The hunter had asked, since he would be bringing in craftsmen for the project, how many rooms were available for transient guests. The manager said that floors four and above were for temporary guests. A look at the keyboard on the wall behind the counter told the hunter that twenty-two keys were missing from the pegs that corresponded to the rooms on floors four through eight. He thanked the manager, promising to get in touch as things progressed on his project.
He returned to his van and rested for the next hour. He watched as a cab pulled up in front of the hotel and a well-tattooed young driver went inside for a minute, then came back out. Instead of getting back into the taxi, the driver stood by the cab and looked up and down the street. Suddenly he trotted off down the street. The hunter used the mirror to track the kid after he passed the van and crossed the street. It looked like the punk was lurking outside a convenience store a block up the street. The hunter saw a blond girl, one in a group of nine kids who had left the hotel earlier, stride out from the store and watched as the young driver ran to keep up with her.
The girl seemed upset, pissed off, had her arms locked across her chest, her head tilted down. The young driver hurried along after her, gesturing with his illustrated arms. She crossed the street and walked toward the hotel. As the pair drew closer to the van, their faces filled the side-view mirror and the hunter's heart skipped a beat. There was not a doubt in his mind-the girl was his target, Sean Devlin. Using his binoculars, he read her lips.
Hawk made a call to his partner.
“I have her,” he said simply. “Take up a stationary position across the street from the hotel and keep your eyes open.”
He leaned back and yawned. He couldn't risk grabbing her off the street in broad daylight. He didn't know which room she was staying in. But it didn't matter, because he knew that at eight o'clock she'd be walking back out that door and he'd be waiting with open arms.
74
Winter had no way to keep track of time but, for what seemed like several hours, he had been the captive of a drugged state unlike anything he had ever experienced. While he was shrouded completely in a blanket of catatonia-unable to move a single muscle or open his eyes-his heart was beating and he had no trouble breathing. He was completely aware of everything going on around him-could hear everything perfectly. He could smell, even feel changes in the air temperature. The men who had kidnapped him didn't speak to him or talk at all from the time the driver had given him the shot until the jet landed sometime later. Winter spent the entire flight thinking about his situation and decided that, if he faked the state after it had worn off, maybe he could somehow escape.
He knew that at some point his mother would call Hank looking for him. When Winter failed to show up at the time he had told her he would, she would begin to worry. The trouble was, he couldn't count the times he had told his mother that he would be back at a certain time, and later, when he became involved in something and forgot the time, was made a liar. Lydia knew that he didn't like to wake her unless it was necessary. He worried that she might decide this was one of those times and wait to call too late. Hell, it was already too late the second he got into the Chrysler.
During the time he was under, he had squirreled away his impressions. After the plane landed, he had been carried from the Lear and laid on a gurney, which had been put into an ambulance. He knew it was an ambulance because the man with the syringe had lifted his right eyelid to check his pupil. As they went, Winter heard cars and trucks on either side of them and other sounds indicating they were in a large city.
When the ambulance finally stopped, his escorts rolled the gurney into a building and straight into an elevator. After a short ride up, the elevator door opened and Winter had smelled coffee and heard a television set. The men rolled him a short distance down a hallway, turned into a room, lifted him from the gurney, and dropped him onto a bed, causing the springs to squeak. All he could do was lie there and wait for what would happen next.
Winter kept time by listening to the television.
He heard people walking outside his door, caught hushed conversations that he knew were not voices on the television.
Somebody came into the room.
He felt someone give him another shot.
“Don't worry,” a voice said. “That was just to counteract the effects of the drug. It impedes the ability to move but allows the heart to keep beating.” The voice was peculiar and totally unfamiliar. Within seconds Winter could move his fingers and his feet.
“Let me stress that you are not to try anything stupid,” the voice instructed. “You are inside a fortress with no way out, unless I release you. There are armed men on the floors below us and above us. I know you are familiar with the nature of the men I refer to. The elevator is the only way out and it is controlled by my people. There is no reason for you to try to escape, because no harm will come to you unless you do something idiotic.”
What the man said had the ring of truth.
Winter felt the muscles in his face coming back under his control, and he lifted his eyelids. Slowly, he turned his head to see the man who sat on the bed next to his. What he saw startled him. Deep burn scars covered the left side of the man's face and neck like they'd been applied by someone with a blowtorch and a plan. The crimson wig on his head could have been modeled by a child out of straw. He was dressed in what appeared to Winter to be a velour sweat suit.
The disfigured man stared at Winter through eyes so pale they looked as though they had never been fully colored in.
Using a gloved hand, the man carefully put a cigarette between his lips and lit it with a Zippo. He exhaled languorously. “You will be able to stand up in a minute and will suffer no adverse effects,” he said companionably.
“I understand,” Winter said.
“My name is Fifteen. I know everything about you. I know about your long-suffering mother, Lydia, your dead wife, your blind son, Hank Trammel, and just about everybody left on this earth you care for.”
Winter had known truly lethal men. He knew their smell, the acid they stirred up in his stomach, and the foul taste of copper they put in his mouth. And he knew instinctively that this man was a creature of the pit. He was a man who told people to kill, liked doing it, might sometimes do it himself. Maybe this creature was an interrogator.
“This building belongs to a man named Herman Hoffman. I believe you would know him as the old general that the boy George Williams mentioned to you.”
“Is he your boss?”
“No.”
“Are you CIA?”
“No, not specifically. That shouldn't concern you. Let me say that we service specific needs they and other agencies have, and the relationship is mutually beneficial.
“I have examined your conversation with Fletcher Reed about Ward Field and the cutouts. I have acquired Reed's evidence. He mailed a copy to your director and had a duplicate cleverly hidden in his office. All record of his computer incursion has been obliterated. Reed's misguided efforts went for nothing.”
“What did you do to him?” Winter asked, resigned to the inevitable now.
“He thought some of my men wished him harm and he hit a tree in his panicked attempt to evade them, shortly after you last spoke to him.”
Fifteen ground his cigarette out in a metal box and snapped it shut. “All that remains is for the Bureau to release the preliminary findings from their investigation. You are familiar with some of it, I understand. The evidence in the hands of the FBI is fact-incontrovertible proof. Believe me, not even Greg Nations himself could prove his innocence now.”