“Yes.” The manager handed him his card.
“You’re not gonna steal that jacket, are you?” Lev asked drunkenly.
“Certainly not,” the manager said indignantly.
Lev Pasternak slapped him on the back and said, “Good. I’ll call you later this afternoon.”
That afternoon when Lev called from his hotel room, the manager said, “The name of the gentleman we made the jacket for is Señor H. R. de Mendoza. He has a suite at the Aurora Hotel, suite four-seventeen.”
Lev Pasternak checked to make sure that his door was locked. He took a suitcase out of the closet, carried it to the bed, and opened it. Inside was a .45 caliber SIG Sauer pistol with a silencer, courtesy of a friend in the Argentine secret service. Pasternak checked again to make sure the gun was loaded and the silencer was secure. He put the suitcase back in the closet and went to sleep.
At four A.M. Lev Pasternak was silently moving down the deserted fourth-floor corridor of the Aurora Hotel. When he reached 417, he looked around to make sure no one was in sight. He reached down to the lock and quietly inserted a wire. When he heard the door click open, he pulled out the pistol.
He sensed a draft as the door across the hall opened, and before Pasternak could swing around, he felt something hard and cold pressing against the back of his neck.
“I don’t like being followed,” Angel said.
Lev Pasternak heard the click of the trigger a second before his brain was torn apart.
Angel was not sure whether Pasternak was alone or working with someone, but it was always wise to take extra precautions. The telephone call had come, and it was time to move. First Angel had some shopping to do. There was a good lingerie shop on Pueyrredón, expensive, but Neusa deserved the best. The inside of the shop was cool and quiet.
“I would like to see a negligee, something very frilly,” Angel said.
The female clerk stared.
“And a pair of panties with a split in the crotch.”
Fifteen minutes later, Angel walked into Frenkel’s. The shelves were filled with leather purses, gloves, and brief-cases.
“I would like a briefcase, please. Black.”
The El Aljibe in the Sheraton Hotel was one of the finest restaurants in Buenos Aires. Angel sat down at a table in the corner and placed the new briefcase on the table. The waiter came up to the table.
“Good afternoon.”
“I’ll start with the pargo, and after that the parrillado with poroto and verduras. I’ll decide on my dessert later.”
“Certainly.”
“Where are the rest rooms?”
“In the rear, through the far door and to your left.”
Angel got up from the table and walked toward the rear of the restaurant, leaving the briefcase in sight on the table. There was a narrow corridor with two small doors, one marked Caballeros and the other marked Damas. At the end of the corridor were double doors leading to the noisy, steamy kitchen. Angel pushed one of the doors open and stepped inside. It was a scene of frantic activity, with chefs and sous chefs bustling around, trying to keep up with the urgent demands of the lunch hour. Waiters moved in and out of the kitchen with loaded trays. The chefs were screaming at the waiters, and the waiters were screaming at the busboys.
Angel moved, threading across the room, and stepped out through a back door leading to an alley. A five-minute wait to make sure that no one had followed.
There was a taxi at the corner. Angel gave the driver an address on Humberto, alighted a block away, and hailed another taxi.
“¿Adónde, por favor?”
“Aeropuerto.”
There would be a ticket for London waiting there. Tourist. First class was too conspicuous.
Two hours later, Angel watched the city of Buenos Aires disappear beneath the clouds like some celestial magician’s trick, and concentrated on the assignment ahead, thinking about the instructions that had been given.
Make sure the children die with her. Their deaths must be spectacular.
Angel did not like to be told how to fulfill a contract. Only amateurs were stupid enough to give advice to professionals. Angel smiled. They will all die, and it will be more spectacular than anyone bargained for.