Retribution

TWENTY-THREE

At the Holiday Inn, Harry was trying Rik’s extension. No answer. He must have gone out to meet his contact. He dialled the number Pendry had given him, then switched off the light and stood in the dark. He was wondering how close the killer was right now.

He had absolutely no doubts that it had been the same person calling the hotel earlier. Only Deane, Pendry and Rik knew where he was, and there was no way anyone would have got details from the military base. That meant he’d been tracked from New York to Columbus and pinpointed to this hotel.

But how?

The long, hard way was one explanation: the killer had the same list of names and locations as Harry. If he had the patience to ring round all the likely hotels in the area, it would be just a matter of asking for Harry Tate by name. Eventually someone would have given it up.

‘Yeah?’ The Ranger’s voice was heavy with sleep.

‘Our man’s here in the hotel.’ Harry kept his voice low, one ear cocked towards the door. He explained briefly about the phone call to reception. ‘Can you get away?’

‘I’m on it,’ Pendry replied, instantly alert. The sound of bed springs creaked in the background. ‘How do you want to play this?’

‘As quiet as possible. If we call the locals, they’ll come in with a full SWAT team. There’s a convention going on here, so the place is full. I’m going to try to draw him out. I’ll wait an hour, to give you time to get here and settle in, then I’ll move.’

‘Uh-huh. What if he tries before that?’

‘I don’t think he will. I’m counting on him waiting for the place to go quiet.’

‘You want me to stay on the outside?’

‘Yes. But watch your back.’

He replaced the phone, then reached across and cut the air conditioning. With the fan going it was almost impossible to hear anything outside the room. He wedged a chair under the door handle and sat for an hour, listening as the hotel noises gradually died down. An occasional voice echoed along the corridor as guests returned to their rooms, and the ice machine clunked noisily every few minutes. Out in the car park vehicles came and went, but at last even that activity ceased, save for an occasional movement.

He was glad of the Ranger’s instinctive response. He knew how good the man was and preferred to have him around rather than half a dozen local cops bristling with weaponry and in a mood to shoot anyone who didn’t look right.

There was the click of a door. Somebody entered the room next door. Harry tensed, straining to track the other person’s movements. A cupboard door banged, two thumps as shoes hit the floor and a grunt as someone lay down on the bed. Then silence.

Out on the expressway the hum of traffic continued into the night.

Harry sighed and tried to relax. Breathed easily and slowly, listening and analysing every sound.

Kassim sat in the dark, immobile. He had learned a long time ago that the hunter who could not remain still rarely caught his prey. He was also listening to the murmur of voices, the ice machine and the traffic on the expressway. For him it was a distraction from the task in hand, to be blanked out and ignored.

The green digital readout of the television clock glowed brightly across the darkened room. It was past midnight. Another new day.

So be it.

He got to his feet, careful to avoid brushing against the furniture. The knife felt good in his hand, balanced and ready. In his other hand was the piece of blue fabric. He was filled with a feeling of quiet fatalism. What would be would be.

One silent step across the carpet took him close to the connecting door. He cocked his head, projecting his senses through the crack around the frame into the next room. He thought he detected someone breathing.

He reached out to touch the door. This had to be hard and fast. There was no time for hesitation. In, do it and out again.

Harry needed a cold drink. Or movement. Either would do. He was tired of waiting in this dark, airless cell, wondering what was going on outside. Waiting had always been a problem for him, but he wasn’t usually the target. Far better to be up and moving.

He picked up the Ruger and went to the door. The peephole revealed an empty corridor. Other than the person next door, and some distant voices that could have been a television, there had been few signs of movement for over thirty minutes.

With the lightest of touches he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. The carpet was springy, silent. The overhead lights were dimmed, and at the far end, a green fire escape sign glowed in the dark. He waited for the ice machine to begin its throaty rattle, then pulled the door closed behind him with a soft click.

First he checked the fire door leading to the car park. It was closed and could only be opened from the inside by depressing the bar. Satisfied his back wasn’t exposed, he turned towards reception.

He had barely taken two steps when there was movement at the end of the corridor leading from reception. A tall figure was moving towards him. Harry waited, trying to get a sense of what the man was like. A suit. . he was wearing a suit. A flash of white at the chest showed a shirt but no tie. But there was a silvery glimmer of reflected light down by his side.

Harry’s throat went dry. He forced himself to continue walking. It might not be the killer. It could be anyone. . a late-night reveller, perhaps. Harry held the Ruger down behind his leg, ready to bring it up, and wondered if the man had seen it. He’d soon find out; any innocent person would scream the place down.

Harry was halfway along the corridor when the man veered abruptly to one side, and for a second he thought it was to let him pass. Then he moved back, this time with a small shake of his head like a dog emerging from water. His arm moved, again showing a glimmer of light in his hand.

Harry dropped into a crouch, bringing up the gun and focussing on the man’s mid-section. His training switched in and coordinated his movements. His finger began to take up the slack on the trigger as he watched the man’s hand, waiting for the last possible moment before opening fire. In this narrow corridor, the sound of the shot would be like a field-gun.

He stopped, requiring a Herculean effort not to squeeze the trigger, and stood up. Moved to one side as the man lurched by, his room passkey in one hand and a shiny aluminium ice bucket in the other. A wave of alcohol followed him like a flag. He was in his fifties, his skin mottled and flushed, a businessman fixing himself a nightcap.

Harry breathed out, his head pounding with tension. He continued along the corridor to the ice machine, turning once to glance behind him. The drunk had stopped by a door and was attempting to slide his passkey into the lock.

Harry plunged his hand into the chute and wiped two or three ice blocks across his face, grateful for the icy coldness on his skin. From back up the corridor he heard a thump, then silence. The drunk had only just made it home in time.

He glanced round the corner into the reception area. It was empty, the front doors closed. As he paced back along the corridor towards his room, something began tugging at his brain, insistent and disturbing. Something was odd, out of place. The reception area? The front entrance? The corridor?

The drunk. He’d gone into the room next to Harry’s.

Harry looked up and saw that the overhead corridor light nearest to his door was dead, leaving that part of the corridor in a pool of shadow.

It had been working earlier.

He felt horribly exposed but continued the last few paces until he reached the room next to his. As he drew level with the door, a groan sounded close by. With the Ruger held high in front of him, he reached out with his free hand to touch the door.

Then the door of his own room opened with a crash and a large, bulky figure stumbled out on unsteady legs.

‘What the-!’

Harry tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Then the picture disentangled itself. It was the drunk, head slumped forward over a slash of red on his white shirt front. The man seemed suddenly to have developed two heads. . and two more legs.

Two heads. . two people.

The killer had been in the next room.

‘Stand still.’ Harry centred his gun on the head behind the drunk. But as he did so, the two figures lurched away towards the fire door. Now he could see from the light further along the corridor that the man behind was supporting the drunk with one arm wrapped around his torso, dragging him along as a shield. In his hand he was holding a piece of blue material. His other forearm was curled tight across the drunk’s throat, holding a large hunting knife digging into his chest.

‘I said, stand still!’ he repeated, but the man ignored him, intent only on reaching the outer door.

Then the drunk was standing by himself, half-propped against the wall, and the door had clanked open behind him, letting in a gust of cool night air. In the background the other figure seemed to flit away with barely a sound, and disappeared into the darkness.