Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

following evening the family had received a call at which the kidnappers threatened the life of Rosita if the family did not pay immediately. Ten minutes earlier the kidnappers had telephoned Ramirez on the second line and agreed to open discussions on a channel concealed from the police in general and Ortega in particular. Then the negotiations had begun.

      Three hundred thousand, the kidnappers had demanded. A hundred and fifty, the family had responded. Two-fifty, the kidnappers had come back at them. Two hundred, the family had replied. Two hundred and twenty-five thousand, the two sides had agreed; Ramirez standing by, seven o’clock Thursday evening.

      Now it was almost nine; the dusk closing in and Ramirez signalling he was on his way ninety minutes ago. Be careful, Haslam had warned him: they’ll build in switches, cut-outs, might go for a double ransom, might seize you as well.

      It was gone nine, almost ten; the dusk giving way to the dark and the mother’s eyes boring into him. Lose me my daughter and I’ll haunt you for ever; bring her back to me and what is mine and my husband’s is yours.

      She poured herself a whisky and stared at the glass, her strength almost shattering it. Her husband rose, took it from her, and made her sit again.

      Ten-thirty, almost ten forty-five.

      The headlights swept across the wall and the Lexus turned in to the courtyard. The parents ran to the window, saw the driver alone in the front and Ramirez in the back. Saw the figure clutched to him, clinging to him. For one moment Haslam feared that he had lost, that the figure was too small, too grey, almost too translucent, to be real. That the figure clinging to Ramirez was Rosita’s ghost. Then Ramirez stepped from the car and he saw the girl look up and wave.

      The mother turned and ran for the stairs, the father close behind her. Haslam crossed the room, poured himself a large scotch, only a dash of soda, and downed it in one.

      ‘So what do we do now?’ The family’s lawyer spoke from the shadows. ‘

      ‘Square Ortega.’

      ‘How much?’

      In the courtyard below the mother was holding her daughter as if she would never let her go, the girl’s father embracing Ramirez then looking up at the window to thank Haslam, the tears pouring suddenly and unashamedly down his cheeks.

      Haslam poured himself a second drink and offered the lawyer one. In a sense the way they dealt with the policeman was the same as dealing with the kidnappers’ offer. Too little and he’d turn it down, too much and he’d want even more.

      ‘Twenty-five thousand should do it. You don’t want him on your backs for the rest of your lives.’

      The call came twenty-nine hours later, at three in the morning. The settlement with Ortega had been agreed and the money delivered, the family lawyer told Haslam.

      ‘And Ortega’s happy?’ Haslam asked.

      ‘He appears to be.’

      Perhaps it was the lawyer’s natural caution, Haslam thought, perhaps it was as close to a warning as he could get. He thanked the man, slept fitfully till the light was streaming through the hotel curtains, then confirmed his flight to Washington via Miami.

      Even though he’d been paid off Ortega might not like it, because in his way Ortega had lost. And if he considered he had lost, Ortega would want his revenge. And if he did he would play it dirty, partly because it was his nature and partly to let his own people see he was top dog, partly to let the family know who was really in charge. And if Ortega decided to play it dirty he would go for him on the way out, because that was when Haslam should be relaxed, when Haslam should be thinking he’d got away with it.

      He could leave the country illegally, of course; but then it might be difficult to return. He could leave legally, but with some sort of political or diplomatic protection. But that would mean he’d left under Ortega’s rules, so that when he returned it would be under Ortega’s conditions. Or he could both leave and return under his own terms, his rules of his game.

      At seven he took breakfast, at eight he checked out, ignored the cabs waiting outside the hotel, walked to Plaza San Martin, let the first two cabs in the side street behind the Bolivar Hotel go, and took the third.

      The city was already hot, and the cardboard slums which covered the foothills outside stretched for miles. No cars following him, he noted, but there wouldn’t be. The cab dropped him, he paid the driver and stepped into the terminal building. The departure lounge was cool, the queues already forming at the check-in counters, and the gorillas were waiting for him.

      Sometimes you needed to look for them, other times their presence was deliberately obvious and menacing. Today it was somewhere between. Two of them, plus Ortega himself. The boss man wearing a smartly cut suit and seated at a table in the coffee bar. Dark glasses, though everyone wore dark glasses, plus a copy of La Prensa.

      The business class check-in was clear. He lifted his bag on to the weighing belt and gave his passport and ticket to the woman behind the desk. She smiled at him, then saw the two men, saw the way they were looking at him and knew who and what they were.

      ‘Smoking or non-smoking?’ She fought to control the tremor in her voice.

      ‘Non.’

      She punched the computer and gave him his seat number.

      ‘Thank you.’ He picked up the passport and ticket.

      ‘Have a good flight.’ She was mesmerized, like a night animal caught in a beam of light.

      His rules, he reminded himself, his game.

      The tails were between him and the departure gate, possibly more inside when he was out of view of the most of the public, and Ortega watching, amused. He walked past them, deliberately close, turned into the coffee bar, ignored the other tables and sat at Ortega’s.

      ‘Two espressos,’ he told the waitress.

      Ortega was smiling, arrogant. What are you playing at, mother-fucker, what are you telling me? My country, my patch. So you don’t fuck with me. You know the routine, you know what happens to people who fuck with the likes of me.

      Haslam sat back slightly, not speaking. Right hand on the table top, the third finger of his right hand tapping only slightly but enough to draw attention to it.

      Why so relaxed, Ortega wondered, why so confident? Why the hand on the table? Why only one hand? Why the right? Gold ring on the third finger, symbol on it, but he couldn’t see what. So what game are you playing, cock-sucker, what are you trying to tell me?

      The waitress placed the coffees nervously on the table. Haslam shifted slightly and picked up the cup with his right hand, fingers round it rather than holding the handle, the gold of the ring sparkling and the image on it clear.

      Ortega knew who Haslam was and what he was. Where he had come from and what Haslam was telling him.

      Three of you and one of me. The third might be interesting, the second no problem, and you’re first. No problems, my friend. I did my job, you did yours, and we both got paid. Next time will be the same. Unless you have problems with that, unless you want to call in your goons. But you’re number one, and you’re sitting next to me.

      ‘Sorry I missed you at the Abarcas’.’ It was Ortega who spoke first. ‘I thought I’d come to see you off.’

      ‘It’s appreciated. I’d hoped we wouldn’t miss each other.’

      Ortega snapped his fingers at the waitress. ‘Dos cognacs.’ The shake of the head calling off the dogs was barely perceptible, little more than a movement of the eyes. ‘A good job, getting the girl back.’

      ‘It wouldn’t have been possible without your cooperation.’

      * * *

      The lights of Washington sparkled to the north and the dark of the forests of Virginia spread to the south. The Boeing banked gently and settled on its approach. Fifty minutes later