muttered, and seconds later Richter clearly heard the sound of the elevator doors sliding open. ‘Third floor,’ Ross said. ‘I’ll start with 301.’
The hotel booking computer system had shown the three American guests as occupying one single room on the third floor, number 301, and on the other side of the corridor two adjoining rooms with connecting doors, numbers 306 and 308.
‘Roger.’ Richter glanced around the lobby. ‘Clear at this end.’
The hotel doors had key-locks, rather than the more modern, and more difficult to crack, electronic card- locks. Ross knocked firmly on the door of 301, calling out ‘Room Service’ in Greek, but received no response. He checked up and down the corridor, then knelt beside the door and studied the lock. ‘Standard three-lever, by the looks of it,’ he murmured into the headset microphone. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
He took a small leather pouch out of his jacket pocket, unzipped it and extracted two thin stainless-steel tools. He slipped one into the lock and exerted slight turning pressure on the barrel with his left hand, then slid the other, L-shaped tool inside and began probing for the tumblers. After a few moments there were three faint but distinct clicks, and suddenly the lock began to turn.
Ross opened the door a crack, again checked the corridor in both directions, then slipped into the room. ‘I’m in,’ he announced. In the lobby below, Richter heaved a sigh of relief. ‘It looks like the occupant is still booked into the hotel,’ Ross continued. ‘The room’s tidy and the bed’s been made up, but there are clothes folded over the back of the chair and’ – Richter faintly heard the sound of a door opening – ‘in the wardrobe as well. Also, there’s an empty overnight case on the suitcase stand.’
‘Any idea whose room it is?’ Richter asked.
‘There’s nothing on the overnight case,’ Ross replied. ‘No labels apart from the airline baggage reclaim chits. Oh, hang on. There’s a book here on the bedside table. Yes. This room appears to be occupied by David Elias. He’s obviously paranoid about people nicking his paperbacks, so he’s stuck a label on the inside front cover: David H. Elias, with an address in Virginia. Likely a Company man, eh?’
‘Almost certainly,’ Richter said, ‘but my guess is Mr Elias is no longer with us. He’s probably the diver they brought over to plant the explosives, and what’s left of him is now helping the Cretan police force with its inquiries.’
‘Makes sense,’ Ross said. ‘The two professionals would logically be the ones to take the adjoining rooms.’
‘This third man,’ Richter observed, ‘was probably never considered a full member of the team. He was just some poor sod who got sucked into this mission because he happened to be a qualified diver.’
‘Bit of a cliche, the third man, especially bearing in mind who we both work for,’ Ross replied. ‘Right, that means I’m probably wasting my time hunting for your case in here. I’ll now try number 306.’
‘Just be careful.’ Richter resumed his scrutiny of the lobby.
Decision now made, Stein had spent ten minutes stuffing his clothes and other personal gear into his carry- on overnight bag, and the computer, its accessories and the file into his briefcase. Then he shrugged on his lightweight jacket, picked up the SIG P226 and tucked it, the silencer still attached, into the rear waistband of his trousers.
He picked up his carry-on bag with his left hand – he wanted his right hand free in case he needed to use the SIG, which meant he was going to have to make two journeys to carry down both his overnight bag and the briefcase. He walked across to the door and listened carefully. Then he opened it, looked swiftly up and down the corridor, pulled it closed and set off towards the rear stairs leading to the car park.
Almost immediately after Stein had vanished down the back stairs, Ross shut the door of room 301 behind him. He stopped outside number 306, knocked firmly and again announced himself as Room Service. When he got no reply he pulled his lock-picking kit out of his pocket and got busy. Two minutes later he was inside.
‘More or less the same story in here,’ he reported. ‘The room’s obviously been recently occupied, though there don’t seem to be any clothes or personal effects. But there’s a briefcase still sitting on the end of the bed.’
‘That might be it,’ Richter said. ‘Better check it out.’
For a few seconds Richter heard nothing, then two faint clicks. ‘Right,’ Ross said, ‘the briefcase wasn’t locked. I’ve just opened it and lifted the lid. Inside there’s a laptop computer, a red file marked – oh, that’s interesting.’
‘What?’ Richter demanded.
‘The file is classified “Ultra”. I’ve never seen an Ultra before.’
‘Neither have I,’ Richter murmured. ‘What’s the filename?’
‘No name, just the initials “CAIP” – that’s Charlie Alpha India Papa. There’s also a mobile phone, various leads and cables, and a small vacuum flask.’
‘What, for his coffee?’
‘No.’ Ross sounded preoccupied. ‘This one’s small and light, and it’s been very heavily sealed.’
‘Shit,’ Richter said. ‘Charles, is the seal broken? Please check very carefully.’
There was a silence that seemed to stretch into minutes. ‘No,’ Ross finally replied, ‘the seal’s intact. The top’s covered first with red wax and that’s got a tight-fitting wire mesh securing it.’
‘OK, whatever you do, don’t break that seal. The chances are that flask contains the same stuff as the one the Greek diver cut open in Kandira. It killed both him and his nephew.’
‘No problem there,’ Ross muttered. ‘I’m putting it back in the case right now.’
‘Before you do, are there any letters or numbers or symbols on the flask itself?’
‘Yes,’ Ross replied, holding up the flask and peering at it carefully. ‘It’s got a plain white label with “CAIP” written on it, and below that a figure ten.’
‘CAIP again? What the hell does it mean?’
‘No idea,’ Ross replied, his full attention now concentrated on the contents of the briefcase. He didn’t hear Stein slide his key into the lock, or the faint noise as the American turned the door handle.
Richard Stein stepped into his hotel room, intent on simply picking up the remainder of his stuff and getting the hell out of Rethymno. The first thing he saw as he entered was a stranger bent over his briefcase and pawing through its contents.
When Ross heard the sound of the door behind him, he stood up and spun round to face the interruption. Stein took in the scene before him in an instant. The sight of an intruder, already ransacking his briefcase, wearing a headset obviously linking him to an accomplice somewhere outside, added up to only one thing: this man had to be a member of the clean-up squad McCready had sent to Crete to eliminate him.
Before Ross could say a word, Stein pulled out the silenced SIG automatic pistol, sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger. The single bullet hit Ross square in the chest, slicing straight through his heart. He dropped to the floor, killed instantly.
Stein stepped forward warily, with gun-hand extended, conscious that there might be another assassin in the bathroom. He checked both rooms thoroughly before bending over Ross’s body, looking for the weapon he was sure he would find there.
He discovered instead a mobile telephone, and pulled it out of the dead man’s inside jacket pocket. Ripping out the hands-free lead, he studied the display. The line was still open, so he pressed the ‘end’ button to cancel the connection, then used redial to display the last number called. He didn’t recognize it, but he didn’t expect to, but he did note that it was a Cretan mobile number. That confused him for a moment, because he’d been expecting to see an American number, but then, he rationalized, the clean-up team would probably be equipped with local mobiles.
He tossed the phone aside and ran his hands over Ross’s body. He repeated his search, then sat back, puzzled. An unarmed member of a clean-up team – that didn’t make any sense. So who was this guy? He pulled open the dead man’s jacket and examined the label sewn inside it. That only puzzled him even more.
Stein shrugged and stood up. He was probably never going to find out anyway, but it was time he was somewhere else. He slammed down the briefcase lid, snapped the catches shut, picked it up and walked out of the room. He pulled closed the door behind him and jogged lightly away down the corridor.
