37. MARTIGAN
Martigan looked from face to face. Three men, all peering at him.
“Could I have a light?” Martigan asked.
Bergeron, the businessman, stood. He seemed to have a hobble or a limp. He moved slowly around his desk and lit Martigan’s cigarette with a gold-plated Zippo. Martigan took a long drag. Six eyes, all green like lichen, locked on him.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had tobacco,” Martigan said.
The priest, Sonntag, looked uncomfortable. Bergeron was inscrutable.
“Yes,” Fall said, “I read your cargo manifest.”
Martigan took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it, rolling it between his index finger and thumb.
“It’s not very good,” he said, “but then, I suppose, beggars can’t be choosy.”
Bergeron folded his hands on the desk in front of him. He looked
