“It may be. Figuring out when and where McIntyre’s seeing these new buyers has to be top of the list, now. And that’s down to the code they’re using. How do the IT guys feel about it? Have they got enough to work with?”
“They think so. It might take a little while to break it, though. They’re on it as we speak.”
“Have they got any idea how long?”
“All they can go on is the last one, that led to us contacting the Myenese. Based on that experience, they reckon four hours, minimum.”
“Four hours. Is there any way they could go any faster?”
“No. I’m here with them, and I can tell you they’re pulling out all the stops.”
“That’s fine. I have every faith. I just wanted to know how much time I have to play with.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything. You’ll be at your hotel?”
“I might be back by then. Depends how it goes.”
“How what goes? Where?”
“This thing at the Drake.”
“But that’s irrelevant now. Tony’s not selling to the Myenese. He’s not seeing them later. You don’t need to infiltrate, anymore.”
“He may not be selling to them. But doesn’t make them irrelevant.”
“For today, it does.”
“Child killers are never irrelevant. They may not be getting any gas today, but it won’t stop them looking elsewhere. Or trying to use it when they do get their hands on some.”
“So what are you going to do, when you see them?”
“Persuade them to change their plans. Think of it as my public service for the day.”
“How will you do that?”
“Some things, you’re better off not asking about. And it might be an idea to cancel your White Sox guys, as well. We may not want people seeing what happens. Or talking about it, afterward.”
The farther north I walked on Michigan Avenue, the stronger the wind became until by the time I turned into Walton Place the flags on the angled poles above the Drake’s entrance canopy were blowing out sideways like solid boards. Three uniformed doormen stood in a huddle near the valet stand, clearly hoping I was going to walk past the hotel and not bother them. The youngest of the group finally peeled away and approached me when it became obvious that a trip to the far end of the street was not a part of my immediate plans. He held the door for me, and looked longingly toward the warmth of the foyer as I went inside.
The reception area was a festival of red and gold and crystal and flowers. It made me wish I’d brought my sunglasses as I made my way up a short of flight of stairs and looked around, taking my bearings. I saw seven people in line at the check-in desk, away to the right. Twelve people waiting for the elevators, straight ahead. Double doors leading to one of the bars to the left. And next to them, I spotted a sign for the Coq d’Or. It was pointing to the entrance to another corridor, tucked away in the corner, dark, and uninviting.
Progress at the check-in counter seemed very sedate, so I joined the end of the line and focused on the opposite corner of the foyer. It took twelve minutes to get within two places of being served, and in that time no one entered or left the far corridor. When the person in front of me stepped forward I peeled away and headed for the elevators. That bought me another five minutes of observation. Still I saw no one, so I decided it was finally time for a closer look.
There were no lights in the narrow corridor so I took two steps—just far enough to be out of sight of anyone watching from the foyer—and pressed back against the wall until my eyes had adjusted to the meager glow from the emergency signs. When I could see again I moved forward and found myself at the top of a flight of stairs. I made my way down and followed the next corridor around to the left, which I figured brought me back underneath the main foyer area.
The corridor continued into the distance, eventually disappearing into the gloom, but I had no reason to follow it any farther. The wall to my left gave way to a row of double doors. There were eight. They were made of wood at the bottom, and frosted glass at the top. A gilded, fowl-shaped motif stretched the entire length, and interlaced within its long exaggerated feathers I could make out the words COQ D’OR—CHICAGO’S FINEST.
I moved to the side, took out my Beretta, crouched down, and tried the first door. Fothergill was right. It opened easily. I swung it back around forty-five degrees and paused. There was no response from the other side. I waited another minute. The inside of the room was even darker than the corridor, which put me at a disadvantage. I listened carefully, straining for the sound of breathing or movement or the rustle of clothing. There was only silence, so I dived through the gap and rolled away to the right.
“Hello?” I said.
There was no response.
“Anyone there?” I said.
No response.
“Get your coat,” I said. “You’ve scored. Whoever said online dating doesn’t work?”
There was still no answer, so I took out my phone. I placed it on the ground as far to my left as I could reach, pressed a key so that the screen lit up, and snatched my hand away again as quickly as I could move it. The little square was surprisingly bright in the surrounding darkness, but it drew no reaction. The light faded to nothing after thirty seconds, but I didn’t move for another five minutes. I remained still, crouching in the dark, listening intently. Again, I came up empty. As far as I could make out, I was alone in the room. So, cautiously, I picked up the phone, reactivated the screen to serve as a flashlight, and began to explore.
A brass panel with twelve old-fashioned switches was mounted on the wall to the right of the open door. At random, I picked the one in the center of the bottom row. I flicked it up. The room filled with light. It came from behind my left shoulder. And lasted less than one second. That brief moment was all the time I had to absorb an impression of the interior of the room. I remember seeing a bar, running the whole length of the back wall. A mass of round tables—maybe forty of them—pushed together at the far end. A sea of chairs in the space to their left. An expanse of empty, floral-pattern carpet spreading out around me. And in the center of it, two bodies. They were male. Both were wearing White Sox jackets. They were lying a few feet apart, arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles. And each had a bullet hole in the side of his head.
When the light snapped back out the room seemed even darker than it had been before. My night vision was completely shot. But I did hear something this time. The sound of the door slamming shut. And I could smell something, too. A heavy, oily odor laced with a hint of bitter almonds. It was a scent I knew well. Fulminic acid. Its fumes were poisonous, but I wasn’t too worried about that. Because most often when people use it, they have another purpose in mind. Forming part of a detonator.
I stepped to the side and tugged at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Whoever had just closed the door must have fastened it, as well. Behind me I heard a low crump and the room began to glow a deep, volcanic red. I stepped back and flicked up the other light switches. A whole row at a time. None of them worked. Acrid smoke was starting to reach my nostrils, so I moved left again and tried the other doors, one after the other. They were all locked, but with the top halves being glass I guessed that wouldn’t be too much of a problem. I struck out at an angle and kept moving till my shin crashed into something wooden. It was a chair. I grabbed it, felt for its neighbor, and retraced my steps. I lined up on the first door I reached. Swung the chair. Felt it make contact. Let go as it crashed through into the corridor in a flurry of jagged shards. Then I picked up the second chair. Used it to clear the remaining glass from the window frame. Prepared to climb out to safety. And flung myself back down to the floor as a bullet ripped into the frame near my head.