Into the Whirlwind (28 page)

Nick leaned forward. “Even if Hollander talks, Gertsman might figure her family will go to the Argentine authorities, try to persuade them to get involved—which, with a man as powerful as Gertsman, they'd likely refuse to do.”

“Or they'd drag their feet so long it wouldn't matter,” Luke added. “
Mordida
rules, like in most of South America.”

“There's always a chance the estate will only have a handful of security people around,” Nick finished.

Dirk cocked an eyebrow at two of his best friends. “Is that what either of you actually believes?”

Both men glanced away.

“I didn't think so.”

“Okay, so it won't be a cakewalk,” Luke said. “We never really thought it would be, right? We've got a basic plan. Let's lay out plans B and C and hope one of them will actually work.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Wearing the Gucci heels and long white silk gown, her back and shoulders mostly bare, Meg took a calming breath and walked over to answer the knock on her door. Not that she could actually open it.

“Come in.”

When the lock turned and the door swung open, a man, impeccably dressed in a navy-blue suit and a pair of highly polished, blunt-toed, black designer shoes, stood on the other side of the threshold.

“Good evening. I hope you're well rested.”

Meg blinked at the perfect European English. She didn't recognize the man with the buzz-cut brown hair and blue eyes who stood in front of her, and yet she did.

“I remember you. You had black hair and dark eyes, but you're the man on the plane.”

“Very observant, Ms. O'Brien. Most people are far less so.”

Anger rolled through her. “You're Raymond Neville.” The man with unlimited disguises. The man who had almost killed her and Charlie. She remembered Agent Nolan had called him The Fixer. Neville—who had ruthlessly murdered Mickey Degan. She wanted to run out of the room, out of the house, but she shoved down her fear and stood her ground.

“You change your appearance like you change your dirty shorts, but nothing can mask the evil in your eyes.”

Neville's expression never changed. “I didn't realize your detective boyfriend was quite so efficient. My mistake.”

“You tried to murder me. You tried to kill my son.”

“In order to succeed in any endeavor, one must be flexible. I needed to get away. I knew your friend Reynolds wouldn't let you drown—or at least I imagined he would do his best not to let that happen. As it turned out, he managed the feat remarkably well.”

She remembered her fear as she had watched her little boy being tossed into the lake, and a fresh round of anger rolled through her, making her mouth feel tight.

Neville's gaze remained on her face. “If you're determined to blame someone, blame yourself for getting Reynolds involved in the first place. If your father had simply paid the ransom, you wouldn't be here now.”

She bit back a furious retort. Already she had given Neville too much information. Now he knew Dirk had discovered his identity. It was dangerous to reveal anything that might be used against her.

He offered his arm. “Time for supper. We wouldn't want to keep your host waiting.”

“Who is he?”

“I believe he would rather introduce himself.”

She wanted to refuse the arm Neville offered, but she had decided to cooperate. Dirk would find her. He just needed time. She would do whatever it took to make certain he got it.

They walked out of the bedroom suite into a marble-floored hallway, then descended a sweeping marble staircase into an entry beneath a massive crystal chandelier.

Neville led her past an elaborate two-story library, past several elegant salons, all furnished impeccably with plush sofas, silk draperies, and eighteenth-century antiques.

Making their way over polished wood floors, they walked through a set of double doors that slid out of sight into the walls, into a magnificent dining room with a long mahogany table, a dozen high-backed chairs along each side. A pair of crystal chandeliers glittered overhead and silver candelabra ran the length of the table.

At the far end, a large man with silver-blond hair shoved back his chair and rose to greet her. Every bit of six-three, he had very pale blue eyes and an equally pale complexion. Early fifties, she thought, once powerfully built but beginning to succumb to his proclivity for the finer things. A little too much alcohol and gourmet food, she imagined.

Neville released her arm and stepped back a few paces as the man approached. “Ms. O'Brien, it is a pleasure to meet you at last.” He graced her with a smile and a very refined bow. A trace of the same German she had heard in Gretchen's voice marked his words.

“My name is Otto Gertsman. I am your admirer of several years and also your host for what I hope will be a very pleasant stay.”

Anger burned through her. He had ruthlessly kidnapped her, had tried to kidnap her son. She clamped down on her temper, arched a russet eyebrow instead. “I'm your guest, then, not your prisoner?”

His smile widened. It was warm and a little too friendly. She could detect an edge, though he was doing his best not to show it.

“Ultimately that is for you to decide, my dear. For now why don't we enjoy our supper and afterward I will give you a tour of my home.”

Time
, she reminded herself with a steadying breath. She needed time. She accepted his arm and let him guide her to the end of the table, where he pulled out a chair and seated her to his right. From the corner of her eye, she saw Neville back away, turn, and disappear out of the dining room.

She returned her attention to her host. For now she would think of him that way, as her host instead of her captor. Dirk would find her, she repeated firmly. Somehow he would make the connection between Neville and Gertsman and track her to wherever she had been taken.

The big German took the chair next to her at the end of the table, made a show of pulling his napkin out of its silver ring and spreading it across his lap. Meg did the same.

An ornate silver ice bucket sat on a stand next to the table. Gertsman wrapped a big hand around the neck of a bottle of chilled champagne and lifted it out of the bucket. Dom Perignon. Nothing but the best for her
host.
She wanted to reach over and slap his face.

Instead she waited as he filled a Baccarat crystal flute and set it on the table in front of her, filled one for himself, then lifted his glass in a toast.

“To meeting you at last.”

Meg looked at the bubbling pale liquid in her glass and her stomach roiled. “I'll drink your toast, but only if you give me your word there is nothing in the flute but champagne.” No drugs, nothing that would make her as helpless as she had been before.

He lowered his glass. “You were brought here for a number of reasons. Only one has to do with you and me and what may transpire in our future. You have my word that subterfuge will have no part in anything that happens between us from now on.”

She took a deep breath. For whatever reason she believed him. Perhaps raping an unconscious woman wasn't enough of a challenge.

Time
, she repeated, deciding to make that her mantra. More desperate for a drink than she could ever recall, Meg lifted her champagne flute and clinked it against the one Otto Gertsman held in a thick, pale hand. The ring of expensive crystal and Gertsman's lascivious smile sent an icy shiver down her spine.

* * *

With no fuel stops and pushing the twin jet engines, the pilot set the G6 down, local time, a little before eight o'clock p.m. The aircraft rolled the length of the Bariloche runway, turned, and taxied back to the executive terminal. In the distance mountains rose up, the near hills barren, then climbing steeply to forested terrain, to far distant peaks still white with snow.

In a pair of khaki cargo pants, a short-sleeve, blue-flowered Tommy Bahama shirt, and low-topped leather hiking boots, Dirk descended the metal stairs to the tarmac. Luke followed in khaki shorts, a yellow tank, his yellow-and-black sneakers, and a flat-brimmed Panama hat. Nick's tourist look involved a cheap camera slung around his neck.

The evening summer air was cool, but it wasn't dark yet. Single file, Dirk led the men toward a fat little black-haired, mustached man who waddled toward him.

Hector Fernandez was a local who worked as a tour guide, along with various and sundry odd jobs that paid the bills for him and his family. Flynn's contact had brought him aboard to help them get through customs and acquaint them with the area.

According to Luke, Flynn had already arrived in Bariloche and started setting up a base camp. He'd rented a Chery Tiggo, an Argentine SUV, and a cabin off National Route 231, the road to Villa La Angostura and Estancia Adelina. Apparently the man was as efficient as Luke had said.

“Welcome to Bariloche,
amigos.
” Hector flashed a toothy white smile.

Dirk shook the little man's hand and the men introduced themselves. Hector must have been a regular at the airport, must have known whose palms to grease, because in minutes they were through customs, out of the terminal, and walking across the parking lot. Hector tossed their carry-ons into the trunk of a slightly battered Renault, cars still manufactured in Argentina, and they all climbed aboard.

“Please excuse the poor English,” Hector said, then went on to give them background info on the town in a mix of Spanish and heavily accented English that was relatively easy to understand.

The village was perched on the south shore of Nahuel Huapi Lake, a combination of modern four-to-eight-story apartments, offices, and hotels that rose up the side of the hill. In other sections, the buildings were stone and wood and looked as if they belonged in Austria or Switzerland.

City squares and clock towers, streets lined with restaurants, souvenir stores, and chocolate shops. With the car windows down, the aroma of coffee and chocolate pervaded the air. Somewhere down the block Dirk could hear the sound of an accordion playing a lively polka.

Since Luke was fluent in Spanish he sat up front with the driver, but the men spoke English as much as possible. As they drove the streets, Hector pulled over in front of a locals' joint called La Salamandra and ran in to get a bag of empanadas, a kind of deep-fried meat-and-cheese–filled pastry. Hector ate them with a tea called maté, while the guys washed theirs down with ice-cold Cokes.

None of them had slept much on the plane and they were hungry and exhausted. The food gave them a badly needed boost.

Another few minutes into the ride and Luke ordered the little man to pull the car over to the side of the road.

“All right, Hector, you've fed us and shown us all the tourist spots. Now before it gets too dark to see, show us the rest.”

Hector's chubby hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Señor, I do not think that is such a good idea.”

A lengthy conversation ensued in Spanish before the little man, with a sigh of resignation, turned a corner and headed up the mountain.

Sometimes plans B and C turned into plan D. They had to be aware of their options.

“Bariloche is really two cities,” Luke explained. “You've just seen the lower part, a rich tourist town on a beautiful lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The upper city is where the poor people live. No paved roads, no gas, no sewage, no hospital or public transportation.”

As they drove up the hill, small houses of wood and scrap metal lined the road. “The only heat they've got is wood,” Luke said. “Every year people die from carbon monoxide poisoning from fires in makeshift stoves or trash cans.”

“I thought you'd never been here,” Dirk said.

Luke just shrugged, which could have meant yes or no.

They drove the town, getting a look at the dark-skinned people who prowled the streets, a mix of Argentines and Chilean and Bolivian immigrants.

The sun was setting, reminding them of the time change. “We've seen enough to get a feel for what's going on,” Luke said to Hector. “Take us to the cabin.”

Hector nodded, seemed relieved to be back on familiar ground. From the upper city, they headed back to the village, drove past the airport and turned onto Route 237, then north on 231 along the lake toward Villa La Angostura.

Thirty miles out of town, the driver made a turn onto a lane winding into the mountains. Another few miles and he pulled into the gravel driveway of a small log house and parked between a silver SUV—the Chery—and a mud-covered, four-door Jeep.

The cabin was made of log and stone with a wide wooden deck out front. A massive, dark-haired man in jeans and an olive drab T-shirt stretched over a heavily muscled chest walked out on the porch.

“That's Flynn,” Luke said, cracking open his door and stepping out of the car.

Dirk and Nick also climbed out. Hector rounded the vehicle, opened the trunk, and set their carry-on bags on the ground.

“Señor Luke, you have my phone number,
sí
?”

“I've got it,” Luke said. “We'll call if we need you again.”

Hector took the money Nick handed him.

“
Gracias,
señor,” the rotund driver said.

“Remember,” Dirk warned, “we were never here.”

“
Sí, sí
.” He waved a chubby hand above his head.
“Vaya con Dios,
señores.” Hector climbed back into the Renault and drove away.

“You think Fernandez will keep his mouth shut?” Dirk asked Luke, thinking of the men's earlier conversation in Spanish.

“He was well paid. He's got a family and he wants them safe. Long as he isn't in any danger, he won't say a word.”

As they climbed the stairs to the deck, Morgan Flynn walked over to introduce himself. They all shook hands, then another man walked out of the log house into the fading evening light.

“Emil Ramos,” Flynn said, tipping his head toward the other man. “Emil was raised in the area, still has contacts here. He's the guy who's been making all the arrangements.”

Dirk shook Ramos's hand. He was of average height, slender build, dark-skinned, with thick, black hair cut short. If he'd been handling the prep, so far he'd done a good job.

“Your gear from the plane should have arrived by now,” Ramos said with only a trace of an accent. “There is a farm just down the road. That is the drop location. I will make the pickup and return.”