Tom Clancy's Op-center Balance of Power - Tom Clancy [44]
It was ingenious-and foolproof.
The telephone rang a moment before there was a knock on the door. Serrador started as his reverie was interrupted-on two fronts, no less. Grumbling unhappily, the politician slid his feet into his slippers and rose. As he shuffled toward the telephone he shouted roughly for whoever was at the door to wait a minute. No one could come upstairs without being announced by the concierge. So he wondered which of the neighbors wanted a favor at this hour. Was it the owner of the grocery chain who needed to expand his stores? Or the Castilian bicycle manufacturer who wanted to ship more units to Morocco, the bastard. At least the grocer paid for favors. The bicycle maker asked for them just because he happened to live on the same floor. Serrador helped them because he didn't want to make an enemy. One never knew when the neighbors might see or hear something that could be compromising.
Serrador wondered why he was never visited by one of the beautiful concubines who lived here. There were at least three that he knew of, kept by government ministers who went home to their wives each night.
The antique telephone sat on a small drop-leaf table in the carpeted foyer. Serrador finished tying the red sash of his smoking jacket and picked up the receiver. Let them wait at the door another minute, whoever it was. He'd had a long and exhausting day.
"Si?" he said.
The pounding on the door grew more insistent. Someone outside was calling his name but he didn't recognize the voice.
Serrador couldn't hear whoever was speaking on the telephone. Annoyed, he turned from the mouthpiece and yelled at the door. "Just a moment!" Then he scowled down at the phone. "Yes? What is it?"
"Hello?" said the caller.
"Yes?"
"I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Ramirez."
Serrador felt a chill. "Who is this?"
"My name is Juan Martinez, seńor," said the caller. "Are you Deputy Serrador?"
"Who is Juan Martinez?" Serrador demanded. And who is at the door? What the hell is going on?
"I'm a member of the familia, Martinez said.
A key clattered against the door. The bolt was thrown back. Serrador glared over as the door opened.
The superintendent stood in the hallway. Behind him were two police officers and a sergeant.
"I am sorry, Seńor Deputy," said the concierge as the other men entered around him. "These men I had to let up."
"What are you doing?" Serrador demanded of them. His voice was indignant, his eyes unforgiving. Suddenly, he heard the phone click off, followed by the dial tone. He froze with the buzzing phone pressed to his ear, realizing suddenly that something had gone terribly wrong.
"Deputy Delegado Isidro Serrador?" asked the sergeant.
"Yes-"
"You will please come with us."
"Why?"
"To answer questions regarding the murder of an American tourist."
Serrador pressed his lips together. He breathed loudly through his nose. He didn't want to say anything, ask anything, do anything until he'd had a chance to speak with his attorney. And think. People who didn't think were doomed before they started.
He nodded once. "Permit me to dress," he said. "Then I will come with you."
The sergeant nodded and sent one of the men to stand by the bedroom door. He wouldn't let Serrador shut it but the deputy didn't make an issue of it. If he let his temper go there'd be no getting that genie back in the bottle. It was best to suffer the humiliation and stay calm and rational.
The men took Serrador down to the cellar and out through the garage of the building-so he wouldn't have to suffer the embarrassment of being arrested, he assumed. At least they didn't handcuff him. He was placed in an unmarked police car and driven to the municipal police station on the other side of the park. There, he was escorted into a windowless room with a photo of the