departments, and (4) the university that did employ a Dr. Roth (whose name was Harold, not Henry) insisted he had been on campus that very day.
The major’s Dr. Roth was a guise, then.
So, who was the American who had done the shooting and, if not one of the scientists, why was he here?
The suggestion that Dr. Rossi’s complicity in allowing the American, posing as a reporter, to vanish would prevent him from ever obtaining another permit to dig in Egypt had elicited only scraps of information, the most useful of which was that he, the American, had arrived today.
Assuming this elusive American had used the same name, all the police had to do was check the registrations reported by the city’s hotels.
This American might or might not have committed a crime, but he certainly had information Saleem wanted, information he would get once the American was found.
Le Metropole Hotel
At the same time
Lang entered the hotel and headed straight for the elevators. He had almost crossed the lobby when he noted the desk clerk frantically signaling to him. Lang detoured.
The clerk gave Lang an obsequiously oily smile. “Wonderful news, Dr. Roth! I have personally had some things… how do you Americans say? Moved around? Yes, moved around. I had things moved around and your room will be available the rest of the week.”
Lang had forgotten his earlier request. “I’ve had a change of plans. How quickly can you get my bill ready? It shouldn’t take long, as the room was prepaid.”
The smile vanished as if by magic, to be replaced by a petulant frown. “Dr. Roth, I and my staff…”
Lang held up a silencing hand, digging in a pocket with the other. “I can imagine the effort involved.” He produced a money clip and peeled off fifty American dollars. “Have my bill ready to pay by the time I get back here from my room and it’s still yours.”
How hard could that be? He’d only had a single beer from the minibar.
The return of the smile was like the sun peeking out from fading storm clouds. “Of course, Dr. Roth. Shall I send someone to fetch your luggage?”
“Not necessary!” Lang called over his shoulder as he dashed to beat the closing doors of an elevator.
In his room, he stuck a hand in his pocket, groping until he remembered the BlackBerry was no longer there. He cursed silently as he snatched his open bag from the closet and began to hurriedly repack the few items he had taken from it. That cop from the cemetery would be looking for Dr. Henry Roth in the near future, and Dr. Roth had sudden urgent business elsewhere.
His bag nearly packed, he glanced into the spacious bath. He would have loved a soothing shower, letting steaming hot water remove the grit of the dig as well as the patina of mud from the rising water. No time. He’d have to settle for washing his face and a quick change of clothes. No telling when the local fuzz might show up.
He splashed cold water on his face and, eyes closed, groped for a towel. He grabbed his discarded shirt and pants to cram them into his suitcase before zipping it shut. He felt something small and hard in a pocket. The thing Rossi had found in the corridor before the trouble had started.
He took it from the pocket, opened the baggie and dumped the object into his palm. Sure looked like a button, but he couldn’t be sure because of all the dirt caked on it. His curiosity battled against his desire for a speedy exit. He needed to leave now, but when would he have the chance to find out what he was really holding?
He stepped back into the bath, turned on the sink’s spigot and held the object under it. Using a thumbnail to help scrape away the grime, he soon saw metal tarnished the color of mint. No doubt it was a button, a brass button. On the front was the number twelve, surrounded by branches of… what? Olive? Laurel?
He was not sure he could have told the difference between the two if he had held real leaves in his hand, but the design was one he had seen before.
He turned it over, holding it up to the light to make out the letters. “Fonson amp; Co.” arched across the top. Under the loop by which the button would be attached, “Brux.”
But where?
No time now.
Returning the button to its bag and both to his pocket, he zipped the single suitcase shut. Then he picked up the room’s phone, entering the number for the front desk.
“Yes, Dr. Roth?”
“I’d like for you to make a call for me.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Lang took the limo driver’s card from his wallet, reading the number. “And would you tell him I need him in about five minutes?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Downstairs, Lang retrieved his passport-or rather, that of Dr. Roth-and handed the clerk the credit card that had come with the passport. The clerk turned to put the plastic in one of those machines that stamps a receipt while he punched numbers into a telephone, presumably to verify the card. The procedure was one Lang had not seen in the U.S. for years.
The desk clerk turned to face Lang, puzzled. “Visa says the card has been cancelled.”
Cards issued by the Agency were never cancelled, at least not until the mission for which they were issued was complete. “I’d guess either you or the company made an error.”
The clerk gave him a suspicious look. “Do you wish me to try again?”
“Yeah, sure.” Lang looked at his watch. It had been over an hour since he had escaped from the cemetery. The cops would be looking for him by now. How much could the damn beer cost? “No, never mind.” He pulled a wad of bills from his wallet, counting out the Egyptian pounds.
The clerk gave him a look that said his suspicions had been confirmed, took the money and stamped Lang’s copy of the bill. “Will there be anything else?” he asked in a tone that contrasted with his previous ingratiating manner.
A man who had just had his credit card cancelled was a man unlikely to be a generous tipper.
“Yeah,” Lang nodded. “I asked you to call the limo for me.”
The desk clerk gave a sigh, at his patience’s end in dealing with this pretender. “The number has been disconnected.”
Lang felt a hollowness in his stomach as though all nourishment had been sucked from his body. Some sort of electronic glitch could have fouled up the card, but the limo driver’s phone? Lang was not a believer in coincidences, and the cancellation of the card and disconnection of the phone had the earmarks of an operation being rolled up.
But this one was in midstride.
It wouldn’t be the first time the Agency had cancelled an affair early. Many operations could be kept secret just so long before an overzealous member of some oversight committee leaked them to the Agency-hating press or the purpose of the business became averse to a sea change in policy. As the light of publicity hit the media, operatives scattered like cockroaches, seeking the safety of anonymity. Some didn’t make it. Jobs were lost, careers destroyed, all in the name of political expediency.
This was not a problem for Lang. He no longer depended on foreign policy that shifted with each election. He did, however, need to know if Miles was covertly covering his backside as originally indicated. More important, were his people still keeping watch over Gurt and Manfred?
Damn! If he had his BlackBerry, he could call Miles. He glanced at the row of house phones across the lobby.
He was pondering the possibility when two cars pulled out of traffic and stopped in front of the hotel. All but one of the men getting out wore uniforms.
Time to exit stage left.
As the police entered the lobby, Lang had already reached the adjacent dining room, where a few guests were having an early dinner. Ignoring the maitre d’s question as to his preference of tables and offer to keep watch
