“Quickly – the computer. It must be there… He had it at the airport.”
At the same time, in Corbett’s room on the third floor, his two suitcases lay open on the bed as Buttar clutched a cell phone to his ear, speaking as he rummaged through the contents. “I am looking… but there is nothing here.”
“There must be. Look again. Find the computer and we find Tariq. Look harder…” Jarral nervously glanced back down the drive just as Corbett made his way around the corner of the building. Seeing him, Jarral froze then spoke rapidly into his phone. “Wait… he’s coming. Just plant the bug and get out.”
Setting the cell phone on the nightstand, Buttar immediately began repacking the two cases. Closing and relocking each, he was returning them exactly the way he had found them when he spotted the room safe. Hesitating, he dropped to one knee and attempted to force the lock. Jarral’s voice crackled over the phone again.
“He’s in the hotel.” Jarral’s words filled Buttar with a sudden urgency.
Leaving the safe, Buttar stepped quickly to the freestanding mahogany armoire and opened the doors. Spotting Corbett’s carry-on bag, he grabbed it, placing it on the bed. The voice from the phone returned, edged with panic.
“He’s entering the lift. He’s on his way up. Get out now…!”
Taking a small, self-adhesive, button-like tracking device from his jacket pocket, Buttar secured it to the bottom of the carry-on. Returning it quickly to the armoire, he shut its doors and headed out.
*****
The lift rose silently past the second floor. Alone in the elevator, Corbett watched impatiently as the LED indicator changed from two to three. At last, the elevator came to a halt. A whisper as the doors glided open. Out of habit, Corbett hesitated, glancing in both directions before stepping out into the corridor.
There just ahead along the corridor, a swarthy young man was standing, his hand on the door to room 303. From the look of his clothes he neither worked for the hotel nor was a guest. Nervously looking back toward where Corbett now emerged from the elevator, the young man averted his eyes and started toward him.
“Looking for me…?” Corbett asked aloud. When the man failed to answer, he repeated it in Spanish, “¿Me buscas a mi…?”
Ignoring Corbett’s question, Buttar scuttled quickly toward him hugging the wall, attempting to avoid his eyes.
“Tres-cero-tres…?”
Again no reply as Corbett moved to block his path. Without warning, Buttar drew a knife with a six-inch blade from his jacket and lashed out. Sidestepping the attack, Corbett pressed his back against the wall allowing the man just enough room to rush past him. Halfway to the elevators, Buttar reached a door marked “SALIDA” and bolted through. Going after him, Corbett did the same.
Taking the stairs three at a time, the assailant tumbled down the stairwell, nearly losing his balance as he reached the second floor landing. A moment later, barreling down the steps behind him, Corbett moved with an economy of motion, closing the gap with every step.
Reaching the door marked “EL VESTIBULO / LOBBY,” Buttar burst out, nearly colliding with a bellman while causing the tray of drinks he was carrying to fly from his hand. The sound of glass shattering on the unforgiving marble floor caused all eyes to turn at the sight of the pock-marked young man as he headed for the main entrance.
Behind the front desk, Rodrigo, the Night Clerk, reacted, calling out as the young man charged toward him: “Perdóname… Señor….! Momento...!”
At the same instant, Corbett slammed out through the lobby door. Seeing his assailant running toward the hotel entrance, he shouted to the night clerk in Spanish: “Ladrón…!”
Hearing Corbett’s cry, Rodrigo stepped out from behind the counter and called out to the intruder again: “Señor…!” Holding up his arms, he attempted to stop the young man, catching him by his right arm. Pulling free, Buttar turned on him driving his blade with surgical precision deep into the night clerk’s side. His face wrapped in a look of disbelief, the clerk staggered sideways, arms flailing, unable to prevent himself from falling. Seeing him start to go down, Corbett reached out, catching the clerk just before his body could strike the floor.
The color draining from his face, the clerk appeared to be going into shock as he whispered: “Socorro…!” Lowering the man to the floor, Corbett quickly looked up just as Buttar disappeared through the front doors and into the night.
“Por Favor…” the clerk managed between his teeth, “!Ayúdame…¡”
“This man needs a doctor…!” Corbett shouted as he scrambled up and ran for the door.
Immediately outside, Corbett ran a short way down the driveway, then stopped to listen. The sound of footsteps receded into the darkness. Then nothing. The assailant was gone.
*****
Later, standing in the hotel courtyard watching the medics load the gurney transporting the wounded clerk into an ambulance, Corbett attempted to answer the questions posed by an overly officious Spanish Policía. Recounting how he had come upon the man attempting to break into his room, he explained that he had never seen him before. No, nothing seemed to be missing. No, he had no idea why the man was there or what he had been looking for. Probably just a common thief.
Thinking back to the incident at the airport, Corbett momentarily regretted not filing a report with airport security. At the time, it seemed like nothing more than an opportunistic act of petty theft. But now… perhaps there was something else
