Hot Ice

31

With that polite but distant manner peculiar to British hotels, the desk clerk had assured Jason his room not only had a view of the bend of the River Wear but of the cathedral and castle on the other side. Not that it mattered. It was dark and beginning to mist — that cold, dank blanket that Jason associated with this part of England. He could not have seen the Great Pyramid had it been just outside his window.

He declined the assistance of a bellhop with his single bag. Heels clicking on the marble between imitation Oriental rugs, Jason made his way across the faux mahogany lobby to the elevator and then the third floor. The room contained a queen-size bed, two chairs upholstered in a beige that more or less matched the walls and bedspread, and a wooden chair in front of a small desk. Botanical prints in matching frames hung above the bed and desk.

The decorating equivalent of a dial tone.

Jason checked his watch, then the menu in a folder on the desk. If he hurried, he could make the later closing of the hotel’s two dining rooms for dinner. Not that he had any great expectations of culinary grandeur. This was, after all, England, where rare roast beef was only seared on the inside rather than burned and flavor had meticulously been cooked out of vegetables. On the upside, though, he had seen Scottish salmon on the list of entrees, a dish even the British seemed unable to ruin.

The room’s phone rang.

“Mr. Peters? Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a gentleman here to see you, a Dr. Cravas from the university. Shall I send him up?”

Jason hesitated before replying. Surely the professor hadn’t followed him to the Marriott to continue drinking. He had hardly had the time to fetch the Grünwelt material he was to deliver in the morning.

“No. I’m just out of the shower. Can I speak to him?”

Jason was unable to hear the conversation between the desk clerk and his visitor.

“Mr. Peters, he says he needs to speak with you face-to-face.”

Warning bells began to go off.

“Tell him I’ll be right down soon as I’m dressed. Under no circumstances are you to give him my room number.”

The clerk sounded offended a guest would find the instruction necessary. “Of course, sir.”

Jason threw on a fresh pair of pants and shirt and stepped into his shoes. He stuffed the room key in his pocket and went into the hall, pausing to moisten the knob and attach a hair, a telltale sign that would alert him on his return if anyone had entered the room. He passed the bank of elevators, going instead toward a set of doors marked as a fire exit. The doors led to a stairway. At the bottom, he could see an exit out of the hotel.

Instead, he opened the door, finding himself in a normal hotel corridor. Keeping close to the wall, Jason went down the hallway until he had a limited view of the lobby. There were only two people in it: the desk clerk and a man who sat facing the elevator.

The angle was such that Jason could not see the man’s face but to the experienced eye, there was little doubt he was armed. Specifically, a shoulder holster. A man with a gun at the small of his back tends to reflexively sit stiffly so the gun butt does not jam into his back. Someone carrying a pistol in an ankle holster would never cross his legs as the man Jason was watching just had. To do so would be too likely to expose the weapon hiding just above the cuff of his trousers.

This guy, then, had no back or ankle weapon. But the way he unconsciously tugged at his jacket, keeping it zipped despite the indoor warmth, suggested he had something under it he had rather not be seen.

Jason turned and retraced his steps to the exit.

He shivered in the cold mist as he hugged the building’s outside wall. He crept along it until he had a view of the small car park across the street, where the hotel parked guests’ vehicles on a first-come, first-served basis. A silver Alfa Romeo 159—a small, sleek four-door sedan — blocked a lane just inside the exit. The plume of exhaust from its tailpipe disappearing into the night told Jason the engine was running. Its driver did not anticipate being there long. Or intended a speedy departure. A speck of orange glowed from the right front. The driver was smoking a cigarette as he waited.

Jason had a good idea what he was waiting for.

Bent double so as to make as little of a silhouette as possible, Jason made a dash for the parked cars. It took him less than a minute to find the Morris. Now, if only the boot was unlocked …

He took a relieved breath as the trunk opened easily. Jason’s fingers probed the small space until they closed around the tire tool, a bar of iron about two feet long.

Still crouched, Jason approached the Alfa from behind. Creeping to the left rear, the closest thing the car had to a blind spot, he jumped onto the bumper with both feet. Before the car had fully rocked from the impact, he was on all fours, scrambling around the front bumper.

He waited at the rear right fender as the driver’s door flew open. Jason could see a large man framed against the hotel lights. Though his back was to Jason, he would have bet he was looking at one of the men from the train station. And he was certain that was a gun he saw in the man’s hand. The bulging sound suppressor at its muzzle suggested he intended to use it.