“David, this feels wrong. I don’t know what they want, but they’re bad people. You had a gun to your head, back then. Now it’s different. No one would blame you if you didn’t go through with it.”
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing. It’ll come out fine.”
“Are you sure? We could make a run for it. You and me. Ditch these guys and hide out somewhere, till we figure out how to make it right with the police.”
“Sorry, Julianne. It wouldn’t work, with the police. It has to be done this way. But trust me. By lunchtime tomorrow, it’ll all be over.”
The automatic announcements in the elevator had also reverted to German, which did nothing to improve Patrick’s mood. He stood in the corner and muttered to himself for the few seconds it took us to reach the ground floor. The doors hadn’t even fully opened before he pushed past me and veered away to the right, heading for the reception desk. Julianne and the other guys moved more slowly, taking a moment to adjust to their new surroundings. Stepping into such a bright, uncluttered space was quite a change after the cramped elevator car.
A row of abstract tapestries hung below the high windows to our left. They provided the only color or texture in the place, standing out vividly against the smooth white marble walls and floors. They were also the only things in there that weren’t strictly necessary. It was a large area, but everything else in it had a practical purpose-the counter where Patrick was standing, a second bank of elevators ahead of us serving the bedrooms, glass double doors on either side leading to the bar and restaurant, and an exit to the street farther down on the right. No space had been wasted on seating areas or display cabinets or porters’ stations. The result obviously wasn’t to Julianne’s taste-I felt her shiver as she took it all in-but I liked it. It made the place seem focused and purposeful.
It also meant that covert surveillance was out of the question.
For Lesley’s people, or the FBI.
Two clerks were on duty that night. Neither had been there when I last visited, a couple of years ago, so there was no danger of them recognizing me. The one on the left was sitting down, hunched over a keyboard. It looked as if he were processing a pile of papers stacked up on the desk beside him. His hands were moving-robotically pressing the keys and sorting through the forms-but the rest of his body was absolutely still. He was completely absorbed by his work. Patrick was close enough to touch him but he had no idea that anyone was even near. You could have brushed the thin flakes of dandruff off the shoulders of his navy blue blazer and I doubt he’d have missed a beat.
The second clerk was younger and a little more animated. She was shuffling around behind the counter, gathering some documents and chatting to Patrick as they waited for us to catch up. A badge clipped to her blazer said she was Maxine, the shift manager. Her eyes did occasionally stray in our direction, but she didn’t seem unduly suspicious. She clearly wasn’t checking anyone against a wanted photograph or trying to match us to a description. More that she was just idly curious, and as we got closer she did nothing more sinister than fan out the wad of forms she’d collected, hand them to Patrick, and reach down for a pot of pens.
The registration forms were preprinted with the details George had given over the Net so all that was left for us to do was sign them. There were three spaces, clearly outlined in black. Even so, it turned out to be a major exercise for the guys from the Jeep. Maybe they had particularly difficult names, but they were still scratching away with the cheap hotel ballpoints long after Julianne and I had finished with ours.
George had booked me in as David Van Der Wahl from Ossining, New York. He had some idea that a Dutch-sounding name might misdirect the clerk if she heard my accent and was questioned later about English guests. I wasn’t so sure. I preferred my usual approach-not speaking to anyone-but I supposed his little subterfuge wouldn’t do any harm. At least he’d come up with a more imaginative name than the ones the navy usually gave me.
Maxine handed out our keys one at a time, and even though the elevators and restaurant were in plain sight, she obstinately ran through how to reach the bedrooms and where to go for breakfast with each of us in turn. She issued my key last, and by the time I’d listened to her instructions for the seventh time Patrick and the others had already started to drift away from the counter.
Our rooms were on the tenth floor. Mine was the last on the left, at the far end of the corridor. Patrick’s was next door. Julianne’s was directly opposite.
“See you bright and early,” Patrick said, working the lock on his door and disappearing inside.
“Early, anyway,” I said.
“What about lunch, tomorrow?” Julianne said when he’d gone. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, looking a little lost. “I’m worried. Will you really come back?”
“Of course,” I said, sliding my key card into its slot. “Sleep well.”
The door closed solidly behind me and for a moment I felt a slight pang of regret about leaving Julianne outside, on her own. She looked so forlorn, with her head tipped anxiously to one side and her big brown eyes stretched wide and fearful. Maybe I felt a little bad about lying to her, as well. After what I was planning for tomorrow there was no way they were going to let me out for lunch. I was never going to see her again, and part of me was wondering what other possibilities I was turning my back on. It was a long time since I’d been in a hotel with a woman, voluntarily, and not felt some official eye looking over my shoulder. Tomorrow’s plan wasn’t complex. How much sleep could I need?
But deep down, I knew I was right. If I was going down that road with anyone, it had to be Tanya. Especially now we were back in touch. And tomorrow was about more than the basic ability to stumble through a plan. It was about more than the professional pride of doing a job right. Or even the satisfaction of wiping the smile off Rosser’s smug face.
Tomorrow was about redemption.
Another man’s life would be taken. Mine would be reclaimed.
It deserved my full attention.
SIXTEEN
Mitchell Varley and his colleagues had seemed innocuous enough when I first met them in their abandoned office building. Devious, certainly, but not physically dangerous. Not like the Nazi from the police cell. You didn’t get the feeling they were going to leap across the table and tear your head off. But with guys like these, superficial impressions don’t count for much. You could say the same for lots of unpleasant species. Spiders, for example. The deadliest ones are always the most harmless looking.
Which is why I changed the plan.
I didn’t call Tanya at nine the next morning, as I’d promised.
I called her at eight.
Tanya answered on the first ring.
“David?” she said. “What’s wrong? You’re an hour early. Is there a problem?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve just brought the schedule forward a little. Are the FBI guys with you yet?”
“But are you OK?”
“Absolutely fine. Are they there?”
There was a pause before she answered.
“Yes,” she said. “All three are here.”
“Good,” I said. “Because here’s some good news for them. They won’t be needing their copter after all. They can save some gas money. We’re going to meet in the city.”
“Oh. OK. Where exactly?”
“The same building they took me to yesterday. Room 3H3. It’s on the first floor, for some reason, not the third like you’d think. End of the corridor. Last room but one, left-hand side.”
“Got that. What time?”
“Eight-twenty. But listen. Tell them I’m set up in the neighborhood with a clear view of the room. If I don’t see Rosser, Varley, and Breuer enter before that time-I walk away. If I see anyone else come in with them, or positioned in the building, I walk away.”