No Fortunate Son (20 page)

J
ennifer sat on the bed, toweling her wet hair, and said, “I hate this part. The waiting. All I ever do is start thinking of what can go wrong.”

“That’s a good thing. As long as it doesn’t start to paralyze you.”

“You think Dunkin’s information is correct? We’re basing a lot on it.”

“Well, not that much.
We
did the recce, and it matched his information.”

It was closing in on midnight, and I’d just kicked out Clifford Delmonty, aka Dunkin, the one bit of Taskforce help Kurt managed to break free to help us.

A five-foot-eight-inch computer geek, at his hiring board for the Taskforce he’d made an impossible claim that he could dunk a basketball. He thought we were looking for some superhuman physical specimen and figured nobody would test him on his claim. Since we were looking for a guy who could work miracles with electronic devices, not play point guard, we hired him. Then made him put his money where his mouth was.

He’d failed miserably and figured he was fired on his first day. We kept him, but he now wore the callsign Dunkin as a reminder that it doesn’t pay to exaggerate. The Taskforce needed the ground truth. No spin. Like Robert Rogers’s famous dictum from the original Ranger unit in the French and Indian War, “You can lie all you please when you tell other folks about the Rangers, but don’t never lie to a Ranger.”

I’d expected a whole team to meet me in Brussels after finding the
pendant, but the only thing that had shown up was Dunkin, with a RFID reader and other electronic gadgets. We’d done a Google search on the keycards Jennifer had taken off the Serb bodies in London, and they were for an extended-stay hotel in Brussels. Since that’s where one of the hostages had been taken, and where the body parts of the SECDEF’s son had been delivered, I’d called Kurt, convinced it would lead to Knuckles and a team meeting up with us. I was sorely mistaken. Knuckles had apparently turned up something hot and was headed to Paris, leaving me on my own.

It had been a heated conversation, and I felt bad for putting the pressure on Kurt, but I
knew
Kylie was with the vice president’s son, and I had proof positive that I had not only found where they’d been kept, but also a follow-on lead. He’d told me it wasn’t his call, and that the Oversight Council was frothing at the mouth for Knuckles to get to France. That’s when I’d dropped the pendant and the blood smear on him. Which, given how his hands were tied, I now wished I hadn’t. I knew he was imagining the worst about Kylie, and it hadn’t done any good to tell him. He couldn’t break a team free to help me, not with the scrutiny, which I should have recognized before I started dropping Freddy Krueger nightmares about blood splatter and stained floors.

In the end, nobody but him believed I was onto something, and he did only because of Kylie. Like a parent agonizing over a picture on a milk carton, he was willing to believe anything I told him, sucking in the leads as if any movement of mine was forward progress and not just motion.

The only good news was that the president was now read onto what I was doing. He knew I was freelancing, and while he wasn’t throwing his weight behind my efforts, it gave Kurt a little bit of cover to help out where he could.

Kurt had an entire support package on the ground in Paris, ostensibly to facilitate Knuckles’s operations, but he managed to break Dunkin free for the short train ride to Brussels.

Jennifer said, “You think we can do this clean?”

“I suppose that’ll be up to you.”

“Great. Just what I wanted to hear.”

She was lying on the bed, pillows propped up behind her. I lay down beside her, our hips touching. We both looked at the TV, the sound off because we couldn’t understand the language. I said, “You don’t want to do it, and we won’t. I’ll find another way in.”

Each dead Serb had two keycards to a hotel near the Grote Markt—or Grand Place—in the heart of Brussels. All four were embedded with an RFID chip, which meant they’d been programmed and held information. Sometimes that information was extreme, including the name, credit card information, dates of stay, and home addresses. Sometimes, it was just the room number. It all depended on the hotel, but that was where Dunkin and his electronic magic came in.

In this case, we got the name, duration of stay, and room number from each key. Two were for separate rooms. Two were for the penthouse on the top floor. I dearly wanted to see inside all of them.

Earlier in the day, Jennifer and I had gone to the hotel, called the B-Aparthotel Grand Place, to check it out. I figured the easiest thing would be to use the cards to enter each room as a patron, as if we were staying there. That plan was cut short by the hotel.

It was a luxury establishment, fulfilling a niche for rich folks looking to stay for a month or more. Situated on the back of the Brussels Grand Place, in a maze of indoor/outdoor restaurants and cafés, it had no fewer than three cameras at the entrance, and Dunkin had told us that any individual card would unlock only a keypad, where we’d have to type in a number code. Something we did not know.

On top of that, just inside the glass front door was the reception desk, which, if it were an Embassy Suites, would have been no problem, but this hotel was a boutique. The reception area was a total of about thirty feet across, and anyone penetrating the front door would have to walk by the desk.

The hotel had only six rooms to a floor, with just two on the top—both penthouses—so, with four floors, we were looking at a total of twenty patrons, and they’d all signed on for a long-term stay. That was the hotel specialty. To top it off, the “reception desk” wasn’t there to help the guests check in. It was to protect them. A beefy guy who did nothing but stare at anyone coming or going manned it, and his sole
purpose was problem solving of the physical sort. He wasn’t there to get you tickets to the opera, and I knew he would recognize on sight anyone staying at the hotel.

So using the keycard as though we owned the place was out of the question. Which meant a little high adventure if we wanted to see the inside of the rooms.

Dunkin had cracked into the floor plan of the hotel on a Belgium government server. He’d failed to get into the hotel servers themselves because of an incredibly high amount of encryption, but the Belgium server had at least identified the location of each of the rooms in question. Two were on the first floor—the second floor in American standards—one facing the promenade of the covered shopping district, and one facing the street known as rue de l’Écuyer. The penthouse was on the top and out of reach of anything.

We’d taken his information and gone to dinner earlier, ostensibly just a couple of American visitors, and had wandered the lanes and alleys around the hotel, seeing the problem up close. The entire area was a tourist mecca, with Grand Place only a couple of blocks away and the surrounding terrain chock-full of small eateries and stores. The only good thing was the weather. A bunch of storm clouds had settled overhead, threatening to burst open with a torrential downpour. The tourists didn’t care, but they would when the buckets of water started coming down, especially given that it was about forty degrees.

We’d circled the block on foot, getting to rue de l’Écuyer and passing right in front of the hotel entrance. Walking down the street, we’d conducted a full reconnaissance, finding a parking garage underneath the hotel with about twelve spaces, along with a laundry room for the cleaning crew and what I thought was an interior stairwell, but it was locked up tight.

Throughout the garage were the ubiquitous surveillance cameras. There had been no monitor at the reception desk, so it wasn’t real-time, but I had no idea if we were now on tape. I’d done my best to stay out of their view. We’d returned to the street and I’d pulled out a neat little Taskforce gizmo we called God’s Eye.

It had been invented by a startup called Panono and originally the
size of a basketball. We’d stolen the idea and miniaturized it. About the size of a softball, and surrounded with small embedded cameras, it allowed you to toss it into the air and get a panorama snapshot of the area around you. The higher you tossed it, the greater the panorama. The best part about it was that once it took the picture, a software program allowed you to take a point of view from anywhere on the image.

You could analyze everything, from any angle, like the eye of God. Or Google. Or maybe they were the same thing.

We’d started strolling like a couple seeing the sights, and the clouds had opened up, scattering the tourists. I suppose I should have shouted with joy, but we were getting soaked, which aggravated the hell out of me.

I’d waited on a break in traffic, not wanting anyone to see me toss the ball. I cowered under an awning, saw it was clear, then threw the thing in the air. After I’d caught it, we’d walked a little bit more, then repeated the procedure, trying to get a look inside the room next to the street.

We darted from awning to awning, Jennifer holding a newspaper over her head and acting just like a woman on a date. She’d actually taken her leather jacket off and balled it under an arm, saying it would get ruined. On the last awning, I said, “Some commando you are.”

She looked at me, hair dripping water and trembling from the cold. She said, “Was that you I just heard cursing? As you tried to throw the Eye from under the awning? What did that get you?”

My last toss had actually caught the edge of the canvas and ricocheted into the street, forcing me to chase it in the rain to keep it from getting run over. I held it out to her and said, “Do better?”

She snatched it out of my hand, gave me her jacket, then stood in the rain and tossed it up, waiting defiantly for it to come down. She caught it, darted back under the awning, and said, “Satisfied?”

I said, “Yeah. I was just trying to get that shirt soaked.”

She looked down, saw the damage, and punched me in the arm, now really pissed. She started to stalk off, and I tugged her sleeve, getting her to stop. I pulled off my own jacket, a Gore-Tex one designed for operations in inclement weather. I held it out. She looked at me, and I knew
she was going to tell me to stuff it. Arms crossed over her chest, shirt soaked, she was going to let her anger get the better of her.

I said, “So you can keep your leather one dry.”

She glared at me, then took it. She slipped it on, then shoved her leather jacket underneath. Still piqued, she said, “We done yet?”

Knowing I was ahead, I said, “Yeah. Let’s head back through the indoor mall. Remember how to get there?”

She took off at a brisk walk, hood over her head and not looking back. I trotted to keep up, the rain pelting my face like ice cubes.

I
t took about forty-five minutes for Dunkin to download the data from God’s Eye, then massage it with his software programs. When he was finished, he’d given us the damage. Using the pictures and his own internal mapping from the Brussels server, there was no way to get to any of the rooms from the outside without being seen by security, with the exception of one. There was a single break between the various camera angles and the corner room on the first floor. The one that butted up to rue de l’Écuyer, the only road next to the hotel that allowed cars.

The good news was that right next to the window of the target room was one of the hotel security cameras, posted at an angle to see the street. Dunkin had studied it and said we could slave from the cable coming out. We couldn’t stop it from recording, but he could see everything that was tied to the surveillance array and give us early warning about anything that happened inside the building.

Looking thoughtful, Jennifer had analyzed the problem and said, “I suppose we could pretend to be a maintenance crew. Get a painting ladder or something and go to work right there. Slave the camera, then work on the window. I could get inside and Pike could give me cover. Can we get some government maintenance uniforms? Can the Taskforce do that on short notice?”

I thought the whole scene was cute. Her brow scrunched up, dissecting the problem, trying to find a solution. Too bad she was way, way off.

She saw my grin and said, “What? Why is that stupid?”

“It’s not. But that’s way too much work when we have a monkey.”

She heard the words and said, “Whoa. Wait. It’s raining cats and dogs outside. I can’t climb in this weather.”

Jennifer was a former Cirque du Soleil performer and about the best climber I had ever seen. She could scale a marble wall and had used that skill on a number of occasions to pull my ass out of the fire.

I said, “Rain is in our favor. Nobody will see. We try to fake a maintenance crew and we’re only good until someone asks me a question, regardless of our uniforms. And we don’t have the time to prep for that. It would take a couple of days.”

She looked at Dunkin, who stared at his shoes, not wanting to be drawn into the conversation. Disgusted, she said, “You’re really going to put all this on my shoulders?”

“No. You get in, then get to the laundry room in the garage. Unlock the door. Then we’ll both be in. Behind the security.”

She looked at the ceiling, breathing through her nose, containing her aggravation. She said, “What do I do if I’m caught on the side of the building?”

“Show them your wet blouse.”

Her head snapped to me, the glare like white-hot lava, and I held up my hands, laughing. “I’ll be there. I’ll handle anything from the ground. You won’t have to worry about that.”

We’d spent the next ten minutes synchronizing the encryption for the slave device with Dunkin’s kit and got a quick class on using it, then I’d sent Dunkin on his way. Now we had about five hours before we executed.

Jennifer flipped the channel, getting another news station we couldn’t understand. She said, “You sure this risk is worth it? I don’t mean because I’m worried about doing the climb. I mean, it’s a hell of a big risk for something that may not pay off at all.”

I said, “It’s all we’ve got. Those Serbs in London were tied to both Braden and Kylie. I know I can’t prove it, but they were. All we need to find is a connection to Braden. Maybe he’s staying in one of the rooms. We find that, then crack some skulls.”

She exhaled. “Maybe we should wait for Nung. Get more than just you and me. Let this sit.”

“He can’t get here for another day, and that’s a day more for Kylie. I can’t wait, and neither can she. We find an edge, and we can use Nung for the endgame.” I squeezed her hand and said, “I’ll climb that wall if you don’t want to. You don’t feel comfortable, I’ll do it myself. You can pull security. But . . .” I lapsed off, not wanting to admit something.

She said, “But what?”

I looked at her, then forced it out. “But you’re better at this than me. You can do it in half the time. I can’t get up to that window like you can.”

Her eyes widened a smidgen, then she smiled, “Boy, I’ll bet that was hard to get out.”

I muttered, “You’ll never know.”

She said, “What?”

“Nothing. We should get some sleep. We’re going to need it.”