Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 775 & 776, March/April 2006

Hal Checks Out by Kevin Wignall

“This man certainly knows how to get inside the mind of his protagonists,” The Bookseller said in reviewing Kevin Wignall’s 2001 first novel People Die. Marilyn Stasio of the New York Times described the book as “a coolly ironic, mordantly funny, postmodern mystery story.” Mr. Wignall’s latest book is For the Dogs.

When Hal got back to his room, he took the pouch of diamonds and the artifact and put them in the briefcase with the money. It was only as he closed the case that he noticed his fingernails were edged with blood, as were the cuffs of his shirt — so much for a garrote being clean.

He ordered a late breakfast from room service, then took a shower, and by the time he was getting dressed, he was feeling that this was a good day. He’d double-crossed Wood and Vickers, the former had killed the latter, and now he’d taken care of Wood and ended up with all three parts of the deal.

He was particularly satisfied because they’d undoubtedly tried to rip him off, knowing he’d brought the artifact to the table without having the first idea what it was. It was true, he didn’t know, and had made not even a token effort to find out. All Hal needed to know about its value was that Epstein had died trying to hold on to it — who could give him a price for that? Certainly not the late Wood and Vickers.

He finished dressing and checked his appearance, pleased by what he saw. In spite of the promise he’d always made himself, maybe he wouldn’t retire at forty; after all, it was only three years away, and his current lifestyle was clearly agreeing with him.

He sat down in the armchair, waiting for his breakfast to arrive. The hotel was silent, perhaps even more so than usual, and then there was a noise that sounded like a muffled explosion, and maybe some rapid gunfire.

He’d been somewhere once when there’d been a coup d’etat. He couldn’t remember which poor excuse for a country it had been, or even the hotel he’d been staying in, but it had sounded like this. Given that he was in London, he guessed there was no coup in progress, a suspicion confirmed by what sounded like the hurried approach of his breakfast trolley.

There was an urgent knock at the door, and when he shouted for him to come in, the room-service waiter flew into the room with the same kind of haste he’d used along the corridor. He looked panicked, and was producing a combination of hyperventilation and hand gestures in an attempt to convey what was happening.

Hal wondered if the apparent gunfire and explosion had been just that. If so, he was impressed by the waiter’s professionalism — not everyone running from gunfire would have had the presence of mind to bring the trolley with him. Finally, the waiter spoke, pointing out toward the corridor as he said, “Terrorists.”

Just what he needed. And the day had been off to such a good start. He locked the door and slipped the wedge under it. He caught the waiter glancing at him; no doubt he was wondering what kind of person was paranoid enough to travel with his own door wedge, to which the answer was, the kind of person who knew just how much trash was floating around out there.

“Is that my breakfast?” The man nodded. “Well, set it up.”

“There are terrorists.” Hal shrugged and, after a moment of puzzlement, the waiter opened the trolley up into a table, poured the tea, and took the domed lid off his plate of bacon and scrambled eggs.

“Looks good. What’s your name?”

“Felipe.”

“Okay, Felipe, I’ll eat, you tell me what’s happening.”

“Islamic terrorists! They take over the hotel, killing people, making hostages. It’s terrible. Very terrible.”

The eggs were superb. Even so, Hal added a little pepper, seeking perfection. From his squat build and ruddy-cheeked olive complexion, Hal guessed Felipe was South American. From his barely suppressed hysteria, he guessed the hotel really was being taken over by terrorists, and backing up that point, another burst of gunfire sounded, closer.

Hal swallowed the food in his mouth, took some tea, dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “How do you know they’re Islamic?”

“Trust me, they Islamic. I see them, I know some of them, they work here.”

Very clever, thought Hal. Very clever. Infiltrate a leading hotel by way of its menial workforce, take it over, kill half the guests, kill all of them, and destroy a city’s tourist trade overnight. Of course, it made it awkward for him, but it was clever all the same.

Further up the corridor he heard a couple of people shout, “Death to something-or-other,” the two of them garbling each other out. Some gunshots followed, pause, gunshots, pause, screams, gunshots. Clearly they were working their way along the corridor, and clearly they already had enough hostages.

Hal’s was the last room; he’d have time to finish his breakfast if he ate quickly. He wasn’t sure what to do, though. The wedge would hold them for a little while, but it was hardly enough to put them off. On the other hand, getting out of the hotel in one piece was hardly likely to fall within the spectrum of a regular check-out.

Further up the corridor a woman was pleading pitifully in a shrill voice. It was an unpleasant sound and went on for so long that he was actually pleased when a gunshot ended it. Hal glanced at Felipe — he was sitting on the bed crying silently into his hands.

There was no use making any long-term plans. He’d take the wedge from the door, kill the person who came in, and take it from there.

“Okay, Felipe, enough of the whining.”

“But we’re going to die.”

“No, we’re not.” Hal was about to correct himself, plural down to singular, but Felipe looked so full of hope that he decided against it. “You stay where you are. When you hear the door open, I want you to call out, just ask who’s there or something like that, but make it loud. Understand?” Felipe nodded, but his newly found hopefulness was already looking shaky.

Hal surveyed his breakfast table. The silver dome looked promising in a Tom and Jerry kind of way, but he wondered how much of a blow he could deliver with it. Instead he cleaned his knife and fork on his napkin and slipped them into his pocket, then picked up the silver pot of hot water and carried it to the bathroom. He kicked the wedge free, unlocked the door, turned out the bathroom light, and waited.

He heard a knock on a door some way up the corridor and guessed he probably still had a minute or two. Then the knock sounded on his own door; it seemed the guy on his side of the corridor was moving faster than his colleague. A couple of seconds later the door opened and Felipe called out, asking who it was — he still sounded hysterical, like someone in an amateur farce, but it worked.

The terrorist glided past the bathroom and Hal glided out after him. They rounded the corner, saw the quivering Felipe sitting on the bed. Even then, the terrorist didn’t suspect. He started to say something in his own language as he lifted his gun, but whatever enlightenment he was about to bestow would have to wait for another time. Hal swung a fierce whack onto the back of his head with the pot of hot water. It had the desired effect, knocking him flat and scalding a high-pitched shriek out of him. Hal sprang onto his back, yanked his head up by the hair, and drove the knife with as much force as he could into his left eye socket.

The terrorist shuddered and twitched for a second, and Hal let go of the knife, leaving the handle sticking out of his eye. He managed to retrieve the gun and stand back out of harm’s way as Felipe threw up across the general area. He took the fork out of his pocket and threw it on the table; he wasn’t entirely sure what he could have used it for anyway.

A nervous voice called out in the corridor, a single word repeated, perhaps the name of the dead man who’d just suffered the additional indignity of having Felipe vomit on him. Hal opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

The guy was holding a blond woman, using her as a shield, and as Hal appeared, he started to shout something incomprehensible. Hal shot at him, hitting him in the face, but also taking out one side of the hostage’s head. She fell to the floor, moaning and gurgling.

“You shot the hostage.” It was Felipe, a note of moral outrage in his voice.

“I’m not the world’s best shot. If you wanna try your chances with someone else, Felipe, be my guest.”

“You have to help her.”

“Help her what? She’s dying, half her head’s missing. Jesus, she has no idea what’s going on.”

“So you must help her to die.” He looked determined, the strongest Hal had seem him.

“This is all I need, the Mother Teresa of the catering industry.” He fired another bullet into her head. “If we run out of bullets, the last thing I’ll do is ram this gun down your throat. Understand?” He got a sad little nod and nodded himself before dragging the second terrorist back into the room.

A few minutes later they were surveying their collected arsenal, laid out before them on the desk: two handguns, one spare clip, three grenades, and a hunting knife.

This was going to be tough. As they stood there, the muffled sound of sporadic gunfire was carrying toward them from different parts of the hotel. There were sirens, too, maybe a helicopter circling above. They were right in the middle of a battle and they were behind enemy lines.

“How many are there?”

“Fifty, maybe one hundred.”

“That’s good; at least we’re not outnumbered.” Felipe looked confused. “Joking. We can’t stay here. There could be a siege. Who knows? We have to get out.”

“We have to help the other people.”

“No, we don’t.” Hal started tooling up with the weapons. “You want any of this?” Felipe shook his head, a slightly hurt expression. “I’m getting out of this hotel, alone, or with you. Those are the only two choices. Are you in?”

“Okay, I’m in.” He looked crestfallen, but said, “If we go back to the elevator lobby, the service stairs are there.”

“Good.”

Hal looked at his briefcase, momentarily unsure what to do with it. It would just get in the way if he took it with him, and maybe he’d be even more likely to lose it. Finally, he slid it under the bed, reckoning that it would be easier to retrieve it afterwards than hold on to it now.

They walked along the corridor and halted in the elevator lobby. The noise was much louder out there, not just gunfire but shouts and the distressed cries of people being herded. It didn’t help that the noise seemed to be coming at them from all directions.

Hal pushed open the door onto the service stairs but there was so much shouting coming from down below that he ruled out that option right away. He hovered near the main stairs. All the noise seemed to be rising up from the ground floor, which made him think they could probably get down another couple of levels without being seen. If it came to it, they could lower themselves from a first-floor window.

He leaned over the stairwell and looked down. He couldn’t see anybody about, but then, a couple of flights below, someone else leaned out and looked right up at him. The guy screamed some alarm which was followed by an energetic chorus, the music of a handful of happy fanatics hurtling up the stairs.

Hal tore up the next flight of stairs, along the corridor to the left, into a room halfway along, and straight into one of the closets. He hadn’t given a thought to Felipe, but he’d joined him in the closet before Hal had even had a chance to think of closing the door. For a short guy, Felipe was pretty fast.

For a while, all he could hear was the two of them desperately trying to get their breath back. It wasn’t long, though, before he could also hear the noisy search party making its way quickly along the corridor. He still felt confident; there were too many rooms, not enough fanatics.

The door to the room opened and closed again. Someone was there, he could feel him.

“You can come out. I’m a friend. I’ll help you.”

Hal had an uneasy feeling Felipe would fall for it, but he stayed quiet and the guy moved on. Within a few more minutes, the search party had moved on, too.

They stepped out of the closet. Hal walked over to the window and looked down. Far below, the street looked as if it had been cordoned off, and he could see at least two helicopters in the sky above. The terrorists probably had a couple of people protecting the roof, but they’d be protecting it from above, not from within.

“Change of plan. We’ll head for the roof, see if we can get picked up from there.”

“Don’t shoot!” He looked at Felipe, baffled. They’d both heard it, but it had been distant, and it was hard to know where the words had come from. Then they came again. “Don’t shoot. We’re coming out.”

Another of the closet doors opened and two women stepped out. They looked like mother and daughter, the younger in her twenties, very attractive, a natural look. The old girl had been attractive, too, and still had a slim, moneyed look about her.

The younger woman started to cry when she saw them there. Her mother held her hand and squeezed it tightly, but said, “Hush now, Alicia, let’s not have a scene.” Americans, East Coast. Alicia pulled herself together accordingly.

“Room service,” chirped Felipe with a smile, managing to get a choked laugh out of Alicia. Both her mother and Hal looked at Felipe as if he was insane.

“I’m Dorothea Adams. This is my daughter, Alicia.”

“Hal Whitman. This bundle of fun is Felipe.”

For a moment it looked like Dorothea was going to shake hands, but she held back and said, “I heard you saying you were going to the roof. We want to come with you.”

“It’s best you don’t. It’ll be dangerous. You stay here; I’m sure this’ll all be over in no time.”

“But you said we must get out. You said they might siege us.” He looked at Felipe, wanting to smack him in the mouth, then back at the two women. Alicia Adams was very attractive.

“Okay, you can come.”

“Then you better give me one of the guns.”

Alicia backed her mother up, saying, “She’s a crack shot, probably better than you — no offence.”

Felipe said, “Oh, it’s no offence is taken. He’s not a good shot.”

Hal handed Dorothea the other gun, then threw a look at Felipe, making clear that the severity of the situation was no excuse for overfamiliarity.

“We’ll head back to the service stairs, climb up another level or two, duck into another room, assess the situation. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Dorothea. “You take point, I’ll cover the rear.”

They filed out in silence, passing a couple of bodies which he hadn’t really noticed on his mad dash into the room. One of them, a man in his thirties, was naked and soaped up, a damp patch forming around him.

They reached the service stairs and waited for a second, listening. There was still a lot of noise rising up from the depths, but there was gunfire and shouting coming from higher up, too, albeit more distant, less concentrated. They climbed a couple of levels, but by then, the noise above had a volatile edge to it, as if they might ascend another flight and walk straight into it. Hal nudged the door open, had a quick look around the elevator lobby, and signaled for them to follow.

As soon as they started into the corridor, their path was blocked by the body of a black man. He was dressed in black and so large that it looked, at first sight, as if someone had wedged a piece of furniture across the corridor. A few yards further on were the equally impressively proportioned bodies of two more men, one white, the other black. There was an audible gasp behind him and Hal turned to see Felipe with his hands up to his face in horror.

“What’s up?”

“Markey Farr! They’re Markey Farr’s bodyguards. His suite is just along there. This is terrible!”

“Markey Farr’s staying here?” It was Alicia, excited by the news.

Hal had no idea who Markey Farr was. Annoyingly, Dorothea did.

“Oh, Alicia, as though we’d have anything to do with someone like that. It’s not even as though he’s doing anything particularly original.” She turned to Hal, adding, “He’s more Vanilla Ice than Eminem.”

Felipe said, “But he’s a very important guest for us. It’s terrible anything happened to him.”

“And Mom, that comparison’s completely unfounded. Markey Farr’s following more in the tradition of the Beastie Boys.”

“I agree, totally,” said Felipe.

“Please, the Beastie Boys are in a completely different league.”

“What is up with you people?” They looked at Hal. He looked up at the ceiling — it sounded like there was some heavy action on the floor above — then back at them. “There are people dead all over the hotel, and by the sound of it, people still being killed. So unless you wanna join them, let’s put our musical differences aside and take stock in the late Markey Farr’s suite. Felipe?”

Felipe stepped over the first bodyguard and led them to the suite. It looked like a war zone, but the debris might well have been there before the terrorists arrived, the remains of a party, perhaps. The doors to the bedroom were open, the naked body of a young man sprawled across the bed, sheets on the floor.

Felipe inspected the body, studying the blood-camouflaged face before calling out, “It’s not him!”

“I knew he was gay,” said Dorothea.

“Mom, you think everyone’s gay.”

“Oh, you can trust me, I shouldn’t tell you, hotel policy, but he had girls here all the time, and a girlfriend, I think.”

“Don’t be naive, Felipe.”

Hal left them to it and walked out onto the large balcony. He leaned on the stone balustrade and looked at the activity in the street below. He could just see marksmen on the rooftops opposite. Somehow, none of it reassured him. And he couldn’t hear any helicopters now, though it was possible the noise was being drowned out by the ongoing battle on the floor above.

Then he heard someone groan in annoyance. The groan developed into a petulant “Shut! Up!”

Hal walked to the far end of the balcony and peered behind a stone plant pot and a wooden lounger. There was a man sleeping there — skinny, jeans and a ragged shirt, bleached hair, tattoos on his neck and hands. He’d wet himself. Hal guessed this was Markey Farr.

Hal kicked his foot and said, “Hey, you need to get up now. Terrorists have taken over the hotel. Your bodyguards are dead, so is your boyfriend.”

“Screw off!” Hal reckoned it wasn’t worth talking to someone so hungover he couldn’t even swear properly. He turned to walk away but suddenly, Markey Farr said, “Hey, no, wait, man. I’m sorry, who are you? They killed who?”

By the time Hal turned back to him, Markey was already standing up, grimacing at the wet patch on his jeans. Hal could see blood on his T-shirt and upper lip, too, the end of his nose still dusted with cocaine — the guy was clearly in his hell-raising phase.

“They killed just about everyone. You need to come inside and get cleaned up.”

The two of them walked in and brought the discussion of the star’s sexuality to a halt. They all stared at Markey in disbelief. He waved at them as if he were in a motorcade passing adoring fans, then pointed down at his crotch and gave them a goofy look as he said, “I just need to change. Do I have time for a shower?”

Felipe said, “Sure!”

The look on the other three faces was enough to convince Markey otherwise. He shrugged and said, “I’ll be two minutes.” He walked into the bedroom, emerging again a second later. “Who’s the dead guy? And where’s Simone?”

“Simone?”

“My girlfriend.” A thought struck him, overpowering any concern for her safety. “If she cheated on me—!” He stormed back into the room where they found him inspecting the sheets.

“Your girlfriend’s probably a hostage. Get changed or we’re leaving you.”

Another burst of gunfire rattled off above them and Markey looked up at the ceiling.

“I’m complaining about him! I don’t care if he’s a Senator or not. That kind of noise is just unacceptable.”

He picked up some clothes and went into the bathroom.

Dorothea looked at Hal and said, “I vote we should leave him. He’s already brain-dead.”

Hal expected an objection from Felipe but his mind was already on something else. “Senator Fitzpatrick!”

“And he would be who?”

Dorothea looked dismissive as she said, “Spineless, bleeding-heart liberal, something to do with the Middle East peace talks.”

“You have to help him,” said Alicia.

“Do I look like Bruce Willis? I don’t have to help anybody. I don’t even have to help you.”

“I agree. Alicia, Fitzpatrick is obviously drawing a lot of fire — we’d be insane to get in the middle of that.”

“But we can’t leave him to die,” said Felipe — Hal had been wondering when he’d join in. “And okay, it’s very bad dangerous now, but the people out there will be better to rescue us if we have the Senator.”

Maybe he was right, but it was still too much of a risk.

Suddenly, Alicia started to cry and threw her arms around Hal, dropping to her knees, pleading with him to do something, her words delivered with the side of her head pressed against his crotch. It was a bizarre but not unpleasant experience.

They were interrupted by Markey, who emerged in fresh jeans, naked above the waist but carrying two shirts. He looked at Alicia kneeling in front of Hal and said, “Whoa, cool! Hey, I just wanted to know, which shirt do you think’ll go best with these jeans?”

Dorothea looked at Hal and said, “We should just shoot him now; it’ll be best for everyone.”

Hal noticed Felipe discreetly gesturing with his finger toward the shirt on the left, a fetching black chiffon number. Alicia let go of Hal’s legs and stood up, looking sheepish. Even so, fool that he knew he was, he thought, what the hell.

He got a sheet from the bedroom and quickly twisted it into a rope, tied one end around his waist, and gave the other end to Felipe.

“Wind it around your wrist. If I fall, try your best to hold on.”

“You’re going over the balcony?”

“I’m going over the balcony.”

They all filed out after him, as if it was some crazy new spectator sport. He knew the best way to do things like this was without hesitation, so he climbed up over the side, using the wall to steady himself, and pulled himself up onto the balcony above. Once up, he undid the rope and tied it loosely around the balustrade.

He walked along the balcony then and knocked on the glass door, stepping back in case the Senator’s bodyguards took his visit the wrong way. He knocked again, harder. He could hear someone shout something inside and then a bodyguard looked through the glass onto the balcony. Hal smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

The door opened, the bodyguard stuck his head out, and said, “Who are you?”

“Hal Whitman. I’m here to help. How many are you facing out there?”

“About twenty, maybe more, and they’re well armed.”

Hal noticed the arm of his jacket was bloodied. “You’re hit.”

“Flesh wound. My partner’s holding them back, but I’ll have to get back in there.”

“We’re on the floor below. I made a rope here. I suggest we get the Senator down onto the next balcony. Should buy some time and some space.”

The bodyguard thought about it, looked back into the suite, and finally said, “I think you’re right. I’ll send Mrs. Fitzpatrick and the children out first.”

“Wait a minute. He has his family with him?”

Hal wanted to tell him to forget about it, but he could hardly back down on the offer now. He also knew the headache he’d get from the others if he went back and told them he’d left the Senator because he had his kids with him.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, send them out.” He pulled up the rope and turned back to find the incongruous sight of the Fitzpatricks facing him.

The Senator and his wife were in their forties, a youthful preppy air about them. Standing in front of them were a boy of about fourteen — blazer, red hair neatly side-parted — and a petite girl a couple of years younger — cotton dress, mousey hair.

He’d never seen a family like it. Completely relaxed in their formality, these were the kind of people who probably knew exactly what “smart-casual” meant. They had a collective bewildered look about them, dignified but lost, like the Romanovs after the Revolution.

The Senator offered him a gravitas smile and said, “Thank you for offering to help, Mr. Whitman, but how are we going to get down to the next floor?”

“The same way I got up.” He lifted the girl’s arms and tied the sheet around her chest. The parents became uneasy as he walked her to the side of the balcony, but he ignored them and called over to Felipe. “Sending a girl over. Catch her.”

“Okay.”

“No, wait, Mr. Whitman!”

“I’m scared.”

He yanked at the knot one more time, picked her up, and dropped her over the side, lowering the rope sheet until he felt it go slack and the girl’s screams stopped.

“Okay,” shouted Felipe.

Hal pulled the rope back up, tied it around the boy in the same way, and said, “Can you climb over yourself?” The kid nodded nervously and scrambled over the side, apparently more afraid of Hal than he was of the height.

He turned to Mrs. Fitzpatrick then, but she’d become ashen and was saying apologetically, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” The Senator put a consoling arm around her shoulder.

Hal didn’t have time for gentle persuasion, though. The gunfire was still intense in the suite beyond, the woman’s children were on the floor below, and they were all in danger of getting killed. He pulled her away from her husband, tied the sheet under her arms, and pushed her toward the side.

“I can’t. Leave me here.”

“You heartless bitch! What kind of a mother are you?”

“Now look here, Whitman!”

Hal pulled his gun from his waistband and said, “I didn’t come up here for lessons in manners. Now she’s going over if I have to blow her brains out first. So, pick up the rope and hold it fast.”

The Senator meekly crouched down and picked up the loose end of the sheet rope. His wife looked momentarily confused, as if surprised that her knight in shining armor had backed down so readily. It was a moment only, and then she was over the balcony courtesy of Hal, flailing and screaming so much that Hal had to lend a hand in lowering her.

The rope went slack, and a second later he heard Dorothea say, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, pull yourself together!” He liked Dorothea more and more.

Hal tied the rope around the balustrade now and the Senator lowered himself over while Hal knocked on the window again. He helped the injured bodyguard over the edge, then called in for the other to come out.

He put the gun back in his waistband and pulled the pins on two of the grenades. The guy inside yelled out something inaudible and let off a volley of shots, the volume increasing as he retreated toward the windows. Then more shots sounded and a small bloody chunk flew through the windows and over the edge of the balcony, the bodyguard crashing onto the balcony a moment later.

Hal threw the grenades as far as he could into the suite and leapt over the side of the balcony so quickly that he almost forgot to hold on to the sheet.

As Felipe helped him onto the balcony, the two grenades exploded overhead. Plaster fell from the ceiling inside the suite, and Hal and Felipe both double-glanced as a terrorist’s body flew off the balcony above and away from the hotel in a graceful diver’s arc.

Hal looked down to see it hit the street, then looked up and noticed that a policeman was waving to him from the opposite rooftop. If he wasn’t mistaken, the guy was gesturing for Hal to call him. It was inevitable, he supposed, but he was naturally unenthusiastic about the prospect of jumping into bed with the police.

For the moment, though, there were more pressing concerns. He could still hear the jabber of voices on the floor above, and it wouldn’t be long before they solved the puzzle and came looking in Markey’s suite. He walked back in, wondering briefly how he’d managed to get into a group jeopardy situation with such a bunch of misfits.

“Where’s the bodyguard?”

They shrugged and Felipe said, “We didn’t see no bodyguard.”

Hal ran back out onto the balcony and looked over the side. He couldn’t see a body, but guessed the guy must have fallen. He walked in again and said, “Okay, quick, we need to move before they come in here looking for us. We’re gonna head to the stairs, drop a floor, find another room.”

Alicia said, “I thought we were going to the roof.”

“We are, but for now, we’re going down.”

“Cool!” Everyone in the room looked at Markey. He was clearly still wired on something.

They moved as an unruly unit out into the corridor. They stepped over the first bodyguard, Markey seeming completely oblivious to the nature of the obstacle. Before they’d reached the second, though, they were met with the sound of approaching voices.

They retreated back toward Markey’s suite, but Felipe ran ahead, opened a different door, and ushered them all in. Before they knew it, the nine of them were squashed together in a dark service cupboard, breathing in the unpleasantly addictive smell of industrial cleaning products, listening as the senatorial hunting party crashed into Markey’s suite.

Then, in a hushed but firm voice, Alicia said, “Get your hand off my butt.”

“Sorry.” The apology belonged to the Senator’s son.

“Joshua! At a time like this!”

Hal should have left her on the balcony. He stared in her general direction and said, “Why not? He could be about to die without ever getting any closer. You cop a feel, kid.”

Someone started to cry, but with a hint of suppressed laughter, Joshua said, “That isn’t me.”

Felipe knew immediately who it was and said, “Markey, don’t cry. Mr. Whitman is only making a joke. We won’t die.”

“No, man, it isn’t that. I saw this movie the other day, like a cartoon, and this kid had this balloon. I think it was a red balloon, and he floated up in the sky and...”

“Shush,” said Dorothea, and silence fell again within the service cupboard. For a moment, there was only silence outside, too, the angry shouts and commands coming to them little by little. They were turning over Markey’s suite, by the sound of things. Then half a dozen voices exploded back into the corridor, such a sudden increase in noise that it sounded as though they were heading straight for the service cupboard. But with a fanatical Doppler effect, the voices warped and retreated back toward the lobby.

Maybe Mrs. Fitzpatrick perceived an awkward silence because she broke it by saying, “When will this ever end?”

“When they win,” said the Senator.

Dorothea laughed and said, “You’re even more spineless than I took you to be. What makes you think they’ll win?”

The Senator’s measured and mournful voice came back, “Because they believe in something, because their values are deeply rooted, because they consider their cause worth dying for. And what does the West have? Greed, a craven materialism, an empty lust for pleasure and sensation.”

“You talk like those are bad things.” Hal turned on his phone and looked at the screen, but in the darkness he could feel all their eyes on him, as if for the first time they were trying to work out exactly what kind of person he was. “Look, if you kill to protect your house, your car, even your cow, that’s fine. But if you kill for religion, that’s no nobler purpose, that’s barbaric. It was barbaric when we did it, it’s barbaric now.”

Alicia said hopefully, “So you do think we’ll win?”

“Of course, we’re winners. Okay, so right now we’re hiding in a service cupboard, but we’re here to make money and have fun, and the way I see it, that’s a bigger motivator than virgins in the afterlife.” He wasn’t getting a signal. “Stay here. I’m gonna make a call.”

He edged the door open, listened, poked his head out a little. Once he saw it was all clear, he moved quickly back into Markey’s suite. Considering that they’d turned the place over, it didn’t look too much worse. He strolled out onto the balcony and waved casually, though he couldn’t see the guy on the roof now.

He dialed 999 and struggled past the scripted questions to tell the operator where he was and that the guy in charge needed to call him. A minute later, his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Whitman, this is Colonel Albright.”

“What do you want?”

“How strong is your contingent?”

“My contingent? Contingent!” Hal took a deep breath, thought about describing the exact nature of his contingent, but decided to keep his focus on more immediate concerns. “Just tell us the best way of getting out of here.” There was a pause. “Hello?”

“Yah, Mr. Whitman, I don’t think getting out is likely to be easily achievable at the moment. What can you tell us about the terrorists?”

“That I’ve killed more of them than you have. Now, we’re heading to the roof. You can work with that, or not, but that’s where we’re headed.”

“They’ve got people up there, heavily armed people. That’s why the helicopters have pulled off.”

“Well, I hope they haven’t gone too far, because we’re going to the roof. We’ll see you in about fifteen.”

He hung up and walked back to the service cupboard. As he opened the door, he found a gun in his face, Dorothea on the other end of it. He gave her a complimentary nod and she smiled in response.

“I just talked to the guy in charge out there. They’ve got people guarding the roof, but I still think it’s our best chance.” He heard something behind him in the corridor and turned to see a young terrorist approaching nervously. He was alone.

Hal stepped back into the corridor and the guy dropped his gun and held up his hands, saying, “Please, don’t shoot. I surrender.” His accent was Scottish.

Hal moved a couple of steps toward him, took the hunting knife, and quickly rammed it up under his ribcage, thrusting a couple of times until the guy’s startled expression turned vacant and the full weight of his body hung limply on the knife. Hal pulled the knife clear, pushing the guy away with his free hand. He bent down over the body and retrieved another couple of grenades and a spare clip for the gun. When he stood again, the others were all looking down at the corpse in various states of shock and wonder.

“He was surrendering,” said the Senator accusingly. “He was a prisoner and you executed him in cold blood.”

Hal wasn’t even sure how to respond, but he noticed the Senator’s son staring at his father with a mix of embarrassment and contempt, and that satisfied him somehow.

“Felipe, how do we get to the roof?”

“Up to the next floor, there’s a door to service stairs.”

“Okay, we go quietly, follow my lead. Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you and the kids stay at the back. Felipe, Alicia, you stay with them. He didn’t bother giving instructions to the Senator. Then he held Markey’s face, studying his eyes as he put the newly acquired gun into his hand. Please don’t do anything with this that’ll require me to kill you.”

Markey looked like a kid at Christmas and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll treasure it. I’ll kill bad people.”

Hal almost laughed, but he could see from the way the others were looking at him that they saw no irony in Markey’s promise. And then he realized something even more extraordinary, that they didn’t see him as bad; he was a good person, someone who was leading them to safety. Life could be funny.

They moved quietly to the stairs and halted. Hal could still hear them close-by on the floors below. The elevator was on their floor, so he pressed for the ground floor and stepped out again. As it set off, he forced the outer door, pulled a pin on one of the grenades, and dropped it onto the roof of the descending cabin.

He led the party quickly up the stairs and they’d already reached the top floor when the explosion sounded far below, much louder than the grenades he’d thrown into the Senator’s suite. That would keep them occupied for a couple of minutes.

What he hadn’t counted on was that the explosion might draw some of the people off the roof. As they approached the service stairs, though, the door flew open and a couple of terrorists came running out to investigate. Hal, Dorothea, and Markey opened fire simultaneously, using too many bullets to take them down. The two men fell, one of them with a look of astonishment on his face — Hal got the feeling he’d recognized Markey.

“Felipe, get their weapons.”

Hal ran on, through the service door and up the stairs. He pulled the pin on another grenade, opened the top door, and threw it out. There were at least a dozen men out there, a pleasingly concentrated huddle, probably using the limited cover of utility tanks and whatnot to protect themselves from distant snipers.

He was vaguely aware that Dorothea and Markey were behind him, but he was in the moment now, and as soon as the grenade went off he stepped out and started firing at anything resembling a body. Someone returned fire but once again, the other two were beside him and, given that most of the terrorists had appeared stunned or injured by the grenade, it didn’t take much firing to finish things off.

And then there was silence. Hal took a deep breath of the fresh air, looked at the bodies lying around them, and said, “That wasn’t so hard.”

“I’m hit.” He turned and looked at Markey, who was pointing to his left leg. He’d been hit below the knee, a bloody patch torn through his jeans. Markey laughed. “This is so cool! I was shot by a terrorist — wait till I tell my publicist.”

The others stepped nervously onto the roof.

“Get out onto the roof. Start waving.”

Hal took the remaining grenade and stood near the door, ready to throw it down the service stairs as soon as the next outfit tried to come up to the roof. No more came, though, even as the thud of helicopters grew louder, even as the noise and the turbulence brought the others back into the shelter of their own private terrorist graveyard.

They were on the roof for another hour after the soldiers came. Markey’s leg was bandaged; they were given hot drinks and blankets, as if they’d been stranded on an ice floe for six weeks. They observed passively as the entire roof turned into a base, and the hotel below them was forcibly returned to civilization.

The Senator and his family were whisked away first. Then, finally, the rest of them were shepherded down through the hotel as if they were children who might hurt themselves. Hal wanted to remind the soldiers that they hadn’t needed an escort on the way up.

The lobby had been turned into a large debriefing area. There had been plenty of hostages, and most of them appeared to be still in pretty rude health. As he was separated from the others and processed and given more hot drinks, Hal kept waiting for someone, anyone, to offer some expression of thanks for what they’d done, but it never came. Even the Senator had allowed it to slip his mind that Hal had saved his family, at some considerable risk to himself. It was typical, he thought, that doing good for people wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

The day almost seemed to be over when he was finally told that he could go back to his room. He looked around for the others but could see them nowhere. Then, as he walked toward the stairs, he spotted Felipe, wearing a denim jacket, a slightly gauche shoulder bag slung across his body.

Hal called out and Felipe stopped and waited for him.

“You leaving?”

“I don’t want to work here any more time,” said Felipe, sounding more rattled now than he had earlier in the day.

“Well, here, I forgot to give you this.” Hal held out a five-pound note. “Your tip, for breakfast.”

Felipe looked uncomfortable and said, “Oh no, Mr. Whitman, it isn’t necessary. I can’t.” He was already backing away. “Thank you.”

“Okay.”

Felipe walked away, but turned at some distance and said, “It’s evil. You shouldn’t have it.”

A few of the many milling hotel guests stopped, too, and looked at the note in Hal’s hand. Hal looked back at them and they all turned quickly away. Felipe had gone, and as Hal walked back he wondered what the hell he’d been talking about.

He was distracted then by the little maps of blood that marked the carpets here and there. He guessed the hotel would have to close for a while. They’d been quick enough in getting rid of the bodies, though.

Except two. The terrorists were still in his room. He called room service, was impressed that he actually got an answer, and said, “I still have two terrorist bodies in my room. Would you send someone up to remove them?”

“Of course, Mr. Whitman, we’ll send someone up right away.”

“Thanks.” He put down the phone, then reached down under the bed for his briefcase.

He opened it on the desk and stared at what was inside it. The money and the pouch of diamonds were gone. Only the artifact remained. He sighed, not too troubled, certain he’d get it all back. And everything made sense now, those crazy comments in the lobby. Felipe had made a serious misjudgment, though; he’d only seen Hal’s good side, and if he thought the artifact was evil, he was really in for a surprise.