Six Graves to Munich - Mario Cleri [42]
In Vrostk’s office Rogan sat down at the table that had the special equipment on it.
Vrostk was angry; it was the bullying anger of a small-minded man. “What is the meaning of all this foolishness?” he asked. “I demand to know.”
Rogan put his right hand into his jacket pocket, pulled it out again clenched. He thrust it at Vrostk and then opened it. Lying in his palm was the white king.
Rogan worked intently at the table for nearly three hours. He drilled a hole in the bottom of the king, and then took the bottom out entirely. Working very carefully, he hollowed out the inside of the chess piece and packed it with liquid explosive, wires, and the tiny electronic parts. When he was finished he put the bottom back on, and then with buffing cloth and enamel he hid all scratches and chips. He held the chess piece in his hand, trying to see if the extra weight was too obvious. He did notice a little difference, but he reasoned that this was because he was looking for the difference. The piece would pass.
He turned to Vrostk. “At eight o’clock tonight this thing will blow up in Pajerski’s face. I’ve got it fixed so that nobody else will get hurt. There’s just enough to kill the man holding the piece. And Pajerski always scratches his chin with it. That and the timing device will set off the explosive. If I see someone else holding it, I’ll interfere and deactivate it. But I’ve watched Pajerski, and I’m sure he’ll be the guy who’ll have the piece in his hand at eight tonight. Now I want you to have your underground people pick me up at the corner two blocks from the café. I’m counting on your organization to get me out of the country.”
“You mean you’re going to stay in the café until Pajerski is killed?” Vrostk asked. “That’s sheer madness. Why not leave beforehand?”
“I want to make sure nobody else gets killed,” Rogan said. “And before he dies, I also want Pajerski to know who killed him and why, and I can’t do that unless I’m there.”
Vrostk shrugged. “It’s your affair. As for my people picking you up two blocks from the café, that’s too dangerous for them. I’ll have a black Mercedes limousine waiting for you in front of the consulate here. It will be flying the consulate flag. What time do you want it to be ready?”
Rogan frowned. “I may change the timing on the explosive, or it may possibly go off ahead of time if Pajerski keeps scratching his chin with it too much. Better have the car waiting for me at seven thirty and tell them to expect me at ten minutes past eight. I’ll be on foot, and I’ll just get into the car without any fuss. I assume they know me by sight. You’ve shown me to them?”
Vrostk smiled. “Of course. Now I suppose you and I will have a late lunch and a game of chess at the Black Violin so that you can return the white king.”
Rogan smiled. “You’re getting smarter all the time.”
Over coffee they played the second game of chess, and Rogan won easily. When they left the café, the booby-trapped white king was safely back with its fellow chess pieces.
That evening Rogan left his small hotel room at exactly 6:00. The Walther pistol was tucked under his arm and buttoned securely into its holster. The silencer was in his left jacket pocket. His passport and visas were in his inside jacket pocket. He walked slowly and leisurely to the Café Black Violin and took his usual small corner table. He unfolded a newspaper, ordered a bottle of Tokay, and told the waitress he would order food later.
He had drunk half the bottle when Wenta Pajerski came roaring into the café. Rogan looked at his watch. The giant Hungarian was right on schedule; it was 7:00 p.m. He watched Pajerski pinch the blond waitress, yell to his waiting friends, and have his first drink. It was about time for him to call for his chess set, but he ordered a second drink. Rogan felt himself go tense. Would this be the first night that Pajerski would pass up his chess games? For some reason it seemed