Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9)

Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9) Page 77

From City Hall we worked our way to I-94 and then to I-394 heading west toward Lake Minnetonka. There was nothing pretty about the drive. Thick gray clouds blocked the sun, which made the air, the three-day-old snow, and just about everything else, for that matter, look gray, too. I tried to sit straight up in my seat. That was uncomfortable enough, but the bouncing caused by cracked pavement and potholes made it worse. Minnesota Public Radio reported that between them, Minneapolis, St. Paul, Hennepin, and Ramsey counties, and the Minnesota Department of Transportation had as many as twenty-two crews working more or less around the clock to patch the holes and cracks caused by the never-ending freeze/thaw cycle of winter. Yet you couldn’t prove it by me that they had made any progress at all, and the winter wasn’t half over!

“Pitchers and catchers don’t even report for another month,” I mumbled.

“Tell me about it,” Herzog said.

Herzy’s a baseball fan, my inner voice said. Who would have thunk it?

As we approached Highway 169 my cell phone rang.

“Is ’at Ella?” Herzog asked. “Fuckin’ A, it is Ella.”

I answered the phone without checking the caller ID, without thinking at all. It was a mistake.

“This is Jonathan Hemsted of the U.S. State Department,” the caller said. “We need to talk.”

You really don’t want to talk to him, my inner voice said.

“I’m in the middle of something right now, Jon,” I said aloud.

“We need to talk immediately.”

Ahh, Christ.

“Where are you?”

“The hotel.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I turned off my phone.

“Herzy,” I said, “there’s been a change of plans. We need to see a guy. Turn around at the next exit.”

“Is ’at Ella Fitzgerald on your ringtone?”

“Yeah. Her and Louis Armstrong.”

“You’re not as big a pussy as I thought you were.”

“Heady praise, Herzy. Heady praise, indeed.”

We met in the same bar located just off the hotel lobby with a good view of the comings and goings of just about everyone. Pozderac was drinking clear liquid from a squat glass—somehow I didn’t think it was water. Hemsted was drinking wine. I decided to shake things up a bit. When the waitress arrived, instead of beer, I ordered a Seven and Seven. Pozderac and Hemsted requested a second round of the same.

“What about your friend?” Hemsted asked. Herzog stood like a sentinel off to the side, his hands crossed over his stomach, a menacing expression on his face. He was pretending not to watch or listen to us at the table, but I knew he was doing both.

“He’s driving,” I said.

After the waitress departed, Hemsted made some cursory remarks about my damaged shoulder and my bruised and scratched face, although none of them sounded particularly sympathetic. I found it telling that he did not ask how I sustained my injuries. It wasn’t until the waitress returned with our drinks that he got down to it.

“I am very upset that you called the embassy,” he said.

“Upset that I called or upset that I discovered that you are not here on embassy business?”

“This is very much embassy business.”

“Yeah, you’re just looking out for the welfare of the good ol’ U.S. of A. A quarter-of-a-million-dollar bribe doesn’t enter into it.”

Hemsted glanced at Pozderac and then back at me. “That’s a damnable lie,” he said.

Where have you heard that before? my inner voice asked.

“Tell it to Fiegen,” I said.

“Fiegen?”

“The man you’re working for. I used to think it was the secretary of state. That’s why I let you frighten me before. Now I know better.”

“Mr. Fiegen is an American citizen wishing to conduct business in Bosnia and Herzegovina,” Hemsted said. “I am merely helping to facilitate matters as per my position with the Commercial Service Office of the U.S. Embassy.”

“And if you can get a little something for yourself under the table, why not, right?”

From the expression on his face, Hemsted clearly did not like to hear his character impugned. Pozderac, on the other hand, could not have cared less. He slapped the tabletop four or five times and shouted, “Where is Jade Lily?” From the way heads turned and mouths fell open, the hotel’s customers probably thought he was demanding to see a stripper.

Hemsted leaned his head toward him and tried to say something, but Pozderac put his hand against his face and shoved him away.

“Where is Jade Lily?” he repeated, only not quite as loudly.

Hemsted was visibly shaken by Pozderac’s behavior yet refused to give in to his anger. He turned toward me and spoke between clenched teeth.

“We know that you attempted to retrieve the Lily last Saturday—again without contacting us first,” Hemsted said. “We know about the bomb. We also know that there is no evidence that the Lily was destroyed in the subsequent explosion.”