Page 46 of The Witness

I took my time smoothing the fabric before I answered. “Yes.”

“Wait here.” The bodyguard scurried off to talk to Sandoval.

Gunter and I cooled our heels with the American guard. He wasn’t the kind of guy you’d chit-chat with. So, I ignored him. Gunter, playing the bored waiter, looked at the carpet and shifted his weight from foot to foot with a sigh that might have been heard in Istanbul.

“Señor Sandoval is intrigued. Please come and share a drink with him. Mister…” The guard trailed off, waiting for me to fill in my name.

“For now, Mr. Dumas works, you know, like the author of the Count of Monte Cristo.” I gave the henchman a smile that promised Dumas wasn’t my real name.

“Mr. Dumas.” The guard led me across the circle to where Sandoval held court. A balding, middle-aged man in a beautifully embroidered guayabera shirt hopped up from the chair next to Sandoval and offered the seat to me. He backed out of the circle, all but bowing in deference.

I finally got my first good look at Rafa Sandoval. He was average. Middle height, middle build. Thick dark curls shot through with streaks of silver. He looked to be over forty-five, but under sixty. Hard to tell more in the “mood” lighting of the ballroom. The only feature that made me pause was his eyes. Their obsidian depths were like a pair of black holes that sucked in the light and reflected nothing back. A darker and more sinister version of John Smith’s perceptive gray stare.

The bodyguard made a formal introduction, telling my fake name to Sandoval with a raised eyebrow and a mention of Count of Monte Cristo. Neither of us made a move to shake hands.

“I’ve always enjoyed that book.” Sandoval didn’t bother to stand but flicked his wrist to show I should sit beside him.

Gunter, ever the attentive server, poured us each a finger of rum and placed the bottle on a nearby table before leaving us to talk.

“Thank you for your time.” I took the seat, crossing one ankle over my knee in an arrogant imitation of relaxation.

“Mr. Dumas, few people surprise me and live to talk about it.”

I ignored his warning and smiled the oily smile of a used car salesman as I lifted my glass in the air. “To profitable business. And an end to your kitchen rat problem.”

After a slight hesitation, Sandoval clinked his glass into mine, and we each took a sip.

“Why are you here, Mr. Dumas?”

I was astonished that he’d asked about me and not Sabrina. I mentally fumbled for a moment. The vague idea of a backstory I cobbled together would have to take center stage. It wasn’t how I expected the meeting to go.

“I’d like to work with you.”

“You and half of Miami. What business are you in?”

“My MC is into a little bit of everything: guns, drugs, girls. Mostly local stuff, but the club wants to branch out. And we understand you are the man to talk to about growth opportunities in South Florida.”

“Your MC?” He asked like he was unfamiliar with the acronym. I found that disingenuous but played along.

“Motorcycle club. I’m here on their behalf.”

“You are the president?”

“No. The money man.”

“So not the one in command. Why isn’t your president here?”

“Coyote isn’t a man you send on a delicate mission in a fraught country like Cuba. He’s a loose cannon and wouldn’t know subtle if it hit him in the back of the head with a tire iron.” As soon as I dropped the name Coyote, I wished I hadn’t. Wrapping a real person into my fiction was a bad fucking idea.

“They sent the money man that looks like a linebacker and uses the name of a famous author to court me. Interesting. Well, money man, what gifts did you bring?” He tapped his fingernail against the crystal glass while taking my measure with his soulless eyes.

“I have the witness you’re looking all over Miami for—the caterer.” I knew this was an act and that I’d never turn Sabrina over to Sandoval, but it still made my skin crawl to say the words. Fuck, I hated this plan down to the marrow of my bones.

“She’s been a pest. Her story drew attention from the Feds in DC to my organization and our connections in Miami. The woman is a worthy gift.” He nodded once.

“I know better than to ask for a meeting with a man like you and arrive empty-handed.” I nodded toward the expensive bottle of rum, another of my gifts.

“Perhaps I’m starting to understand why you were sent in place of your president, Mr. Dumas. I will need to verify her identity before this goes any farther. I have people in Miami that can meet with your club and—”

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