show them."
She laughed and then said: "I am."
"You are what?"
"Married."
"You're not wearing a wedding ring," he challenged.
"You looked?" she asked, but it was a statement not a question.
He nodded.
"Then why did you: what?: confess that you're single to me?"
"Professional courtesy," he said. "That's why journalists and lawyers feel safe swimming in shark-infested waters."
She laughed again.
The waiter delivered two enormous martinis.
She touched the rim of her glass to his.
"Here's to you, even if you won't show me your story and think I'm a shark."
"I didn't say you were a shark," he said.
"That was the implication," she said.
"I meant to imply nothing of the sort," Castillo said.
"The hell you didn't," she said.
"I know that you'll find this hard to believe, but on more than one occasion I've had a story stolen from me by women nearly as good-looking as you. I've learned that when a woman-a good-looking woman-bats her eyes as me, I'm putty in her hands."
"You're outrageous!" she laughed. "I can't believe that any woman has ever taken advantage of you, Karl."
"I expected you would say something like that," he said. "While you were batting your eyes."
"I was not," she protested.
"If you weren't, then I can only hope you won't," he said. "I'm not sure I could resist."
She shook her head.
"So what do you think happened to the 727?" she asked.
"It was stolen by parties unknown for unknown purposes," he said. "It is alleged."
"You're not going to tell me what you found out, are you?"
He shook his head.
"Tell me about Mr. Wilson," he said, changing the subject. "Where is he now, home with the kiddies?"
"No kiddies," she said. "Do I look like the motherly type?"
"Let me think about that," he said.
"I'm not," she said.
"And Mr. Wilson's not the fatherly type, either?"
"No, he's not," she said. "He's somewhat older than I am. It was too late for us when we got married."
"Somewhat older? How much older is 'somewhat'?"
"That's none of your business!"
"What does he do? Doesn't he have a hard time with you rushing off to the four corners-in this case, to darkest Africa-in hot pursuit of a story?"
"None at all," she said. "He has his professional life and I have mine, and mine requires from time to time that I travel. He's very understanding."
"Sounds like a nice arrangement," Castillo said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just what I said. It sounds like a nice arrangement."
"Somehow, it didn't come across that way. It sounded sarcastic."
"I think you'll know when I'm being sarcastic," he said, then added, "All I'm doing is trying to keep you off the subject of you wanting a look at my story."
"Really?"
"Really."
"That didn't work, either. All you're doing is making me really curious," she said.
"Tell you what I'll do," he said. "As an olive branch. I think we're in the same time zone here as Germany:"
"We are," she furnished.
"The Tages Zeitung goes to bed at one in the morning. If we're still up then, I'll show you my story. If not, I'll show it to you at breakfast."
"You seem pretty sure I'll want to have breakfast with you."
"I don't know what you're thinking but what I had in mind was that we might still be here in the bar-not drinking martinis, of course, which would be likely to get either or both of us in trouble; but maybe coffee-at one A.M.-or that we could meet in the restaurant at, say, half past nine tomorrow morning."
"No, you weren't," she said.
He looked at her a moment.
"Okay, no, I wasn't," he said. "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Or, in your case, probably angry. What happens now? You storm out of the bar? With or without throwing what's left of your martini in my face?"
She met his eyes for a long moment.
"You understood me before when I said my husband was very understanding, didn't you?"
"I don't know if I did or not."
"He's twenty-three years older than I am," she said.
"And very understanding."
"Yes, very understanding."
"Yes, I think I understood you," he said. "Would you like another martini?"
"Yes, I would," she said. "Do you think we could get one from room service?"
"I'm sure we could, but why would we want to do that?"
"Because we're going to have to go to your room sooner or later so that you can show me your story, so why not go now?"
"I told you, not until after the Tages Zeitung goes to bed," he said.
"I'll split the difference with you, Karl," she said. "How about after we do?"
"You drive a hard bargain," Castillo said. "But, what the hell, business has been slow."