Chapter 20

Something did happen Thursday evening, but not that way. And not in any way either of us had expected.

The day had gone along as quietly and uneventfully as the three before it, with still not a sign of Walter. If he hadn't actually given up he was doing an awfully good imitation of it. I went back to the hotel in good spirits and was starting to put my stuff back in the suitcase when there was a sharp knock on the door. "Room service," came the routine call.

I was so used to hearing that one that I just reflexively walked over to open up. And Susan was nearly as slow, it wasn't until I had my hand on the knob that she suddenly piped up, "Larry, you didn't order yet!"

No, I hadn't; but by that time I already had the door half open. And it was way too late to stop now, because I could see something I really hadn't wanted to see.

The good news was that it wasn't Walter, going by Susan's description of him. The bad news was that whoever else it was had a gun pointed right at me. I was still gaping when he and his two pals behind him pushed me back and walked in. The door made a dismal click as it re-latched behind them.

"Please make no sound, Mr. Costain," said the man holding the pistol. "The device you will notice on the muzzle of this gun is called a silencer, it will reduce any noise made by the gun's discharge to something that will be inaudible beyond the confines of this room. And I will discharge it without hesitation if you attempt to summon help. Do you understand?"

In my mind I could hear Susan's voice saying, over and over again, "Oh my God, Larry, oh my God, oh my God." As much to shut up the back of my own mind, which had the same idea, I told her silently to knock it off.

"What's the difference?" I told the guy sourly. "You're here to kill me anyway, right?"

"Not necessarily," he said, surprising me considerably. "If you will please sit down"—he gestured at the mini-couch in the little sitting-area alcove of the room—"I will explain further."

"But I—"

"Sit," he said firmly. With that gun in his hand I didn't have a lot of choice; I went over and sat. As I settled in he took a seat himself in the companion chair across from me.

You wouldn't have known him for a mobster if you met him without his gun. He was actually fairly natty looking, clean shaven with well-groomed dark hair and wearing what looked to be an expensive and hand-tailored suit complete with neatly knotted tie. I'd long been a fan of old movies, from back when Hollywood wasn't sourcing its scripts out of kids' comic books, and he reminded me vaguely of an actor in some of them named Cesar Romero. Romero played a lot of elegant Latin lovers, and this guy would've fit right in. I remembered that the actor had also had a slight Latin accent, and I could hear a little of that in how the guy talked as well.

The other two who'd pushed in behind him were less urbane looking. One of them was fairly small and slender, with a pinched-looking face of the type that I'd heard compared to a ferret but that put me in mind of a rat. The other was much the largest of the three, with a bit of a paunch on him. Both of them, too, wore suits, but without the ties; the big guy had an explosion of chest hair visible under his open collar, and his hands looked pretty furry as well. Cesar Romero wouldn't have worried me if I'd run into him on the street; I wouldn't have cared to meet either of the others in even a moderately lit alley.

It appeared that Susan's—well, Ariel's—senator pal had a second team. From Cesar Romero's soft Latin inflections, and the swarthy appearance of his cohorts, I wondered vaguely if he'd dug them up through his Mexican drug contacts.

"Now, Mr. Costain," Cesar Romero was saying, "you are quite correct that one of our assignments was to eliminate you. But—" he went on emphatically, gesturing me silent with his free hand even though I hadn't said a word—"this is a contingency assignment, to be executed only if we are unable to complete our primary objective. Do you understand? No harm need come to you if you can help us with our first goal."

"Which is?" I asked unnecessarily; he'd tell me anyway.

"To recover a certain computer accessory. You know what I speak of?"

I nodded. "A flash drive."

"Correct, Mr. Costain! Very good!" He beamed at me almost like a schoolteacher praising a student for the right answer. "A flash drive, as you say. A very specific flash drive that contains certain information which was pilfered from the confidential files of a colleague. Now, would you be in a position to assist us in recovering this stolen data?"

Second team, my ass. Walter had been the second team, these guys were first-stringers. I'd always wondered why he'd tried to kill Susan rather than getting the drive from her; it was the evidence against him and his boss, not whatever Susan might say. The guys I was looking at now had their priorities a lot straighter.

"Sorry about that," I told him unapologetically. "Susan turned that drive over to the Feds months ago. They're the ones who have it. Not her, and not me."

"Ah, but you see they have said otherwise," Cesar Romero objected. "And they have said it in a court of law, for which I understand they have an unreasoning respect."

"Yeah, I know all about that," I said. "What can I tell you, they lied. Giving it to them was the price Susan paid for getting in the witness protection program. So you see, there was no point to trying to kill Susan, and there's no point to killing me, either." I didn't have much hope about the last, but what the hell, it was worth a try.