She felt someone watching her. Turning, she saw Larkin in the doorway of the observation room.
'Anything from the other undercover ops?'
'Nothing so far.'
She glanced at her wristwatch. It was one A.M. 'We’ve missed him.'
'He could be getting a late start. Or maybe he’s not out there tonight.'
Tess didn’t answer. But she knew Larkin was wrong.
Mobius was out there.
He was always out there.
12
The agent’s name was Dante, he was a young hotshot from the Portland office, and he was excited.
'Got it,' Dante told Tennant as he slammed down the phone. 'Driver for America’s Best Cab remembers picking up Pierce at LAX. He delivered her to the Century Plaza Hotel.'
'When did she get there?' Tennant snapped.
'Twelve-fifteen.'
The clock on the wall read 1:05. She’d had fifty minutes to meet her contact. Too much time.
'Let’s move,' Tennant said, hoping for the best.
The two unmarked bureau cars were parked in a passenger loading zone outside the terminal. Tennant and J amp;B took the first car, accompanied by Dante and another Portland man named Wilkins. The others followed in the second sedan.
Jarvis drove, Tennant riding shotgun.
'I’m betting she’s still there,' Dante said from the backseat. 'Probably checked in for the night, stupid bitch.'
'If she’s so stupid,' Bickerstaff pointed out, 'how come she gave us the slip?'
Tennant cut off this conversation before it could become even more of a waste of time than it already was. 'We go into the lobby and fan out, then proceed to the coffee shop, the pool area, and any other public spaces. Remember, she may still be waiting to meet someone, in which case, wherever she is, she’ll be watching the door. We know she’s already made some of us, so when she sees us coming, there’s a good chance she’ll run for it.'
'Any dark-haired lady breaks into a sprint, we’ll tackle her,' Dante said, trying to be funny.
'I don’t care if it’s a dark-haired lady or a blonde or a little kid with a lollipop. Anybody does anything suspicious, we hold them for questioning. If we’re lucky, we’ll get her and her contact.'
'And the suitcase,' Jarvis said under his breath, his voice low enough that only Tennant could hear.
Tennant nodded. Amanda Pierce wasn’t important. Even her contact would be a lower-echelon operative. The suitcase was what really mattered.
'Let’s say she starts shooting,' Bickerstaff said as the car sped north on Sepulveda Boulevard.
'She used a knife on Kidder.' This was Wilkins. He reminded Tennant of what used to be called a preppie, complete with an Ivy League law degree. 'There’s no reason to think she’s packing a firearm.'
'No reason to think she isn’t, either,' Tennant said. 'Maybe she just didn’t want to fire off a gun in the rest room and alert the rest of us. Anyway, if her contact is with her, he’ll be armed for sure.'
'This turns into a shooting match, it’ll get ugly.' Dante, stating the obvious.
Tennant didn’t hesitate. 'If she or her partner draws a weapon, return fire-and go for a kill shot.'
'Then we lose the chance to interrogate.' Wilkins the boy lawyer.
'There are worse things to lose.' Tennant hesitated, then added, 'Don’t wait to see a gun. If she even opens her suitcase, light her up.'
Jarvis glanced at him and nodded. They both knew what was in the suitcase, even if Wilkins and Dante did not.
Her contact still hadn’t arrived, and Amanda Pierce was getting scared.
True, she’d been waiting only about an hour. But she shouldn’t have had to wait at all. She was the one who’d been delayed. Her contact should have been the one waiting for her.
Unless he’d left already. In which case, she was seriously fucked.
She looked around at the hotel lobby, the high chandeliers, the arched windows framing tropical plants. Nice place to hang out, but not for her, not now.
She pressed one leg against the suitcase that rested by her own stool, holding it protectively. She had to stay upbeat. The feds hadn’t been lying in ambush for her at the hotel, so evidently they didn’t know where the rendezvous was scheduled to take place. Even if her contact never showed, she might still have a chance to arrange another meeting-if she could elude capture long enough.
In the meantime there was another problem, ridiculously trivial, yet one that threatened everything.
She had no money.
Nearly all of her cash had been used on taxi fare and as payment for the overpriced ginger ale she had ordered at the bar. She could not check in, because doing so would require using her credit card. The card was part of an identity kit she had put together over the past two months, under the name of Lucy Mallone. She had used the card to check into the motel last night-but with her cover blown, she couldn’t rely on the card any longer. If she used it again, her whereabouts would be instantly traced.
Nor could she use her legitimate credit cards or her ATM card. Same problem. Charging a purchase to a card registered to Amanda Pierce would be like firing a signal flare to guide the feds straight to her.
Her wallet contained less than one hundred dollars in hard currency. Anyway, she couldn’t pay cash for a rental car, and that was what she needed-transportation.
Amanda, God damn it, you are up a frigging creek…
Wait.
A man had entered the lobby, tall, casually attired. His age was difficult to judge. Forty or a little older.
As he approached the bar, she studied him. He wore a sport jacket-useful for concealing a weapon-but no necktie, which could be used by an opponent to gain a stranglehold in a fight. His eyes were masked by dark glasses, another good sign.
Her contact might have made an appearance, after all.
There was no way to know, not yet. She had never seen him. He might be anyone, of any description.
The man reached the bar area and stopped, looking slowly around. She gave him a momentary glance before averting her eyes. If he was her contact, even this brief signal should be enough.
Movement. On the periphery of her vision he rounded the bar and slipped onto the stool beside her.
He must be the one.
The bartender appeared. The man ordered a gin and tonic. When the bartender turned away, Pierce tensed, knowing that now was the moment for him to initiate the conversation.
'Beautiful hotel, isn’t it?' he said.
She looked at him. Behind the shaded lenses, his eyes were as blank as a baby’s.
'Yes,' she answered, hearing her own voice from a great distance. 'Very beautiful.'
'My name’s Donald Stevenson. From Aurora, Illinois. In town on business.'
'Lucy Mallone.'
'From?'
'Seattle.'
'Great city, Seattle. Rains a lot, but I wouldn’t mind that. I like the rain.'
'Me, too,' she said absently, trying to decide what to do.
He was not her contact, obviously. He was just some asshole looking for a little action.
The bartender delivered the drink. 'Put it on my room tab,' Donald Stevenson said, opening his wallet to take out his electronic room key.
Pierce glanced inside the wallet and saw credit cards and a thick sheaf of bills.
Suddenly she was glad Donald Stevenson had chosen to sit beside her. She’d been wrong to think of him as useless. Quite the contrary.
