“The FBI?”
“Oh hell no. Their bureau chief has been looking for ways to get involved in our operations. Call the local NCIX, tell them it’s an information espionage case and they’ll fall all over themselves to help. Ask them to check out Alliotto’s. She asked the cabby to take her there. Dumb bitch will probably show up there and order dinner.”
“This the same dumb bitch that’s gotten away from you twice tonight?”
“Didn’t I ask you to put a transmitter in her purse?”
Romax nodded. “Yeah, you asked.”
“And?”
“So I did. It’s a short range unit, not good for more than a mile or so, less if she gets downtown among the high-rise buildings.”
Holdren didn’t say anything else until the car stopped. The doorman came toward them. “You want to tell me why you used that unit instead of one of the satellite trackers?”
“There wasn’t time to get a bigger transmitter in her purse. I thought it’d be better to have one she wasn’t likely to find than to just drop a satellite transmitter into her purse and hope she didn’t come across it. After all, you were supposed to keep her under surveillance until we could make the snatch.”
Holdren shrugged. “Everyone has to go to the can eventually. It’s my bad luck she chose that moment to walk out of the hotel.”
Holdren’s door opened.
“You have the receiver?” Holdren asked and slid from the car.
“In my room.”
Holdren held out his hand. Romax took an electronic key from his pocket and placed it in his partner’s palm.
Holdren stepped away from the car, ignored the doorman, and went to the revolving door. He crossed the thinly populated lobby to the elevator bank and took a waiting car to the thirty-third floor.
Romax’s room lay across the hall from his. He unlocked the door and went in. A single suitcase sat on the dresser, next to a photo of Romax and his wife, June. Holdren stopped for a moment and stared at the photo. It was an old photo, taken before they had learned that June couldn’t have children. He could tell; their marriage hadn’t been happy after that. Within six months, June had become first an addict and then deceased. Holdren shrugged mentally. Some people just couldn’t handle what life gave them.
He flipped the case open. It appeared empty. Romax always unpacked as soon as they reached a hotel. Sliding back the concealed catches opened the storage compartment. Inside were a couple of spare magazines for Romax’s Sig P229, two thousand dollars in cash, a passport and credit card in one of Romax’s aliases, a directional receiver, and the satellite locator.
Holdren took the receiver and put the suitcase back the way he had found it. He flipped the receiver on and examined its display. Nothing. She was out of range.
Never leave important matters to an underling. He should have placed the transmitter himself.
He pulled the door shut behind him and unlocked his own room. Except for a couple of shirts on hangers, Holdren’s clothes were still in his suitcase. He was always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
His equipment case sat on the dresser. There were no photos of ex-wives on Holdren’s dresser. He’d never found the time to marry and raise rug-rats. His country always came first, and someone had to protect it from those who were always chipping away at its foundations.
Holdren lifted the small gold chain with the inch long cross from under his shirt and slipped it over his head. He inserted the base of the cross into the hole in the front of his case and then dialed in the combination.
Anyone attempting to open his equipment bag without both the cross and the proper combination would be making an unplanned trip to the morgue.
He popped the catches and opened the lid.
Like Romax, he carried cash, a spare passport, and spare credit cards, all in a fictitious name, among the other items he considered essential for any field operation.
The night vision goggles were the latest thing and looked more like a pair of fashionable Ray-Bans than the older low light scopes. He took them out, checked the charge, and then slipped them into a jacket pocket.
His answering machine’s message light blinked. He wondered what Cronski wanted now. He probably just wanted to keep up with the operation. Cronski always tried to micro-manage Holdren’s work, but then again, maybe the crew assigned to Corning had found something.
Flipping open the case, he woke up the main processor, placed his thumb on the pad to verify his identity, and then ordered a replay of messages.
The flat screen came online, and he saw Cronski’s image appear. His face bore the telltales of daily stress. That wasn’t good for a man his age. Deep lines shadowed Cronski’s face all the way to his hairline. At least the man maintained a healthy crop of hair. Holdren wondered if he’d had implants or one of the new drug therapies.
Cronski’s voice sounded thin and soft.
“Volume up.”
“Bitter and Reed screwed up the Los Alamos assignment. They killed Corning without questioning him. We’ve learned that he had the prototype in his possession for a couple of days before his untimely demise. Unfortunately, he either passed it on to a buyer or stashed it somewhere. We need his partner alive until we recover it. That’s an order. No matter what, you must make sure she stays alive until then.
“You should have had time to search her things by now. Why haven’t you reported in? I won’t stand for your normal methods on this job. You report in with developments, or I’ll send someone to relieve you. Do I make myself clear?”
Holdren frowned sadly.
Cronski just didn’t understand the complexity of fieldwork. These days there were too many
