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“Valium. Said there’s a danger of dependence, so it’s a mixed blessing. But it’s got the worst of the symptoms under control.”
“Have they indicated when you’ll be fit for travel?” Remi asked.
“Haven’t asked. I assumed I’d be working from here. Is that not the case?”
Sam and Remi exchanged a look. “We thought it might be better if you came with us to Mexico.”
“Good heavens. Mexico? I must admit that’s a pleasure I’ve yet to experience.” Lazlo paused. “I was rather hoping that you could get me high-resolution scans of the document in question, as well as a computer, so I could begin my analysis while incarcerated. It’s an awfully tedious place, this.”
“I have them on a flash drive,” Remi said. She ferreted around in her purse and extracted a notebook computer, pretending astonishment. “And, oh, what’s this? Just a computer. We thought you might want to get started.” She set the notebook on his bed and the drive on the table next to it before rooting around in her bag and finding the power cord. “Voilà! You’re a one-man cryptology department on wheels.”
“Good show. Good show indeed. Now all I need to do is find the on switch.”
Lazlo’s hands were unsteady as he lifted the computer and set it on his lap, but that wasn’t surprising given his state when he entered the clinic. They both knew he would be in fragile shape for some time to come, having already arranged for a clinic in Mexico City to supervis
e his ongoing treatment.
After another ten minutes, they left him to his new project with a promise to see him again the following afternoon. Next they met with the administrator, who approved him for discharge and travel in forty-eight hours, but with a stern caution to keep the plane dry so as not to present temptation. Neither of them had a problem with that, and, on the way back to the hotel, Remi passed the word to Sandra.
Checkout from the clinic two days later was a paperwork-intensive ordeal. Everyone sighed in relief when they were finally rid of the building and on their way to the airport. Sam and Remi had enjoyed the unexpected downtime but were itching to get back to Mexico, their sense of being under the gun more intense than ever. Lazlo was being tight-lipped about any progress he’d made on the manuscript, as was his fashion, although at times he would smile like a mischievous child, which they generally took to be a positive sign.
The flight across the Pacific was an hour shorter due to a strong tailwind but still exhausted them by the time they arrived in Mexico City. A representative from the clinic where Lazlo would take up residence met them at the airport and ferried them to the clinic’s building in an upscale area of downtown near the business district. Sam and Remi checked back into the Four Seasons, where their luggage had been sent from Cuba courtesy of Lagarde’s friend.
That evening, they had dinner with Carlos Ramirez, who was a charming host and took them to one of Mexico City’s top restaurants—Pujol—where they dined like royalty on the chef’s tasting menu and a host of rare tequilas.
Carlos told them that progress at the new find had been slow, hampered by the weather—it had rained for three days in their absence, as a massive front had moved across Mexico, flooding the whole area in its wake. The marginally accessible streets had become impassable, so Maribela and Antonio had been unable to resume their work until the previous day. Carlos said that they were excited by the images Sam and Remi had brought back from Cuba and had found a few more similarities between the artifacts in the crypts and the carvings in Havana.
By the time the evening wound down, Sam and Remi were satiated and optimistic about their chances now that Lazlo was on their team. They both agreed that they were lucky to have Carlos helping them and were sorry to see the night end. Carlos bade them good night and offered to drive them back to the hotel, but they declined, preferring to linger over after-dinner drinks. When they left, Sam held the restaurant door open for Remi, admiring her Hervé Léger black cocktail dress and the way it clung to her curves.
“The dress looks magical. Great choice, as always.”
“Why, thank you. I wasn’t sure you’d noticed.”
“Are you kidding? I’m the envy of every male in Mexico City. And the shoes are incredible, too,” he added, going for bonus points.
“Jimmy Choo red pointy-toe pumps.”
He grinned. “You had me at Choo.”
Janus Benedict set his coffee cup down on the teak table and gazed at the islands off the port side, their bluffs rising from the water in defiance of erosion and man-made progress. They’d gone ashore the prior evening with his guests: three gentlemen from Syria, who seemed most interested in his surface-to-air missile selection, as well as the availability of the Russian Ka-50 Black Shark helicopters that he regularly brokered for the cash-strapped Russian manufacturer. Of course, their negotiations would be lengthy and ongoing, and no religious beliefs were allowed to get in the way of their enjoyment of the Greek islands’ pleasures, nor their appreciation of Janus’s supplied entertainment, both chemical and feminine.
Janus’s head was fuzzy from the extra two glasses of grappa he’d consumed against his better judgment, but sometimes one made sacrifices in order to make one’s guests feel welcome. The Syrians seemed to have had a wonderful time, and Janus was confident that would translate into a higher price for the arms than they’d have been willing to pay had he provided sodas and sandwiches.
He checked the screen of his iPad and confirmed that all three were still sound asleep in their staterooms. The hidden cameras came in handy for more than creating insurance for himself should something turn ugly; they also enabled him to be a consummate host and anticipate his guests’ every desire before they even felt them.
For now, the staterooms were quiet, and Janus was confident that he’d have at least another hour or two to himself before he’d have to become the entertainment committee again.
Reginald stumbled up the stairs, a pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses shielding his eyes from the worst of the morning glare, a cigarette dangling from his lips, as he sat down across from his brother and pointed at his coffee cup. A white-uniformed steward scurried from the bowels of the salon and poured him a generous measure of dark roasted coffee, and then, after registering Reginald’s nod, he returned with a snifter of Baileys and poured it into the cup.
“I suppose I don’t need to ask you how you’re feeling this morning,” Janus said, watching his younger sibling raise the cup to his lips with an unsteady hand. “Little jittery, I’d say.”
“It was a demanding night. That Sophie—”
“Yes, quite—spare me the gory details. We do what we must to make the clients feel at home. And we acquitted ourselves with aplomb. I think these chappies are clay ripe for the potter’s wheel.”
“With the amount of coke they went through, they bloody well ought to be,” Reginald said, his face drawn from the aftermath of his own overconsumption.
“They seemed amenable by the end of the evening to reconsidering the value we add to their assumed prices for the helicopters, direct from the manufacturer.”
