The Blood of Others by Graham Hurley

Author:Graham Hurley [Hurley, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781801108508
Publisher: Head of Zeus

15

Schultz took the call mid-evening in his room at the Hôtel Lutetia. There were just four hours to go before Babineau’s fiftieth birthday expired at midnight, and he was impressed by the Italians’ impeccable timing.

‘How many?’ Schultz bent to the phone. The call had come from Didier, his faithful maître d’.

‘Two, Herr Schultz. They say they have something for you in the car. To be honest I—’

‘Ask them to come up,’ Schultz cut him short.

‘Monsieur?’

‘You know the room number: 307. All will be well, Didier. I guarantee it.’

Schultz ended the call. Ortega was asleep, at the mercy of some dream or other. From time to time he grunted, ox-like, his huge frame prone on the bed, a thin trickle of saliva escaping from his ruined mouth, and Schultz watched the tiny tremor behind one eyelid before he stepped over and shook the Spaniard awake.

‘They’re here,’ he grunted.

Ortega was on his feet in seconds, rubbing his good eye. For a big man he moved with surprising grace. He had a Luger automatic tucked inside the waistband of his trousers, another to hand on the low coffee table. Both magazines were fully loaded.

‘Dum-dums?’ Schultz was looking at the pistol.

‘No need. This kind of range, who needs the mess?’

‘You want me to answer the door?’

‘I want you next door in the bathroom. You’ve seen enough of me today. This should be simple.’

Schultz shrugged and retreated to the tiny bathroom. He’d spent the day trailing his coat in various Paris locations, trying to flush the Italians out. Ortega had been in close attendance throughout and Schultz had been impressed by his talent for keeping the lowest of profiles. In the Théâtre Edouard VII he’d consented to wear the black balaclava. Out in broad daylight, he’d simply disappeared.

Schultz settled on the lavatory. He had a weapon of his own, a short-recoil Walther P38, and now he eased a round into the chamber. Over the recent weeks, ever alert, he’d learned to trust Ortega with his life, a faith he’d never extended to any other human being, but he knew more than enough about the workings of fate to assume absolutely nothing. In the unlikely shape of El Diablo, he’d found the near-perfect bodyguard, a killer able to tease the darkest possibilities from any location. The man was feral in the way he could sniff the wind, plot the angles of approach, interpret a sudden stir in the tide of pedestrians on a Parisian boulevard. Faced with a couple of Italians reckless enough to stage a revenge killing on Abwehr turf, he was entitled to consider the job already done. Two men dead on the thick nap of the Lutetia’s carpet? Easy.

But they didn’t come. At length, Schultz emerged from the bathroom and phoned Didier.

‘They drove off, Herr Schultz, a couple of minutes ago.’

‘Did they ever get out of the car?’

‘No. Some kind of quarrel, I think. Italians, like you said.’

Schultz nodded and thanked him before hanging up. Tomorrow was a busy day and he’d been depending on getting the Italians out of the way.

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