“Bring it right in,” Benton said, holding the door open. The waiter rolled in a cart that held three covered dishes. “Put it over there by the window.” Benton looked at Verbaken and asked, “Would you like to order some lunch?”
“No, no thank you,” Verbaken replied. “I’m not very hungry.”
“Suit yourself.” After the waiter placed the cart, Benton tipped him and showed him out the door. Once again he locked the door and resumed his position over the file. “You were saying?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. America.” Verbaken took a sip of water. “My wife and I went on our honeymoon there. New York City. Fascinating place.”
Benton took another shot and then took the time to examine the contents of his meal. He laid the pistol on the bed and lifted the lids on the food. “Mmm. Looks pretty good. Creamed potato soup with smoked eel, salmon flaky pastry with Sevruga caviar, asparagus, and a bottle of Duvel beer. Can’t beat that, eh?”
“I’m sure it’s delicious.”
“Sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Benton frowned. “Wait a second. I asked for a basket of bread. And butter. Damn.” He went to the phone, picked up the receiver, and punched the button for room service.
“Yeah, this is Mr. Benton in 505. I ordered some bread and butter with my lunch. It’s not on the tray. Uh-huh. Okay, thanks.” He hung up and moved back to the file to snap another photo. “They’re sending it up.”
“Go ahead and eat,” Verbaken said. “I don’t mind.”
Benton smiled and left the OPSAT on the table with the file. He moved to the cart but was stopped by the sound of a key in the door.
“That was fast,” Verbaken said.
“A little too fast if you ask me.” Benton leaped for the Beretta, but the door exploded inward before he could reach it. Yuri thrust the suppressor-fitted barrel of a Heckler & Koch VP70 in Benton’s face, preventing him from reacting.
“Don’t move, gentlemen,” Yuri said, keeping the gun trained on Benton. “Back up, please, and raise your hands high above your head.” With his other hand he placed the hotel’s master passkey back into his pocket.
Benton did as he was told. Verbaken went pale.
Vlad drew a gun of his own, a Glock, and pointed it at the Belgian. “Don’t get up on our account,” the Russian said.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Verbaken whispered.
Vlad struck the man across the face with the Glock. “I didn’t say to talk,” he said.
Verbaken held his hands to his cheek and bent forward.
“Keep your hands in the air, please,” Vlad ordered.
The Belgian complied, revealing an ugly scrape on the left side of his face.
Yuri motioned to the sofa. “Sit down over there, please,” he said to Benton. “Keep your hands up.”
Benton moved slowly around the coffee table, next to the food cart. With the speed of a cat he grabbed a knife from the cart and threw it at Yuri. The Russian, however, was faster. He snapped his body sideways as the knife flew past him and hit the wall. The Heckler & Koch recoiled twice—
In a panic Verbaken jumped to his feet and ran toward the door.
After a few silent seconds, Yuri observed, “Well, that didn’t go very well.”
“Not too smooth,” Vlad agreed. “Messy.”
“We’d better hurry. That made a lot of noise.”
Vlad nodded and went to the copier. He took the sheets of paper from the table — the stack that had already been photographed and the pages that hadn’t. He put the paper back in the manila folder, picked up Benton’s OPSAT, and dropped it on the carpet. He then lifted his hard-heeled shoe and brought it down forcefully, smashing the device.
“Do we need anything else?” he asked his partner.
“Look in the bedroom. See if his laptop is there. Bring the American’s weapon if you can find it quickly,” Yuri answered. Vlad grunted and went into the bedroom. Yuri walked over to Benton’s corpse and kicked the man’s head.
“Fuck you,” he muttered.
Vlad returned with a laptop and a Five-seveN, the weapon of choice for NSA intelligence officers. “Look what I found.”
“Good. Now let’s get out of here.”
After cracking the door open, Yuri made a quick check of the hallway. He nodded to his partner and they left, shutting the door behind them.
Three minutes went by before there was a knock at the door again. The silence prompted another knock.
“Room service.” It was a woman’s voice this time.
The waitress used a passkey and pushed the door open a bit. “Room service. Hello?” She swung the door wider and saw Verbaken’s bloody body on the floor. The waitress gasped, took in the sight of the other corpse on the far side of the room, and ran from the suite screaming.
3
I live in a townhouse inside the triangle formed by I-695, York Road, and Dulaney Valley Road in Towson, Maryland. This suburb of Baltimore has a reputation for being “hip” since Towson University is located here. I guess it’s hip. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not very hip. I’m not a social guy. I don’t date, I don’t go out, and I stay pretty much to myself. When I’m not on an assignment for Third Echelon, I lead a relatively boring existence. I have no friends to speak of, my neighbors probably think I’m some kind of recluse, and the only shops I frequent are the nearby grocery store, a liquor store, and the dry cleaners in the strip mall over on York Road.
I like it that way.
The townhouse is much too large for a single man in his forties. I have three floors in which to spread out. I indulge myself in simple pleasures such as a supersize flat-screen television, DVD player, and a surround-sound system. I keep a library of reference material in the lower floor, and that’s also where my home office is. If someone were to look at the books in my library, they’d think I was a geography professor or maybe a history lecturer. For my work I study the countries of the world. I try to keep abreast of everything that’s happening politically and economically, especially in the so-called hot spots. Sometimes a single bit of knowledge about an unusual item that exists only in a given country can save your life. Knowing who’s really on your side and who’s not is of primary importance when you’re in the field. So every day I try to learn something new about a place. It keeps me sharp.
I live near Towson Town Center, a huge indoor mall that attracts all the beautiful people in the area. I avoid it like the plague. I detest shopping malls because they’re all the same. Same shops, same franchises, and the same ignorant people going about their daily business of spending money — usually someone else’s. When I need something, I go to out-of-the-way mom-and-pop shops. I can find clothes anywhere. If I want DVDs or CDs, I buy them online and get them mailed to me. In fact, I do an awful lot of online shopping. It keeps my personal interactions to a minimum.
I want to remain as anonymous as possible.
I cook my own meals. I’m pretty good at it, too. That’s one of the things that Sarah appreciates about me. She visits infrequently, but when she does she always wants me to cook for her instead of going out to a restaurant. That’s fine by me. Being able to cook is yet another valuable skill that’s helpful in my profession. You
