Free Brandenburg by Glenn Meade Page A

strange, a gut feeling he had that wouldn’t go away. Two of the men spoke the accented German of immigrants, their vowels softened by the lisping Spanish. Only one spoke pure guttural German, the singsong German of Bavaria.
    Hernandez shook his head, confused by it all.
    “The driver will take you to the safe house,” the voice had said. Where was the safe house? Right now it didn’t matter; he just wanted to leave the hotel as quickly as possible. But first he had to retrieve Torres’s equipment from the suite. If he worked fast, maybe he could follow the men to the house they spoke of. He picked up the telephone, punched in the number.
    “Room service,” said the answering voice.
    “Ah, room service! My colleagues in suite one-twenty appear to have some difficulty in trying to contact you. They wish a food trolley removed from their suite. At once.”
    “Of course, señor. Pronto. Suite one-twenty.”
    Hernandez replaced the receiver, threw off the waiter’s jacket, dark trousers, and tie, then dressed again hurriedly in the business suit and blue silk tie. No need for the dark glasses, he decided. He had everything inside the case within two minutes, ready to go, key card to the room in his pocket.
    The spare tape lay on the bed and he stuffed it inside his jacket pocket. He was ready. He opened the door to his room a crack, listened, and waited for the room-service waiter to appear.
    •   •   •
    In the lobby, Kruger went ahead of the others and crossed to the reception desk. The man behind it looked up, flashed a white-toothed smile.
    “Señor?”
    “Suite one-twenty,” said Kruger. “We are leaving now. The bill has been paid, I believe?”
    The man consulted the computer. “That is correct, señor. In cash, when the suite was booked. Everything was to your satisfaction?”
    “Yes, thank you. My compliments to the hotel. The champagne and canapés were excellent. Buenas tardes.” Kruger went to turn but saw the receptionist stare strangely at him before quickly glancing down at his computer again. Kruger hesitated.
    He saw the man look up again, a quizzical expression on his face. “Champagne? Canapés? We have no record of such an order, señor.”
    Kruger swallowed. “I beg your pardon?”
    The receptionist said mildly, “There is no record of such an order on our computer. Obviously a mistake.”
    Kruger said nervously, “The bottle of champagne and canapés delivered to our suite . . . you’re saying they were not compliments of the hotel?”
    The man smiled broadly, as if Kruger were joking. “No, señor.Of course not. But I can check to be absolutely certain. Perhaps an order was sent to your suite by mistake. However, I doubt it.”
    Kruger turned visibly pale. The receptionist was already reaching for the telephone beside him, dialing a number. A moment later he spoke into the receiver, rapidly, but Kruger wasn’t listening to the man’s conversation. Something was niggling at him, worrying him. He was a cautious man, a man who never overlooked minor details, a man who checked and double-checked facts before coming to a conclusion. But this was odd . . .
    The man replaced the receiver and looked at Kruger. “Room service has no record of such an order sent to suite one-twenty, señor. It’s most strange.”
    Kruger could feel the palms of his hands sweat. “The waiter . . . his name, I think, was Ricardes.”
    The man smiled again. “It was he I just spoke to.”
    “The young man was tall. A scar on his right cheek.”
    The receptionist scratched his head. “No. Ricardes is not tall. And a scar? No, certainly not. I don’t understand, señor.”
    But Kruger did. Kruger understood. His mind was racing. And he tried to focus his cold fury. He waved a dismissive hand at the man behind the desk. “A misunderstanding, obviously.” Then he stepped back a pace, as though remembering something. “Excuse me, but I think I’ve left something in the suite.”
    The man