Tom took me back to the Omni Hotel, driving around town to make sure he had not grown a tail. Although I was tired after being out for almost eighteen hours, I was alert. But as I walked down the carpeted hallway a sense of threat seized me. Perhaps it was the feeling that I was returning to my room for the first time since someone had searched it, or that I was participating in planning an exciting operation involving both my birth country and my home country. I felt my muscles contract and my vision go into hyperfocus. Was I subconsciously sensing imminent danger, or was there extra adrenaline pumping into my bloodstream from the events of the past two days? The hallway was empty and there were no noises on an early Sunday morning.
I slowly inserted the magnetic card into the reader and quietly opened the door. The room lights were on. A man was kneeling next to my safe. He was a slim, medium-tall, light-brown-skinned guy in his thirties. He turned his head, startled. He stood up and looked around quickly, either evaluating the situation or seeking a way to escape the inevitable confrontation. There was no chance for that. I was almost twice his size and blocked the doorway. The windows were closed. But even if open, it was still the thirteenth floor. I guess he was superstitious because he didn't try to jump through the window. Instead he pulled a knife and came at me – clumsy and tentative for a man his size; clearly not a hand-to-hand expert. I shifted my weight and kicked out with my left foot, hitting him squarely in the groin. As he bent forward, gasping in pain and surprise, I grabbed his curly hair with my left hand, raised my knee with some force, and smashed his face directly onto it. I heard the crack as his nose broke and the gasp of pain escaping from his clenched teeth when he had quickly to decide which was the most painful: the high-speed meeting of his face with my raised knee, the kick in his groin, or the fact that he was caught.
I let him fall to the carpeted floor and decide for himself while I neatly slipped the knife from his hand. I pulled off my belt and secured his hands behind his back, then extended the belt to strap one leg, enough to make a move impossible. I took off my tie and used it to knot my belt to the bed frame. He was still semiconscious, groaning in pain and bleeding on my carpet, when I went to the telephone and called the police. I looked at my unwelcome guest and thought back for a moment. Amos, my martial arts instructor during special forces training, would have been proud of me. Amos was a short guy with red hair; he was cross-eyed, so you never knew where he was looking. That helped him to kick us hard when we least expected it.
“I need to speak to Herr Blecher immediately,” I said in the calmest tone I could summon, despite my heavy breathing and a heart still pounding.
“Just a minute.”
“Blecher,” said a man's voice.
“This is Dan Gordon. I'm at the Omni Hotel. I've just surprised a burglar in my room.”
“Did he get away?”
“No. I got him down and tied him up. Send your men over. He may also need some medical attention.”
“Done,” said Blecher.
Ten minutes later, the man on the floor was showing signs of returning to reality from the temporary blackout I'd imposed on him. I checked his pockets, searching for a gun. I found only some cash. No weapons or ID.
“Water,” he said faintly. I rolled him over and looked at him. Blood was smeared on his face and neck. His nose was already swollen.
I went to my bathroom, brought back a glass of tap water, and held it to his lips. He drank and sighed.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
He didn't answer. I grabbed him by the hair again and asked him whether he wanted an encore. “Julio.”
“What is your last name?”
“Rodriguez,” he whispered, and asked for more water.
“What is your nationality?”
“Please, water.” he repeated.
“Where are you from?”
He didn't answer.
I grabbed his hair again. “I'm going to blow your fucking brains out if I don't start getting some answers!” I was not armed, but my visitor had already experienced what my bare hands could do to him.
“Colombia,” he almost shouted.
“What were you looking for?”
“Nothing,” he begged. “Money, jewelry.”
“How did you get in?”
“The door was open.”
“I don't believe you, you son of a bitch.” I yanked his head up to where I could look him directly in the eyes. “Have I given you any indication that I give a shit about what happens to your pathetic life? Give me the truth or I start messing up other body parts.”
He didn't answer, and I heard steps at the door. It was Blecher and a few of his hounds.
“He's all yours,” I said, and gave Blecher a brief account of the events, then went to the bathroom to wash Julio's blood off my hands.
“I don't think he was looking for money,” I said when I came out of the bathroom.
“What do you mean?”
“He gave me his name – Julio Rodriguez – and told me he's Colombian. My room was ransacked earlier today. It may have been this jerk. He could be one of the gang that's after the papers DeLouise gave Ariel. I guess he thought I had them.”
“We'll try to find out if Rodriguez is connected to Ariel's kidnapping,” Blecher assured me. “I have just heard from the Israeli Consulate that Mina Bernstein has returned to her home in Israel. That's too bad, because I wanted to ask her a few more questions.”
“I'm sure the consulate could arrange that,” I said. “Anyway, I expect to have developments concerning Ariel as well. Have you made any progress?”
“Yes, we have,” said Blecher, giving me a cold look. “It is most unfortunate that you have been keeping information from the German police on the Ariel matter.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, sensing the grievance complaint against me rapidly approaching. “I gave you everything I had.”
“Not all of it,” said Blecher. “It was highly irresponsible not to alert the police that the kidnappers were waiting for a phone call at a certain location. We might have caught them.”
“You know that it was the mother's decision not to call the police. But more important, I found out about the note only five or six minutes before the time she had to make the call. There was no time to call the police.”
Blecher gave me a long look, trying to decide whether to believe me. “I have also just heard from the Israeli Consulate that the second call was made by another woman from the consulate,” he said.
“So, what have I got to do with it? I gave you the audio and the videotapes. Didn't I mention that the caller wasn't Mina?”
“No,” said Blecher.
“I had nothing to do with it, I'm sure you know that. If that was another woman who called, it must have been because they hoisted Mina back to Israel. Remember I work for the U.S. government, not the Israeli government.”
“Yes,” said Blecher. I didn't understand what he meant, but I wasn't interested in pressing the issue any further.
Alarm bells were ringing inside my head. Was it a residual thrill from the fight I'd just had or the intuition that I'd just made another step forward in my investigation? Obviously, I'd become somebody's target. Although Rodriguez said he was Colombian, it didn't necessarily mean he was telling me the truth or that he was from the same team that had pursued DeLouise or kidnapped Ariel. He could be working for somebody else.
By this time, two plainclothes detectives had Rodriguez up and moving.
“We're taking him downtown for questioning. We'll let our doctor see him. What did you use on him, a hammer?”
“Wait,” I said, and gave the man's knife to Blecher. “It looked like he was going to stab me with this, so I had no alternative but to reshape his face.” Blecher asked me to come to the station to give my testimony.
“Later,” I said, stretching the leeway I had received thus far from Blecher, since I was working for the U.S. government.