City Of Spies

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Pagan reached over to hand him a fistful of paper pesos. “For all your help today, Carlos. Thanks. But you should go home. We’ll catch a cab back.”

Mercedes looked around the quiet street. The bar was the only sign of movement and life. “If we can find a cab.”

“Walk one block that way,” Carlos said, pointing to the right. “You’ll be sure to find one near Plaza Dorrego.”

“Gracias,” Mercedes said. “Wish us luck, my friend.”

Carlos looked her up and down. “You are going to need it in there.”

Pagan froze, about to open the car door. “Why her in particular?”

“Look at them.” Carlos jutted his chin at the young people crowded in the doorway of the bar. “None of them look like her, like me.”

The people spilling into the street and hanging out in the doorway were all fair skinned with a high percentage of blondes. The name of the bar was German for “Believers,” and Devin had said it was a mostly ex-patriot crowd, but not always.

After what they’d encountered at the hotel reception desk, Pagan hesitated. “Maybe you should go home, M.”

“Am I a liability to you?” Mercedes asked, her voice level, reasonable.

“No, just the opposite. But I don’t want to push you into anything dangerous,” Pagan said.

“I didn’t like it before,” Mercedes said. “This doesn’t change anything. But are you sure?”

Pagan caught her friend’s eye and gave her a sly smile. “I want to be noticed, don’t I? Let’s go.”

Carlos got the door for Mercedes while Pagan let herself out and raised her bare arms to the sky, stretching luxuriously. Over at the bar, a few heads turned.

“Gracias, Carlos,” she said, and clicked over to the sidewalk with as confident a stride as the cobblestones allowed to join Mercedes. “Que tengas buenos noches.”

“Ustedes tambien, señoritas,” he said, touching his hat.

Pagan looped her arm through Mercedes’s and they walked in sync toward Gläubigen. “How are we supposed to know which one is your guy?” Mercedes asked in a low tone.

“Tall, dirty blond hair, blue eyes, mole on his right cheek,” Pagan muttered. “Let me know if you spot him first.”

The music got louder as they approached. It sounded like a local band’s version of “Blue Hawaii,” sung in a pretty good imitation of Elvis with a slight German accent.

It was time to turn the movie-star wattage up to supernova level. Channeling all she’d learned during many walks down the red carpet, Pagan breathed deep and imagined herself as the center of the universe, filled with light and power. She wasn’t just a movie star; she was an actual star, brighter than the sun. Everyone would revolve around her tonight.

If she could pretend to believe it long enough. The thoughts were ridiculous, but they had never failed.

The swaying couples turned their heads. Chatter near the doorway died slowly as they sauntered up. Well, Pagan was sauntering. Mercedes kept to her usual neutral tread.

“It’s not as cute as they said,” Pagan said in English to Mercedes, loud enough to be heard.

Mercedes shrugged. “The band sounds pretty good.”

“We shall see,” Pagan said skeptically, and favored those near the doorway with a dazzling smile as she sashayed inside.

There was no bouncer, no cover charge, no maître d’. The place was more café than club, but as Pagan and Mercedes paused on the threshold, several young men turned to stare. The place was packed with teenagers and college-age kids, and after hearing what Carlos had said, Pagan noticed that all of them were fair-skinned. The girls were mostly wearing stretchy skirts with their button-down shirt tied at the waist and ponytails, while the boys favored linen short-sleeved shirts left untucked over khakis and pompadours. Pagan stood out like a princess at a barbecue.