vegetables and set his crate down next to the rest of them and headed back out, but instead of turning right, toward the exit, he turned left and headed out of the kitchen, into the ground floor of the hotel.
The corridors were small and cramped, but Marcus slipped past people coming and going, none of whom gave him a second glance. He knew the first rule of infiltration—
look as if you belong, and even more importantly, as if you know exactly where you’re going. He navigated the warren of passageways until he found the way to the front lobby.
He was looking for the manager’s office, who would certainly have a computer attached to their central network. The Saratoga most likely had a business center, but he didn’t want to attract attention by using it and risk drawing unnecessary attention from security.
Although he might have been able to pass himself off as a Spanish tourist, he had Cuban papers, so that story wouldn’t hold up to determined scrutiny. With the high level of tourist apartheid, he couldn’t afford to draw any attention to himself. As strange as it seemed, he decided this was the less risky plan—he just had to wait for the right opportunity.
The manager’s office was near the long front desk on the far side of the bright black-and-white-tiled lobby. The area bustled with people coming, going or just relaxing. Marcus slipped across the room until he found a small table behind a tall potted fern where he could watch the manager’s door.
He had just settled when a dozen Japanese tourists walked through the door and mobbed the front desk. The desk staff began processing their reservations and summoned transla-tion help. Pretending to be engrossed in a tourist magazine, Marcus waited until the manager came out to assist with the line of guests.
Marcus palmed his phone and extended a small metal strip from the bottom. The Saratoga may have recreated old-world charm for its decor, but the security was pure twenty-first century, with key cards needed to access the doors. His phone contained a program that would bypass the security of most card or combination door locks. He stepped around the tall column that formed one corner of the desk, and walked confidently to the manager’s office. Shrouded in shadow, the door was hidden from direct sight of the guests and the staff who assisted them. He slipped the metal prong into the door slot and activated the program. There was a soft click, and Marcus opened the door and slipped inside.
Compared to the opulence of the lobby, the office was spartan, with a plain metal desk, wheeled office chair, metal file cabinet and Marcus’s goal—a fairly new computer next to a laser printer. Marcus circled the desk and set his phone next to the computer, bringing up another program to connect to the hotel’s network. He accessed the computer and began searching for the words “
“Valdes” in any databases, e-mails or any of the various files across the country. He figured there had to be a listing of officers’ addresses somewhere. The data-miner program would find and download any files with those names. He waited for several tense minutes.
The phone flashed softly twice, signaling it was finished.
Marcus slipped it into his pocket and stood—just as the office door opened.
Framed in the doorway was the manager of the hotel, his mouth dropping open in shock. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”
“It’s about time you got here. I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.” Marcus came around the desk and held out his hand. “Jose Prado, with the Ministry of Tourism.”
The words had the desired effect, as the manager took his hand and shook it gingerly. “What is this all about?”
“We’ve had complaints about a group of high-class prostitutes harassing the tourists here. They don’t look like the usual working women, which is why they’ve been getting away with it.” It wasn’t the best cover story, but Marcus needed to draw attention away from what he had been doing at the computer, and he figured the notion of working girls around his hotel would put the manager on the defensive immediately.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it. Our security would have notified me immediately,” the manager said.
Marcus shook his head. “Normally, that is true. However, we suspect that one or more of your employees are also involved.”
The manager’s face darkened and Marcus got the sinking feeling he’d pushed his luck too far. “What? I’ll get to the bottom of this right now. Let’s just get my head of security in here and see what he has to say about this.” Reaching for the phone, the manager glanced at Marcus again, suspicion warring with helpfulness. “Let me see some identification.”
Apparently, suspicion had won. Big mistake, Marcus thought, but said, “Of course,” as he reached for his nonex-istent credentials.
As the manager picked up the phone, Marcus grabbed his wrist and twisted it, making him drop the receiver.
“What are you doing?”
Marcus released his wrist and brought his other hand, now clenched into a fist, around and buried it into the man’s stomach, turning his shout for help into a strangled wheeze.
As the man doubled over, Marcus stepped back and rabbit-punched him, sending him down to the floor.
“Well, that was inconspicuous,” he muttered, heading for the door. Opening it, he was confronted by a white- shirted desk clerk. “What’s going on in here?” the clerk asked.
Marcus stepped aside to let the youth see the prone manager. “I was waiting for him, and he came inside and collapsed. You’d better get some help.”
The clerk’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Stay here.” He went for a phone on the front desk, and as soon as he did, Marcus was out the door and trotting down the corridor toward the kitchen. He heard a shout from behind him, but kept going. Only when he heard footsteps pounding behind him did he break into a run. He was almost to the kitchen when the double doors opened, and three assistant chefs came out, chattering among themselves.
Marcus heard “Stop that man!” behind him, and reached out to grab the nearest to the kitchen by his white smock.
He yanked him around and threw him down the hall while the other two watched in shock. Kicking the door open, he looked over his shoulder to see the assistant careen into two men who could only be security. They managed to dodge him and kept coming, yelling at him to stop.
Marcus scooted through the doors and glanced around for a distraction. He spotted a large, pot of boiling soup stock.
Grabbing one handle, he gritted his teeth as the hot metal seared his hand, but tipped the container over just as the guards hit the door, sending a wave of boiling liquid cas-cading their way. He shoved the pot off the stove, as well, and turned, heading for the back doors.
The only problem was that instead of scattering for cover like normal people, three portly chefs stood in his way. The first one brandished a knife, the second held a large marble pestle and the third one wielded a hardwood pepper shaker easily two feet long and thick enough that it could probably crush a man’s skull with one blow.
Marcus leaped up onto the metal table, running down its length and scattering prepared meals and ingredients in his wake. Shouting furiously, the chefs tried to pursue, but he had a couple steps on them, and jumped down just as the first one came at him with the knife. Marcus shoved a large cutting board full of sliced peppers off the table at him. The vegetables flew under the man’s feet, making him slip on the tile floor and blocking the other two, as well.
Running for the exit, Marcus almost collided with a guy bringing in another box of produce. Once outside, he darted between the truck and the hotel, sprinting across the small lot as fast as he could, leaving the shouts of the furious security guards and chefs behind.
Almost all of them. Marcus spared a look back to see two of the guards still chasing after him, shouting at him to stop.
He ran as fast as he could down Dragones Street, hoping to lose his pursuers in the neighborhoods a few blocks away.
The shouting alerted a pair of police officers halfway up a cross street. One joined the chase immediately while the other ran to his white Peugeot at the far end of the block.
This just keeps getting worse, Marcus thought. Reaching an intersection, he turned right, looking for smaller side streets where he could lose his pursuers in the urban maze. If the police car caught up with him, however, he was done.
