Broken Idols by Sean Flannery

Author:Sean Flannery
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

SIXTEEN

What had once been the hotel bar and lounge was now a restaurant on one side and a coffee shop on the other. The hotel was very well kept up, although just at the moment there did not seem to be too many guests. The few here, Mahoney was reasonably certain, were Russians. From the way one group of them talked through the lobby, they were engineers. Mahoney decided he’d bring that back as a little present for Conwell to pass on to Langley. It’d be worth points.

Mahoney wandered into the coffee shop as if he had the evening free and was trying to decide what to do with himself. But by seven exactly, the night cooling but still quite warm, he was out front.

A very large Mercedes 600SE luxury limousine slid up the palm-lined driveway and came smoothly to a halt at the front entrance. Mahoney supposed the car was for him, but he did not move from his spot, waiting to see what would happen.

The car’s windows were smoked gray, so he could not see inside. The front door opened and the chauffeur, wearing a khaki uniform with military patches and insignia, jumped out and came around. He looked very stern.

“Mr. Wallace Morgan?” he asked.

Mahoney nodded.

“Please, sir,” the chauffeur said, opening the rear door of the very large car.

Mahoney could see that a man dressed in Western business clothes was seated in the backseat. He stepped forward and got into the car.

“Mr. Morgan, I am so pleased to meet you,” the small, dark, very intense man said. His eyes were round and very dark. His hair was jet black and oiled, and a pencil-thin mustache adorned his upper lip. His cuff links were diamond, his shirt, silk, his suit obviously hand-tailored.

“Mr. al-’Usta?” Mahoney asked, shaking the man’s hand. This was not right.

“Yes, of course,” the Libyan replied as if to ask Mahoney whom he had expected.

“I appreciate your being able to see me on such short notice,” Mahoney said cautiously. Alarm bells jangled along his nerves. Either Lady Sidney had been mistaken with her description of al-’Usta, or one of the men—either this one or the one Lady Sidney had seen—was an impostor.

The chauffeur got back behind the wheel, and they moved slowly away from the hotel, turning down the next street away from the harbor.

“There is a very nice place to eat very near the Palace. It is the Lanterne. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

Mahoney hadn’t.

“No? Well, it is a place of international cuisine. The last decent place in this city that does not serve cous cous. We can have a steak there, if you would like.”

“That is very kind,” Mahoney said.

They drove through the quiet streets for a minute in silence.

“You know, Mr. Morgan, although there is some danger in meeting like this, I mean considering the present … delicate situation, there can be precedent here for international banking.”

Mahoney didn’t quite know if he followed the man.

“Yes, that’s it. We will set a precedent. A socialist working in harmony with a bastion of capitalism,” the Libyan said with some enthusiasm.

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