The line went dead.

“And I love you, too, sweetie,” I said and placed the phone on the floor.

“She hung up,” I explained.

“Ok, now we kill you,” Shotgun said.

“Wait a minute, Pablo, me old mate. She said that I was to say ‘The pussy begs you not to shoot him.’”

Shotgun considered for a second, fought back a look of frustration, put down his weapon.

“Shit. I was looking forward to doing you. The head of hotel security in his own hotel. That would have added to our prestige,” he said.

The man with the 9mm looked at his boss.

“Now we’re not going to do it?” he asked.

His partner shook his head. Reluctantly, he put the 9mm in a shoulder holster.

“We’re all flying to Europe, no?” I said.

“Yes. You have five minutes to pack and then we’re going to the airport, I have a car waiting.”

Shotgun threw an airline ticket at me. I examined it. British Air-ways first class direct from Lima to New York, Aer Lingus first class from New York to Dublin.

Commercial jets, not private ones. Dear, oh, dear. Bridget’s little cock-up. You can’t railroad someone from Peru to Ireland using commercial flights. Who did she think she was dealing with? She should have coughed up the money for a Learjet.

“The plan is if I don’t cooperate you’ll kill me?” I asked Shotgun.

“That’s right,” he replied.

“The two of you and the one of me.”

“Yeah. Hurry and get packed.”

“You’ll kill me?”

“If necessary. Yes.”

“Like to see you attempt that on a plane that’s going to JFK,” I said.

I was just trying to test his limits, make him a bit eggy, but I saw immediately that I had blundered. This was a mistake. His brow furrowed. I’d really made him think about this whole rotten assignment. About the obvious flaw in the arrangements. Goddammit, I had to get him back on track.