He began walking down the block. The Voice had identified the building where Tarid was staying as a small, private hotel. It had been unable to get more information about it, however — an indication to Nuri that it catered exclusively to Iranians. It was possible it was connected to the government in some way, or the Iranian secret service, if Tarid was employed by it.
They stopped at the corner, still a half block from the hotel There was a small painted sign in Farsi.
“What do you think?” asked Flash. “We going to check in?”
“I’m not sure.”
Checking into a hotel controlled by the intelligence services would be needlessly dangerous under the circumstances. Nuri decided to take a look at the place and see how difficult it would be to wait for Tarid outside. Bumping into him in the street in the morning might be the easiest way to accomplish their mission.
On the other hand, the Voice said that Tarid was in the lobby. Perhaps he could go in and ask for directions — tag him as he stood nearby. Then he’d be able to get some real sleep.
“Wait here,” Nuri told Flash. “I’m going to check the place out.”
“What do I do with the bags?”
“Sit on them.”
“Thanks.”
The hotel was a narrow four-story building squeezed between two apartment houses. The entrance to the lobby was up a flight of steps from the street, situated just high enough to make it impossible to see inside without going up the steps, though Nuri tried as he walked by. He continued down the end of the block, crossed, and passed again on the other side. There were two restaurants and a café almost directly across from the place; it was likely Tarid would go there in the morning. Even if he didn’t, it would be easy to wait for him there.
“Locate the subject in the building,” said Nuri. “What floor is he on?”
“His elevation indicates floor three.”
“He’s not in the lobby?”
“Elevation indicates floor three.”
“Front or back?”
“Back.”
“When was the last time he moved?”
“Subject is moving.”
“Still in that apartment?”
“Within the previous parameters.”
The Voice couldn’t tell whether he was in a specific room; all it could do was compare how far he had gone to where he had gone earlier.
Nuri turned around at the corner, looking back down the street. He’d plant some video bugs to make surveillance easier, then come back in the morning.
But what he really wanted to do was plant one on Tarid.
Maybe he should wait until Tarid fell asleep, Nuri thought, then break into his hotel room.
A car sped down the street, passing so close that the wind nearly knocked him over. A loud, Western-style beat pounded from its speakers, the bass vibrating throughout the narrow street. He watched it for a moment, then crossed over, deciding he would go into the lobby and plant a bug.
Though the lights were on in the lobby, the hotel owner had locked the front door for the night. Nuri banged the door against the dead-bolt lock, not realizing it was closed.
Disappointed, he turned and looked for a spot where he could slip the bug.
He had just set one of the larger bugs beneath the rail when the door opened behind him, catching him by surprise.
“What do you want?” asked the hotel owner. His earlier good humor, when he first welcomed Tarid, had drained away.
“Oh, I — a wrong address,” said Nuri.
“You are looking for a room?”
“No, no, it’s OK,” he said.
Nuri’s accent made it plain that he was a foreigner. The hotel owner’s bad mood — provoked by Tarid’s attention toward his daughter — were moderated by the prospect of unexpected business.
“I can find you a very suitable room,” he told Nuri. “At a reasonable rate. Come.”
Nuri hesitated, then decided he might just as well go inside.
“Where is your bag?” asked the owner.
“I don’t have one. The airline—” He shook his head.
“Did you give them this address to deliver it?” the hotelier asked.
“No. I’m supposed to go out and pick it up,” said Nuri.
“Probably better for you. Sometimes they get lost on the way.” The hotel owner shook his head. “You have had a terrible time. I’m very sorry for you. Perhaps a bath will cheer you up. How did you find us?”
“I was looking for a hotel a friend told me of,” said Nuri. “I don’t know that it was yours, though. It was in this block — the Blossom?”
“I’ve never heard of it. Who was your friend?”
“Riccardo Melfi, of Milano,” said Nuri, offering the first name that flew into his head. It belonged to a friend of his whom he hadn’t seen since grade school.
The hotel owner, naturally, didn’t recognize it. But he said that he’d had an Italian recently, just to be polite.
“This may be the place he mentioned, then,” said Nuri. “He said it was a very nice place. With a professional staff.”
“Of course. And good rates. I do need to see your passport.”
“Certainly.”
Nuri handed it over to be copied.
“I’ll give it back in the morning,” said the hotel owner. “Collect it at the desk. Your room—”
“Would it be possible to make the copy this evening?” asked Nuri. “This way I won’t forget in the morning. And I can go out early.”
“You’re going out early?”
“I have business at the oil ministry very early. I was told to meet the minister immediately after morning prayers. If I am late, it is possible that I would not see him. Then I will lose my job.”
Ordinarily the owner would have made some excuse about the machine not working and put the guest off, but the casual mention of the minister had impressed him. He took the passport and went into the back room, where his daughter was still cleaning the bowls he had put her to work on hours before. He berated her, telling her it was well past time for her to finish and get to bed — and reminding her that she was not to go near any of the guests.
“Any guest,” he repeated.
“Yes, Papa.”
Out in the lobby, Nuri slipped a bug under the ledge of the desk, then tried to look at the ledger for the number to Tarid’s room. But the owner hadn’t bothered to record it.
“Your passport,” said the owner, returning. “And here is the key. There are only four rooms on each hall. Should I show you?”
“I can find it.”
Nuri walked to the end of the lobby and started up the stairs.
“The elevator is right there,” said the owner.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” said Nuri. He stepped over and pressed the button, getting in as soon as the doors were open.
He got off at the fourth floor, guessing that the hotel owner might be watching. His room faced the street. It was small, barely big enough to hold a bed, lamp, and table. A picture of Imam Khomeini looked down on him from above the bed.
Nuri examined the lock on the door. It was a simple latch, easily opened with a plastic card. Instead of a chain, there was a bar about neck high above the doorknob. This could be defeated by holding the door only partly ajar and pushing it in with a pen or something else long and slender. It took a little practice, since the bar had to be pushed just right, but he’d had plenty of practice.
Still worried that the hotel might be owned by the intelligence service, Nuri scanned the room for bugs, then checked for a live circuit at the door, just in case there was a device to indicate whether he was in the room. He found none.
“Locate Tarid,” he told the Voice.
“Subject’s location is unchanged.”
“When was the last time he moved?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”