“Well, yes, but not the one I found her in. She works at two different places. Where I met her, and another in Belgravia called the Silvain Hotel. It’s not owned by Russians, but they employ several of our people.”
“So she saw him there?”
Mikhail led Petra to the table, then said to Natalia, “Tell her what you told me.”
The girl looked nervous. “A man like the one in the picture arrived at our hotel last night.”
“The Silvain,” Mikhail clarified.
“Yes.”
“Describe him,” Petra said.
Natalia bit her lip, then closed her eyes for a moment. “Brown hair, dark and cut short above his ears. I don’t know age, probably less than forty.”
“Height? Weight?”
“Maybe five foot ten. Normal weight. In shape.”
“Did you at least get his name?”
“The last name he used was Shelby. The first name I don’t remember. I wasn’t the one who checked him in, so I didn’t look at his passport.”
Shelby? The name meant nothing to Petra. “Did he arrive alone?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure he looked like the man in the drawing.”
“Very close,” Natalia said. “Please, I need to leave. I’m supposed to be at work by ten, so I’m already going to be late.”
“Where are you working tonight?” Petra asked.
“The Silvain.”
Petra looked at Mikhail. “What do you think?”
“It’s worth checking.”
She nodded. It’s what she’d been thinking, too. To Natalia, she said, “Did you see him leave this morning yet?”
“No, but my shift was over at seven a.m. Can I go now?”
“We’ll all go,” Petra grabbed the girl by the arm and started to pull her up. “Come on. We don’t want you to be late.”
Despite her reluctance, Natalia proved more than adequate. Not only did she supply Petra and Mikhail with all the information the hotel had on James Shelby, she also learned from one of her colleagues that Mr. Shelby had left the hotel around 8 a.m. that morning and had not returned.
To top it off, Natalia made a copy of the keycard to Mr. Shelby’s room.
Petra and Mikhail had waited down the street, out of sight, while all this had gone on. When Natalia showed up with the information and the key, Petra paid her the two hundred pounds she had promised her.
“And our rooms?” Petra asked.
“Two,” Natalia said quickly. “In the same part of the hotel as Mr. Shelby, but one floor up. I’ve put them on hold, but you’ll have to check in at the desk.”
“Of course.” Petra handed Natalia an extra fifty for her efforts. “Thank you for your help.”
The girl tried to smile, then said, “I must go now.”
“If we need anything else, we’ll let you know,” Petra said.
It didn’t seem to be what Natalia wanted to hear, but she tried to smile, then retreated back to the Silvain.
“How do you want to do this?” Mikhail asked.
“You check us in,” Petra said. “I’ll have a look at Mr. Shelby’s room.”
Petra entered the Silvain and walked purposefully past the front desk toward the lounge. In the narrow corridor beyond, she found the elevator, and beside it a stairway. She rode the elevator up to the floor Shelby’s room was on, then followed the numbers on the doors until she reached the right one.
Leaning close, she listened. There was dead silence on the other side. She pulled out the duplicate keycard and held it to the lock.
There was a gentle click, and she slipped inside.
The room was dark, not quite pitch black, but close enough. “Housekeeping,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She stepped to the end of the entryway and peeked into the room. The bed was made and empty. She stepped around the corner and nudged open the door to the bathroom. It was even darker inside than the rest of the room, and equally as unoccupied.
As expected, Mr. Shelby was still out.
She pulled a penlight from her pocket. The first thing she checked was the small wardrobe cabinet next to the window. Empty. That wasn’t necessarily unusual. Many people preferred leaving their belongings in their suitcases when they traveled. Of course, that should have meant there was a suitcase in the room. There wasn’t. In fact, there were no bags of any kind.
Petra frowned.
According to his registration form, Mr. Shelby had reserved the room for an entire week. So then, where was his luggage?
She moved into the bathroom. Towels folded and ready for use, fresh bottles of shampoo and conditioner, but no personal items whatsoever.
She touched the sink near the drain. Bone dry. The same went for the shower.
Back in the bedroom, she located the wastebasket. Also empty.
The room wasn’t being used at all, but why? The only reason she could come up with was that he was using it as a safe location, in case it was needed later.
The question now was, would Mr. Shelby come back?
Chapter 33
“I don’t think she’s going to show,” Quinn said.
Orlando touched him on his thigh. “Let’s give it another hour. If we don’t see her by then, we’ll come back in the morning.”
Quinn grimaced, but didn’t get up. He knew she was right. It was just that he was having a hard time reining in his impatience. Something that seldom happened.
They were sitting by the front window of the Queen Anne Pub. From there, they had a direct view of the office building across the street where Wright Bains Securities was located. It was six stories of glass, steel, and stone, surrounded on three sides by similar generic, soul-sucking structures. The kind of place a secret division of MI6 would choose. There were two ways in: a glass door main entrance at the center of the building, and a less-flashy steel door off to the left. From Quinn and Orlando’s position, they could see both.
With Wills dead, Taplin was Quinn’s best chance at getting information. His biggest fear had been that she was still in New York. But Orlando was able to learn that a U.K. citizen named Annabel Taplin had returned to London the night before. Which meant there was a very good chance she had returned to work that morning.
When they got there, it was already lunchtime. Quinn had hoped they might spot her going out to eat with some of her colleagues, but no luck. And, as the afternoon turned to evening with no sign of Annabel among those heading home for the day, he began to wonder if she had come in at all.
Orlando picked up the cup of coffee she’d been drinking and took another sip. Quinn, who had been nursing the same beer for over an hour, reached for his glass, but then decided against it. Instead, he pushed his chair back and stood up.
“Toilet,” he said, walking away.
“Thanks for the information,” Orlando called after him.
He headed across the pub and down a small hallway to the public toilets. He didn’t really need to use them; he just couldn’t stand sitting around any longer.
The men’s room was a single stall and one urinal. Tucked in behind the door was a sink with a mirror above it. It had obviously become a tradition to put stickers on the walls and mirror, most touting bands.
Quinn turned on the cold water, then wiped some of it across his face. He felt the need to do something. Anything. This waiting was killing him. Usually he could be on a stakeout for days before he’d feel the need to get things moving. But never before had it been his own family who was being threatened.
He stared at himself in an open spot on the mirror between a sticker for the Arctic Monkeys and a throwback for Stiff Little Fingers, but didn’t like what was looking back. There was something in his eyes that he had never seen.
Fear.
He couldn’t deny it. It was staring right back at him.