Commander Cantrell in the West Indies(18)
Who had now reached the door. He turned, saluted, received their returns, and with one boyish smile—like a parting endearment from his rapidly disappearing former self—he was gone.
Anton Roedel finished his scribbling. “Mr. President, shall I read back the—?”
There was a knock at the door. Anton speared it with a glance sharp enough to gut a fish. “Sir, are we expecting another—?”
Nasi interrupted smoothly, with a friendly smile. “That will be all, Mr. Roedel. Please drop off the evening’s secure communiqués at the encryption office, will you?”
Roedel’s eyes went back to the door briefly. “Yes, but—”
“We need those messages to go out as soon as possible, Mr. Roedel. So please, waste no time delivering them to the encryptionist on duty.”
Roedel glanced at Piazza who nodded faintly at the secretary and added a placating smile. “On your way, now, Anton.”
Who evidently was still miffed at being sent out when, clearly, there was yet another unexpected visitor waiting beyond the door. Chin slightly higher than usual, Anton Roedel gathered his papers and notes, squared them off, put them carefully in his own leather folio, and exited like a spurned ex-girlfriend.
It was Nasi who, three seconds after the door closed behind Roedel, called out “Come in.”
The person who entered through the door Eddie had exited was small, slightly stooped, and dressed indifferently, a hint of seediness in the worn seams of his coat and his britches. He looked around the room’s lower periphery, not raising his eyes to meet any of those looking at him. Pressed to categorize him, Piazza would have guessed him to be a vagrant who had somehow, impossibly, strayed off the street, past the guards, and into the highest offices of the State of Thuringia-Franconia.
Nasi nodded at the man, who exited far more swiftly and eagerly than he had entered.
Warner frowned, looked at Nasi and then around the table. “What, no message? Was the guy—lost?”
Nasi shook his head. “No, he was not lost. He was the message.”
“What?”
Chehab leaned forward. “The messenger coming through that door could have been one of three persons. Each one meant something different, so their face was their message, you might say.”
“And this one means—what?”
Nasi looked at Piazza. “It means that a pair of mechanics who were reported in town four days ago have just now departed.”
Warner blinked. “Mechanics?”
Chehab shrugged, looked away. “Fixers. Freelance wiseguys.”
Warner blinked harder. “What? You mean hit men, assassins?”
Nasi smoothed the front of his shirt. “Not necessarily.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means it depends who hired them and what for.” Piazza looked over at Warner with what he hoped was a small, reassuring smile. Warner Barnes was a relatively new and infrequent member of the group and wasn’t familiar with how, or what kind of, things were done in this “sleepy subcommittee”—which also functioned, unadvertised, as the State of Thuringia-Franconia’s intelligence directorate.
Warner still hadn’t read between the lines. “And we just stood by while these two murderers were walking our streets?”
Piazza shrugged. “What would you have had me do? We don’t have any outstanding warrants on them.”
Nasi added, “They do not even stand accused of any crime.”
Warner sputtered. “Then how do we know they’re assassins, mechanics, or whatever?”
“Via the good offices of our preeminent international banker, Balthazar Abrabanel. His discreet connections with the Jewish ‘gray market’ frequently provide him with information about persons like these. They are often called upon to aid in, er, ‘collections.’”
Piazza leaned in. “And we have confirming reports of their identities and reputations from the Committees of Correspondence. These two aren’t political activists, but are well-known to the, um, action arms of the Committees.”
“And Abrabanel and the Committees—they actually hire thugs like these?”
“Not often. And never these two in particular.”
“Why not these two?”
Nasi shrugged. “Well, as has already been implied, this pair has a reputation for preferring to resolve matters . . . too kinetically.”
Warner goggled. “So they’re rougher than the average brute and we let them walk around our town, unwatched? All because some of our shadier contacts know who they are? Listen, Ed—”
Piazza shook his head. “Warner, they’re not a concern of ours.”
Warner gaped, tried another approach. “Okay, if you say so. But maybe we should put a tail on them while we make a quick inquiry into their whereabouts while they were here, make sure they didn’t use their visit to harm any of our—”