Nine

12

Sandia Towers Hotel

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Monday, May 19, 6:13 P.M.

Frederick Whitfield IV was in stealth mode. And enjoying himself immensely.

He was seated at the hotel bar, wearing dark sunglasses, drinking a club soda. He was dressed in a cheap suit and inexpensive men’s dress shoes. He didn’t like wearing the clothes, hated them only a little less than the midsize rental car he was driving. For a guy who was used to wearing Armani and Ferragamo, and driving a Lamborghini, it was a lot to put up with all at one time. More than the clothes and the rental car, he hated the haircut and hair color he had adopted: short and light brown. But he was playing a part, and he was willing to make sacrifices.

Frederick was pretending to be an FBI agent. No one had asked him to do this. He had no false identification or weapon with him, and he hadn’t told anyone that he was with the FBI. But he believed himself, in this moment, to be a perfect imitation of an agent. He was fairly sure that if a real FBI agent walked into this bar, right now, he would feel a sense of recognition, of brotherhood, if not an out-and-out conviction that here was a fellow member of the agency.

Morgan Addison had followed Meghan Taggert here. Morgan, a surfer, had found the oceanless Land of Enchantment less than enchanting. Frederick had quickly volunteered to take over the watch.

Morgan had been mistrusting at first. “I don’t get it, man. Most of the time, you kiss Everett’s ass.”

This was true. Frederick readily admitted it. “He’s like a magnet. When he’s near, I can’t resist doing whatever he wants me to do. When he’s away…”

“I don’t know,” Morgan said warily. “Ev’s gonna be pissed at me anyway, because I think Meghan knows she’s being watched. I think that’s why she came here.”

“Perfect,” Frederick told him. “This covers you with Ev. If he complains about your handing this over to me, you just tell him she made you.”

“You want Ev to think I fucked his dream woman?” Morgan asked in disbelief.

Frederick held back a sigh of impatience. “First, she is not his dream woman.”

“Yeah, right. Whatever you say, Freddy.”

“Second, do not call me Freddy.”

“I’m crapping my pants in fear here, Freddy.”

“Fine. Stay there. I’m going to bone that little surfer girl you’re so hot for.”

There was a silence.

Interpreting it correctly, Frederick said, “Yes, I know all about her. Did you think that was a secret you could keep from me, Morgan? I know her better than you’d think. We had a drink together this afternoon.”

“God damn it-”

“Just a drink, that’s all.”

“You’re lying.”

“Oh no, we definitely had drinks.”

“If you’ve so much as held her hand-”

“I’m crapping my pants in fear here, Morgan.”

Morgan fell silent again.

“I can get the next flight out,” Frederick went on. “You can be on your way home in three hours. You can find out what the lovely-what’s her name? Sherry. Yes, Sherry-what your little hottie refused me. So far, anyway. Spoke of no one but you, Morgan, truly. But, you know, a girl gets lonely…”

“You are such a prick!”

“I see. All right, I’ll say good-bye and see what progress I can make on the beach.”

“No, forget it. Come on out here. But if I get back there and find out that you’ve put some move on her, you might as well not come back to L.A.”

Sitting at the bar now, recalling the conversation, Frederick started to smile to himself. Would an agent smile? Yes, he decided, especially if it was a knowing smile. He allowed it.

He had come here straight from the airport. He had rented the car using one of four stolen California driver’s licenses he kept on hand, and charged it to the matching credit card Everett had issued to him. He had credit cards for all the names on the licenses. Everett and Cameron had control of the bank that issued them.

Project Nine had resources that extended far beyond these, of course. At the moment, out of necessity, he wasn’t making much use of them. He was, as he liked to think of it, working solo.

This had been emphasized from the moment he arrived at the hotel. At the entrance booth to the parking structure, he paid cash for a magnetic striped ticket that would allow him to go in and out of the structure all day. Morgan waited until Frederick saw Meghan Taggert’s BMW, and drove off, which meant Frederick was on his own to procure a weapon. Frederick had been a little pissed about that.

But in the next moment, over the rental car radio, he heard something that lifted his spirits. A newscaster announced that reports just in from Los Angeles indicated that three criminals on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list had been found dead there. A press conference had been scheduled for five-thirty Los Angeles time.

Frederick could hardly contain his glee. He hurriedly checked to make sure his tinted contact lenses were in place and smiled at the brown-eyed stranger in the mirror. He put the sunglasses on. Cool.

He spent the next few minutes calming himself, going through a set of breathing exercises designed to help him focus. “Special Agent Frederick Whitfield IV,” he said aloud, with as much baritone as he could manage.

He got out of the car, and despite the warmth of the day, donned the suit coat. He moved with purpose as he made his way to the lobby of the luxurious hotel.

Once there, he suffered a slight shock. A slender young woman with straight, dark hair reaching to her shoulders, silvery-blue eyes, and-although she was neither speaking nor looking at them-the undivided attention of every male in the lobby, was waiting for an elevator. His quarry, Meghan Taggert-and she was only a few yards away from him. He quickly realized that she seemed to be lost in thought-distressing thought.

Of course. Meghan had always had one big worry to contend with, and his name was Gabriel Taggert. She was thinking of her brother. She had suddenly left her home and traveled here without warning.

She had to be planning to meet Gabe.

And Special Agent Frederick Whitfield IV was going to be on hand for that moment. That asswipe Morgan was going to be missing out on all the glory.

Frederick watched her get into the elevator, watched the lights on the lobby panel, saw that the elevator stopped on the seventh floor.

He glanced at his watch. Fourteen minutes to go before the press conference. He smiled. Easy work for an agent of the fucking FBI, now, wasn’t it? He caught another elevator car, rode it up to the seventh floor, exited cautiously, and, hearing a door close in the hallway to his right, turned in that direction. He opened his cell phone. He dialed the hotel’s number.

“Ms. Meghan Taggert’s room, please,” he said.

He walked along the hallway, listening to the sound of the ringing phone. He was trying to decide whether it was 716 or 718, when the ringing stopped.

“Hello?” she said a little breathlessly. Softly.

God, he loved her voice.

Which door? Just say hello again, he willed her silently. He waited, listening, but she hung up.

He moved a little farther away from the doors, called again, and said to the operator, “I’m sorry, I was just talking to one of your guests on my cell phone when I must have hit a dead zone and lost the signal. Could you reconnect us? Her name is Meghan Taggert.”

As the operator made the connection, he moved back to the doors. This time, the phone rang several times before she picked it up.

“Hello?” she said again, almost angrily.

Room 718, then. He hung up and went back down to the lobby. If he hurried, he’d be just in time to watch the press conference.

In her room, Meghan hung up the phone after the second call. She stood up and paced, hugging her arms across her stomach, looking at the phone as if it were a weapon left behind by an invader.

Kit was the only other person who knew she was here.

Be sensible, she told herself.

She called the hotel operator.

“Oh, that was a young gentleman. He didn’t give a name, but he did mention that he was having trouble with his cell phone.”

“Thank you,” Meghan said, feeling relieved.

She turned on the television set. She watched the evening news every night now, expecting an announcement of Gabriel’s capture. Or worse.

The newscaster smiled and said, “Three of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted fugitives have been found murdered in the Los Angeles area. We’ll take you to a live press conference at the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. We’ll have this and other stories when we return.”

She sat down hard on the bed. Not Gabe, she begged silently. Not Gabe.

She thought of the phone calls. Kit must have learned something and called to warn her, to tell her what had happened.

Frederick Whitfield IV finished his club soda slowly. The bar was buzzing with talk of what they had done. He eavesdropped with all the pleasure of a man who is hearing his work praised by strangers.

“Ask me, couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch of folks,” a woman next to him said, and laughed harshly. She was a big blonde and bore all the marks of a heavy drinker. She raised her glass. “Here’s to seven more of them kicking off as soon as possible.”

Frederick obligingly clinked his glass with hers, as did the man on her right. The man was leathery and thin. “Amen to that,” he said in a flat Midwestern accent. “It’s about time the government realized that if they just sit around and coddle these criminals, worrying about their rights, people are going to take matters into their own hands.”

“Jesus, yes,” said another man, two seats down. He had abruptly ended a discussion of baseball with the bartender when the news came on. “It’s not just that. It’s their damned incompetence. People are tired of shivering in their beds, waiting for the cops to figure out how to catch these guys.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” said the leathery man. “The cops catch them, and they have to let them go.”

“Because the ACLU and the courts and all of them are all screwed up,” said the blonde, leaning into him.

“Exactly right, darlin’,” said the baseball fan, and got a wink for being agreeable.

“That one guy killed a family-witnesses,” Frederick said, thinking it was time to add his mite.

The blonde slewed around on her chair to smile at him. “Who needs a son of a bitch like that walking around, right?”

“Right,” said the leathery one, and she slewed back.

“I think they ought to find whoever’s killing them,” the baseball fan said seriously, causing everyone to stare. “And then make him the director of the FBI!” he finished, causing laughter all around.

Frederick laughed harder than any of them.

She could only take so much, Meghan decided. She hated to call Kit again, but after all, he had just tried to reach her. She didn’t bother going down to the lobby. She used her cell phone. He answered on the first ring.

“Meghan? Are you okay?”

“You heard the press conference?”

“Press conference?” he repeated blankly.

“Oh-I thought that was what you were trying to talk to me about, the last time you called.”

She heard the pause before he asked, “When?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” she said, her voice sounding small, even to her.

There was a silence, then he said, “I haven’t called, Meghan. Someone else knows you’re there.”

She let out a low moan. “Never mind me! They’re going to kill Gabe.”

“Meghan, no-they’ll try to bring him to trial.”

“No! You don’t understand.” She told him about the vigilantes. “I’m here in New Mexico, and those sick bastards are looking for Gabe! They may already have him.”

“Meghan-we’ve got to try to learn more. We can do that in L.A. Until then, there really isn’t much we can do for him.”

Panic started rising. “But if Gabe-”

“Are you forwarding calls from your home phone to your cell?”

It was a practical question. She felt the panic ebb. “No, but I can set that up from here.”

“Good. Do that right away, so Gabe can reach you more easily. Now-we need to think about your safety.”

“I can defend myself.”

“I’d like to believe that, but no one is a one-person fortress,” he said.

“And why be foolish, right?”

“Right. Given these news reports, I think you have to take every sign of danger seriously. You need to make sure no one tries to use you to get to Gabe.”

“Maybe the FBI’s already followed me here.”

“Maybe. If it is the FBI, you’ll be okay. But if it isn’t-” He stopped. “Call hotel security and tell them someone has been trying to break into your room-sticking a card in the key slot, banging on the door. Tell them you are afraid to stay in the room, that you want a new room, and you want an escort from this one to the new one on another floor. Make the hotel security office describe the person who is coming up and don’t open the door to anyone who doesn’t have ID and exactly match that description.”

“Should I just go to another hotel?”

“I already considered that. I think you’d be followed. The Sandia Towers will take care of you, just let them know you want their help. Tell them you got a couple of crank calls just before the problem started. Tell them you don’t want any incoming calls. When you get to your new room, call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to see if I can arrange some additional private security for you until I can get there. In the meantime, you don’t open the door for anyone, and you only answer the cell phone. All right?”

“Yes, all right. Thanks, Kit.”

“Meghan-”

“Yes?”

There was a long pause. “Don’t talk yourself out of doing what I’ve asked you to do. You’ll hang up, you’ll ask yourself if it was all your imagination, or maybe even wonder if you’re causing too much trouble. You won’t be. Promise me-”

“I’ll do everything you asked me to do, Kit.”

“Thanks.”

She called the hotel security office. She found that without any effort at all, she could sound as if she’d been scared out of her wits.

They responded immediately.

Frederick lingered a little longer, unable to tear himself away from the congratulations and good wishes he was receiving-undercover, on behalf of the project-in the bar.

But soon his new comrades were distracted by the sports news, and he bid them adieu. He strolled over to the front desk and waited patiently in line. Normally, he would have been able to use the privileges of those with membership in the frequent guest program. He found himself in the rather novel position of not being catered to, but he felt proud that he had remembered to stand in the not-so-special line.

He smiled at the registration clerk. She was a young African-American woman. He thought she was quite attractive. He glanced at her name tag and said, “I’m embarrassed to admit this, Rashida, but I’m a little superstitious. I need to stay on the seventh floor. I need two sevens and a one in the room number. Ideally, you’ll give me room seven-seventeen, if it’s available.”

She seemed taken aback for a brief moment, then said, “Let me check.”

He worried a little at that hesitation, but he decided that it was, after all, an odd request. And she wasn’t behaving as if she felt suspicious-just dealing with a crazy white guy. That was okay. She typed something into the computer, then said, “It’s already reserved, but let me check with my supervisor. I’m sure we can get you into that room.”

He removed his sunglasses. “Thanks. It’s silly, I know.”

She smiled, and he was pleased to hear her give a shy little laugh. “It’s not a problem at all-you just wait right here, and I’ll take care of this right now.”

She went through a door behind the front counter, into an office. There was a two-way mirror on the wall between the registration desk and the office.

Reflected in the two-way mirror, he saw for the first time that he had one brown eye, one blue.

He quickly put his sunglasses back on and considered bolting away from the desk. Undoubtedly Rashida had noticed and had laughed at him. He felt a sudden surge of anger.

But-wait a minute, he thought. David Bowie’s eyes were like that, weren’t they? Maybe she liked the idea of a man with features that were a little unusual. It wasn’t as if they were strange enough to land him in a circus, for God’s sake.

Rashida returned, smiling, with an older woman in tow. The older woman was Hispanic. Her name tag identified her as Consuela Ramon. Managers, he noticed, got to have last names on their tags. She wore a walkie-talkie that crackled at her hip. She was smiling, too. “Mr. Grady?”

He nearly didn’t respond. “Oh yes,” he said, remembering which credit card he had given Rashida. “I’m Mr. Grady.”

“We’ll be happy to give you that room. We’re just waiting for housekeeping to check to make sure it’s clean and ready for you.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Rashida flirted with him while processing his registration. Consuela didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she helped the next two people in line while Rashida concentrated on him. Rashida was obviously so dazzled by him, she could hardly keep her mind on what she was doing. She nearly didn’t return his credit card. He had to ask for it. He wondered about that for a moment, but she gave it right back, apologizing.

He was putting the card back in his wallet when he heard a male voice on Consuela Ramon’s radio. “Consuela, we’ll be right there.”

And she glanced at him and smiled.

He turned and walked away.

“Mr. Grady?” Rashida called. “Mr. Grady, your room key!”

He walked faster, not looking back. Once outside the hotel doors, he ran to where the lame-ass car was parked. He hurried into it and, tires squealing all the way down the ramps of the structure, made it to the exit gate. He jammed his prepaid ticket into the slot with some anxiety. The gate seemed to take forever to lift, but at last his car could fit beneath it, and he peeled out of the structure just as a beefy security guard ran toward him, shouting. He saw the parking booth guard step out into the street and take note of the car’s license plate-reading its actual plate number, not the phony one he had written on his registration card at the front desk.

“Damn!” he shouted, as he pounded the steering wheel. “Damn, damn, damn!”

Now he’d have to ditch this car and steal another one. A big pain in the ass all the way around.

He thought of Everett learning about this misadventure, and shouted, “Fuck me!”

He saw an old man in the car next to him looking on in disapproval. He was about to flip him the bird, then started admiring the old dude’s wheels. Not bad, he decided, and discreetly followed him home.