louder and louder until there could be no mistake. They’d arrived, right outside the hotel. Directly under Taylor’s window. I slid through into the corridor and started toward my room, only slowing down when I reached the plastic sheet. I didn’t want to end up flat on my back.
Seven more paces and I was close enough to slide the key into the lock. It clicked. The light changed from red to green. The door swung open. I darted inside. The door eased smoothly back into its frame. I held my breath and listened. I heard nothing. I looked out through the spyhole. The door to 1012 was still closed. It stayed that way for the next two minutes.
I checked my watch. It was just 1:48 A.M. Another twenty-seven minutes until the agents were due to arrive.
Twenty-seven minutes that Tanya may not have.
THIRTY-EIGHT
The navy’s psychologists always seem fascinated by dreams.
They home right in on them, every twenty-four months, when you go for your evaluations. But it’s not just the shrinks who are interested. Over the years I’ve heard all kinds of people spend hours discussing what happened in theirs. And then speculating endlessly about what they’re supposed to mean.
One of the most common dreams, according to what I’ve been told, involves people who witness a chain of events. They can see that a bad thing is about to happen. They want to stop it. But for some reason they can’t. Something external prevents them. They could have been tied up. Or made to watch through a window. Or maybe they’re a passenger in a moving car. But whatever’s holding them back, they all reach the same conclusion. That it reveals a sense of underlying helplessness in their lives.
I’d never had that feeling myself.
But after looking out through that spyhole, I had a good idea of what it’s like.
The first of Varley’s agents stepped into the corridor at exactly 2:15. But he hadn’t sent twelve of them, as agreed. He’d sent ten. I watched them approach, all swollen and distorted by the tiny fish-eye lens. The first four filed quietly past me and backed up against the wall on the stairs’ side of Taylor’s door. They drew their weapons. Another four mirrored their positions on the elevator side. That left one pair. They were directly in front of me. The right-hand guy stepped forward. He knocked, firmly.
“Mr. Taylor?” he said. “We’re here. James Mansell sent us. You should have something for us. Can we come in?”
There was no reply. Nothing happened. I counted to fifteen. Then the agent stepped forward and knocked again.
I couldn’t hear any instructions being given, but the two agents simultaneously raised their hands. They both took a step back. They opened their jackets, took out their Glocks and laid them on the plastic sheet. Their Glocks. The FBI’s signature weapon. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought to carry something else. It was a dead giveaway. Absolute naivete. Which made me worry. If they were so lax over gun choice, how would they have handled the sentry, downstairs?
Taylor’s door eased open a crack. The agents were focused on it. So were their eight buddies. That’s where they expected the threat to come from. But they were wrong. Instead, the doors to 1010 and 1014 flew open. A man burst out through each one. They were wearing Tungsten uniforms. And they had silenced. 38s in both hands.
The Tungsten guys didn’t waste any time. They started shooting straightaway. With their silencers in place it sounded like someone swatting flies with a loosely rolled magazine. I couldn’t count the shots-they came too fast, one on top of the other-but the eight flanking agents went down like pins at a bowling alley. Only the central pair was still standing. They were left like statues, frozen rigid with shock. The one who’d spoken snapped out of it first. He ducked down, trying to recover his weapon. The other one followed a split second later. But they were too slow. Their fingers were still scrabbling forlornly on the shiny plastic when two more guys appeared from Taylor’s room. They kicked the guns away, grabbed the agents by their wrists, and dragged them inside.
The uniformed guys were still in the corridor, checking that none of their victims was breathing. I saw them gather up the spent shell cases as they went. They pocketed the two discarded Glocks. Then they lined the bodies up on separate plastic sheets and carefully hauled them, one at a time, into their own rooms. They took four each. After the final bodies had been removed the guys returned with something shiny in their hands. Aerosols of some kind. They started spraying randomly, swinging their arms in big lazy circles, and I realized they were using air fresheners. To cover the smell of the gunfire, I guessed, in case any other guests came past. They squirted away for thirty seconds, then one of them tipped his head back and pretended to sniff the breeze like a giant rabbit. He grimaced, and mimed that he wanted to stick his fingers down his throat. I knew how he felt. The other guy just smiled. Then they swapped a silent high five, glanced up and down the corridor one last time, and disappeared into Taylor’s room.
If the two captured agents were going to stand any kind of chance, the FBI would have to send its backup team in there, right away. Someone would have to get them moving. And let them know what they were up against. Varley would be best placed. I grabbed my phone. It would mean revealing I’d broken our agreement, but that couldn’t be helped now. His number rang, but he didn’t answer. I tried Lavine. Same result. Then Weston. His was still ringing when the door to 1012 swung open.
Taylor and one of the Tungsten guys came out. I hung up and watched them go into 1010. They stayed inside for less than a minute, then hurried over to 1014. The uniformed guy stayed outside the door. Taylor was out of sight for thirty seconds. He reemerged, phone in hand, scowling. He shook his head, and led the way back to his own room.
I redialed Weston’s number. He was engaged. I tried Varley again. I let it ring for longer this time, hoping the noise would be annoying enough to make him answer. But it didn’t work. And I didn’t get the chance to try Lavine because of more activity across the corridor. I saw Taylor’s door twitch. Twice. Then, slowly, it opened. One of the agents appeared. He moved forward, taking tiny hesitant steps. His arms were tied behind his back. One of the Tungsten guys was holding him by the collar. And a pistol was jammed against his temple.
Taylor followed, backed by two more Tungsten guys. All five of them were staring at my door. Taylor hit a button on his phone. He lifted it to his ear. I wondered who he was calling. Seven seconds later I found out. It was me.
“I know you can see me,” he said. “Come out of the room. Now.”
I hung up.
He called back.
“I know you’re in there,” he said. “I just spoke to my guy in the lobby. He saw you check in. I’m a little surprised you didn’t come knocking before, with your buddies. I didn’t have you down as a coward.”
I didn’t reply.
“So come out of the room, or this guy dies,” he said.
I didn’t reply.
“What?” he said. “You don’t believe me?”
“No,” I said. “I believe you. I just don’t care.”
“You don’t care. You’re just going to stand there and watch me shoot him?”
“That’s a tempting offer. I do like a good shooting. But I’ve seen eight today, already. So maybe I’ll just lie down, watch a little TV.”
“I will pull the trigger.”
“No you won’t. You’ll get one of your lackeys to do it. But either way, go ahead. Fill your boots.”
Taylor was silent for a moment.
“Got anything else for me?” I said. “Or shall I put the kettle on?”
“If you won’t come out, we’ll come in,” he said, nodding at my door.
The guys either side of him raised their pistols.
“Five seconds,” he said.
“Then what?” I said. “Those are only. 38s. Low muzzle velocity. The silencers will soak up another 10
