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The knock at the door made Hannibal’s breath catch in his throat. Ray’s voice tripled his pulse rate.

“Hey, Hannibal. You in there, Paco?”

Ivanovich moved the pistol’s barrel two degrees to the left. Now the bullet would brush past Hannibal and poke a tiny hole in the office door and Ray Santiago’s chest. A quick follow-up shot could still take Hannibal down before he had time to move. He couldn’t stop the Russian from killing them both, but he had to try. Ray didn’t deserve to die. He was an innocent in this case.

“One of the sheep,” Hannibal said under his breath. Ivanovich heard and shifted his focus from the wooden door back to Hannibal’s face.

“Come on, man,” Ray said. “I wanted to let you know. That guy you’re investigating? He ain’t for real.”

Ivanovich looked at Hannibal with an open-mouthed half smile. Hannibal interpreted the expression as a look of relief. Relief to hear he might be proven right, and maybe relief at having a good reason not to kill Ray. Keeping his gun on Hannibal, he went to the next room and pulled the pocket doors together, leaving just enough of a gap to see through. Or shoot through.

Hannibal released his breath, feeling some relief himself. He knew that Ivanovich shared his curiosity and would not kill anyone now. He wanted to know what Ray had to say. Hannibal unlocked the door and Ray started in past him, but stopped as he recognized the look on Hannibal’s face.

“Hey, Paco.” Ray grasped Hannibal’s shoulders. “You’re not looking too good. And whew, what is that? You been in there drinking alone all night?”

“Not yet,” Hannibal said. “And the smell is so strong because I dropped a glass and spilled a while ago. But never mind that. What did you mean about Dani Gana not being for real?”

“He ain’t,” Ray said. He brushed past Hannibal to drop heavily into the chair Hannibal had vacated a few seconds earlier. “You remember you said he needed a driver for a couple days? Well, I called him and set it up. Thanks, by the way, for the lead. Bachir says he’s one hell of a tipper.”

“Bachir?” Hannibal asked, still standing in the doorway.

“Yeah. He’s Algerian. I figured your man would like having a driver from the same country, you know?”

“Makes sense.”

“Right, only Bachir says he ain’t. While they were driving today he started talking to him in that crazy stuff they speak.”

“Arabic,” Hannibal said. “You saying Gana don’t speak Arabic?”

Ray pulled a thin cigar out of his pocket. “No, Bachir says he speaks it fine. Just got the wrong accent. Now, Bachir says they speak the same language in all the Arab countries, but it’s all different. You know, like guys from Texas speak English, but they don’t sound like guys from here.”
“So your man says Gana isn’t Algerian.”

“Says this guy’s probably never been in Algeria,” Ray said, pulling out an ancient Zippo lighter and puffing his cigar into life.

“OK, then where’s he from?”

“He don’t know,” Ray said. “Says there are like twenty other countries he might be from. Bachir just says that for sure he ain’t Algerian. Say, you going to offer me some of that?” Ray hooked his thumb toward the half-empty second bottle of vodka.

“Why don’t you grab it and let’s go,” Hannibal said, taking one step into the hallway. I was about to turn in anyway. You can take the bottle on up to your room and finish it. I really don’t need to drink any more.”

“Yeah,” Ray said, standing and grabbing the bottle by its neck. “I can see that for sure.”