time until they got everything worked out. It works like an ATM card. The whole system is computerized, which lets the staff downstairs change the locks by just punching a few keys. Fortunately, it also allows the Art Room to open doors for us. Tenth floor, room one-oh-one-one.”
People thought of the NSA as an agency of snoopers and eavesdroppers. From what Dean had seen, it was more like the biggest club of hackers in the world.
They found the room quickly. While Dean played lookout, Karr retrieved a small fiber-optic device and a long wire from the bottom of his belt — a telescoping video camera, equipped with a miniature fisheye lens for checking out a room that might be booby-trapped. But as small and thin as the device was, he had trouble pushing it under the door, which was fitted very closely to the threshold.
Just as he finally got it, the Art Room warned Dean that the elevator was arriving.
“I’ll slow them down,” said Dean, striding quickly down the corridor toward the elevator foyer. He got there as the door opened, paused a second, then turned the corner just in time to “accidentally” plow into one of the guests.
Unfortunately, it was a nine-year-old girl, and he just barely managed to grab her before she fell. She looked at him, panic-stricken.
“Hey, watch it!” shouted the father.
“I’m sorry,” said Dean to the girl. He lowered himself to eye-level. “Are you OK?”
The girl started to cry. She turned; her mother gathered her into her arms. Both parents looked at him as if he were a masher.
“I’m sorry,” said Dean, still holding her.
“Let go of her,” said the father. He stood perhaps five-seven to Dean’s six feet but nonetheless looked as if he wanted to fight. He had an Irish lilt to his voice.
“It was an accident,” said Dean, letting go of the girl. “I’m sorry.”
“Be more careful next time,” hissed the man. He put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and pushed her along to the hall. Dean turned and watched them walk down the hall.
Karr had disappeared.
Dean ducked back in the vestibule where the elevators were, pressed the button, and waited. Two older women were in the car when it arrived; he got in, saw that the lobby button was already lit, and stood toward the back. When the elevator arrived, he walked out, then pretended to check his pocket and realize he had forgotten something. He twirled around, pulling the card key out of his pocket and playing with it as he waited for the elevator.
He wasn’t as good an actor as Karr, he thought. But he could play a part if he had to.
Back on the tenth floor, the hallway was empty. Dean walked slowly, hesitating when he reached the room; the door was closed. Rather than going in he started walking again.
“Karr?”
“He’s in the room, Charlie,” said Chafetz. “Before you go in, post a video fly in the wall sconce or something. There aren’t any video cameras in any of the hallways and we can’t see what’s going on. Tommy didn’t have a chance.”
Dean slipped a fly — a tiny bugging device roughly the size and shape of a dime — out of his pants pocket and wedged it carefully at the top of the lighting fixture.
Inside the room, Karr knelt in front of the fake wardrobe, which hid a large television set and a set of drawers. To the right of the drawers was a safe; the Deep Black op was using his handheld computer to listen to the tumblers on the safe. With a handkerchief on his hand, he pushed down the handle and pulled the door open; the safe was empty.
“I figured.” Karr closed it, spun the combination, then returned the dial to the number that had been set when he began. “Check the loo, would you? The WC?”
Dean went into the bathroom. The soap had been opened, but nothing else. A hotel bathrobe hung on the hanger behind the door; it didn’t look as if it had been used, and its pocket was empty. Dean went to the wastepaper basket, which had a wrapper and some tissues. He examined the wrapper: it was for candy, a fancy piece of glossy paper with a shiny picture, the sort of thing you put around a one-cent piece of flavored sugar so you can charge twenty cents.
A small striped box sat at the bottom of the basket. Dean took it out and looked at it; it had the name “Hediard” on it. The word
“Hediard,” said Dean.
“You talking to us, Charlie?” asked his runner.
“There’s a box. It has an address. Twenty-one place de la Madeleine, Paris. It may have been for candy.”
Chafetz corrected his pronunciation, then told him that Hediard was a very fancy gourmet food shop.
“In Paris,” she added. “Oo-la-la. Treats for the sweet.”
“Message on the phone,” said Karr out in the room, pointing to the blinking light. “Want to listen in?”
“Take a second,” said Chafetz.
While the Art Room worked on that, Karr opened the bureau and looked for something — anything — in the drawers. They were empty.
“Here you go,” said Chafetz, piping the phone message in over their communications system.
“Waterloo at eight,” said a male voice. It had a foreign accent — maybe French, maybe Italian, maybe anything; Dean couldn’t place it. There was a time stamp on the message; the call had been made fifteen minutes before 2:00 p.m., undoubtedly when the occupant was en route to the park.
“What’s it mean?” Dean asked.
“Waterloo train station,” said Karr. “You think that’s tonight or tomorrow?”
“If it’s tonight, we ought to get moving.”
“Yeah.” Karr groaned. The drawers were empty, as was the dead man’s suitcase. There were no papers or anything else that might vaguely relate to the man’s identity or mission here.
“The room was registered to Gordon Kensworth,” said Chafetz. “We’re checking the credit card data now.”
“Sounds British,” said Karr.
“Maybe. The address he registered with doesn’t wash,” added the runner. “What a surprise.”
“I found this,” said Dean, handing Karr the candy box and wrapper.
“Sweet tooth,” said Karr. He looked at it for a minute. “So he was in Paris, or knew someone who was. Better put it back where you got it.” He looked at his watch. “We have about twenty minutes to get to the train station, which is about twenty less than we need. Leave the room key on the desk over there. They’ll add ten pounds to the poor guy’s bill if we just toss it away.”
11
Patrick Donohue thought he recognized the man in the hotel from the park. His first impulse — the instinct he always fought against — was anger, not surprise, and he’d felt an urge to wrestle the man in the hallway. He’d controlled it, of course, but the girl deserved the real credit. She acted completely naturally, crying out and falling back tearfully when she bumped into the man, the perfect cover for Donohue. He vented his anger, appearing to be just another overprotective parent, before continuing down the hall. He acted exactly as a guest would, and the credit truly belonged to the girl.
He stopped at a door across from the entrance to the stairs. Donohue put his hand in his pocket as if looking for his card key. As soon as he was sure the hallway was clear he pushed the woman and child toward the stairwell and quickly followed.
“Down,” he hissed.
The prices he charged anticipated complications, and by all rights he ought to take this one in stride. And yet as they descended the first flight of stairs Donohue realized he had lost some of his equilibrium. He’d always fought to control his anger, but now it was closer to the surface. Why should he react with anger rather than surprise?
