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“It’s all right,” Otto said. “We’re from the Tages Zeitung.”
He took a business card from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to the man. The man read it.
“He said, ‘No visitors,’ Úr Görner.”
“Why don’t I tell him I’m here?” Görner said and reached for the door handle.
“He’s got his dog in there,” the man said.
Görner opened the door just a crack and called, “Eric, get your goddamned dog under control. It’s Otto.”
“Go away, Otto Görner!” Kocian called out.
“Not a chance!” Otto called back. “Put that Gottverdammthund on a chain. I’m coming in.”
The response to that was animal—a deep, not too loud but nevertheless frightening growl.
“Got a little cough, have you, Oncle Erik?” Castillo called.
“Goddamn, the plagiarist!” Kocian said.
Görner pushed open the door to room 24.
Eric Kocian was sitting against the raised back of a hospital bed. A large, long black cigar was clamped in his jaw. A roll-up tray was in front of him. It held a lapt
op computer, a large ashtray, several newspapers, a cellular telephone, a pot of coffee, and a heavy mug. Kocian’s some what florid face, topped with a luxuriant head of naturally curling silver hair, made him at first look younger than he was, but his body—he was naked above the waist—gave him away.
What could be seen of his arms and chest—his left arm was bandaged and in a sling and there was another bloodstained bandage on his upper right chest—was all sagging flesh. There were angry old scars on his upper shoulder and on his abdomen.
Görner had two thoughts, one after the other, in the few seconds before Max, now growling a mouthful of teeth, caught his attention.
My God, he’s nearly eighty-two.
God, even the damned dog is bandaged.
Görner, who usually liked dogs, hated this one and was afraid of him.
Castillo was not.
He squatted just inside the door, smiled, and said, conversationally in Hungarian, “You’re an ugly old bastard, aren’t you? Stop that growling. Not only don’t you scare me but that old man in the bed is really glad to see us.”
The dog stopped growling, sat on its haunches, and cocked his head.
“Come here, Fatso, and I’ll scratch your ears.”
“His name is Max,” Kocian said.
“Come, Max,” Castillo said.
Max got off his haunches and, head still cocked, looked at Castillo.
“Watch out for him, Karl!” Görner exclaimed.
“Come, dammit!” Castillo ordered.
Max took five tentative steps toward Castillo.
Castillo held out his left hand to him.
