Battat looked across the lobby. It was crowded with people, mostly hotel staff, along with about fifty or sixty guests. The guests were concerned about their belongings and asking questions about security. They did not seem in a hurry to leave. There was no smoke in the lobby, and firefighters were just pulling into the circular drive in front of the hotel.
Battat was concerned about how Odette was making out. He had been proud of her when she left the hotel. If she had been afraid, she did not show it. He wished he were a little steadier. He did not like the idea of her having to face the Harpooner alone.
There was a side exit down the corridor to Battat’s right. The parking lot was to the right, the front of the hotel to the left. Since the fire trucks were out front, he felt he stood a better chance of catching a taxi in the parking lot. If not, there was a major thoroughfare beyond the parking lot. He had seen it from the upstairs window. He could probably catch a bus there.
Pushing himself off the wall, Battat shuffled down the carpeted hallway. He felt feverish again, though he did not feel worse than he had before. His body was fighting whatever he had been injected with. That probably meant it was viral rather than chemical. He could finally get medical attention and start to shake this.
Battat’s vision was misty as he moved past the bank of telephones. There were several shops beyond, their picture windows reflecting each other. There was no one inside, either customers or employees. The displays of shirts and trinkets, of luggage and toys, all seemed to merge as Battat neared. He tried to blink them clear. He could not. The sickness plus the exertion had worn him down much more than he thought. Battat gave serious thought to going back to the lobby and asking the fire department medics for a ride to the hospital. He had been afraid to go there lest someone recognize him from the night before and ask about the dead man in his room. But he was beginning to doubt that he could make it from the hotel, let alone reach the embassy.
Suddenly, someone appeared in Battat’s line of vision. The American stopped and squinted. It was a man wearing jeans and a white shirt. There were straps around his shoulder.
A black backpack.
Oh Christ, Battat thought as the man approached. He knew who it was. And he had no doubt that the man recognized him. And knew why he was in such a weakened condition. After all, it was probably this same man who had injected him with the toxin on the beach.
The Harpooner.
The assassin had just walked in through the side door. He was about twenty feet away. He was holding what looked like a knife in his right hand. Battat would not be able to fight him. He had to try and get back to the lobby.
Battat turned, but he moved too fast. His vision blurred and he stumbled against one of the shop windows. He quickly pushed off with his shoulder. He staggered ahead. If he could just get to the lobby, even if he fell square on his face, someone might get to him before the Harpooner could.
Battat reached the bank of phones. He extended his left arm, used it to move himself along the wall. Push, step, push, step.
He was halfway along the bank when he felt starched fabric slide along the front of his throat. A sleeve. A strong arm pulled back, putting Battat into a choke hold.
“The last time we met, I needed you alive,” the assassin whispered harshly. “Not this time. Unless you tell me who you’re working with.”
“Up yours,” Battat gasped.
Battat felt a knee against the small of his back. If the Harpooner intended to kill him standing up, he was going to be disappointed. Battat’s legs gave out and he dropped to the floor. The Harpooner immediately released Battat and swung around in front of him. He straddled Battat and dropped a knee on his chest. Battat felt a sharp jab in his side and exhaled painfully. One or more of his ribs had been broken. The Harpooner brought the knife to the left side of the American’s throat. He pressed the sharp tip just below the ear.
“No,” the Harpooner hissed as he glared down at Battat. “This is going up yours.”
Battat was too weak to fight. He was aware that he was going to be cut from ear to ear and then left to drown in his own blood. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing.
Battat felt a pinch in his throat. A moment later, he heard a soft pop and blood sprayed into his eyes. He thought it would hurt more, having his throat pierced. But there was no pain after the initial pinch. He did not feel the blade moving through his skin. And he was still able to breathe.
An instant later, Battat heard a second pop. He blinked hard to clear the blood from his eyes. He watched as the Harpooner just hovered there, crouched on his chest. Blood was pumping from a wound in his throat. There was no drama in his face, no great gesture befitting the size of his crimes. Just a momentary look of confusion and surprise. Then the killer’s eyes shut, the knife fell from his hand, and the Harpooner tumbled to the floor between Battat and the phone bank.
Battat lay there. He did not know exactly what had happened until Odette appeared from behind. She was holding her silenced pistol in front of her and looking down at the Harpooner.
“Are you all right?” she asked Battat.
He reached up and felt his throat. Except for a trickle of blood on the left side, it felt intact.
“I think I’m okay,” Battat said. “Thank you.”
Battat managed to half wriggle, half crawl away as Odette bent and examined the Harpooner. The woman kept the gun pointed at the Harpooner’s head as she felt his wrist for a pulse. Then she held her fingers under his nose, feeling for breath. But she had struck him once in the throat and once in the chest. His white shirt was already thick and dripping with blood.
“I’m glad you followed him,” Battat said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his own wound.
“I didn’t,” Odette said as she rose. “I lost him. But then I thought he might come back to try to cover his tracks. And I knew which one of us he would recognize.”
Just then, a housekeeper in the lobby saw the body and screamed. Battat looked back. She was pointing at them and shouting for help.
Odette stepped around the corpse to help Battat to his feet. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said urgently. “Come on. My car isn’t far—”
“Wait,” Battat said. He bent over the Harpooner’s body and began working on the straps of the backpack. “Help me get this off. There may be evidence we can use to identify his partners.”
“You just get on your feet,” Odette said as she pulled out her knife. “I’ll do that.”
Battat pulled himself up, using the ledge under the phones while Odette cut the backpack free. Then, lending Battat her shoulder, Odette led the American down the hall.
They were nearly at the door when someone yelled at them from behind.
“Stop!” a man yelled.
Battat and Odette turned. An elderly hotel security officer was standing just beyond the phone bank. Odette let Battat lean against one of the shop windows while she pulled her badge from her back pocket. She held it toward the security officer.
“I’m Odette Kolker of Metropolitan Squad Three,” she said. “The man on the floor is a wanted terrorist. He started the fire in 310. Make sure the room is sealed off. I’m taking my partner to the hospital to see that he gets proper care. Then I’ll be back.”