Keith Thomson - Once a spy

“We appreciate the detective work, sir,” Mortimer said. “Which room are they in?”

“Do you mind a quick question first?” Brody asked.

“Please,” said Mortimer.

Brody looked to his shoes to convey his reluctance to broach the topic to such men of altruism. “The fax mentioned a reward?”

“That’s right.” Mortimer turned to Cadaret. “It’s what, ten thousand?”

“For each of them.”

“Room one oh five,” Brody said, fighting an urge to sing it.

Mortimer wandered down the parking lot, stealing glances at room 105. The curtains were closed and the lights were off. He looked for telltale shadows or flickers. He saw none. The gap between the door and the threshold was clear. Likely the rabbits were in bed.

He positioned himself behind a brick column directly across the breezeway from their room. The column would hide him from their view. Another motel guest might think he was examining the structure, that he was an engineer or an aficionado of architectural kitsch, perhaps. Fortunately there were no guests around. But any second, one might appear. And because of the strong wind-the gusts turned the breezeway into a block-long flute-Mortimer wouldn’t have the luxury of being alerted by the sound of the unbolting of a door. Accordingly, he drew the Walther from his coat with no more fanfare than if it were a cell phone, and he held it close enough to his chest that his lapels hid it. The gun was loaded with subsonic ammo and sound-suppressed, and its report would be no louder than a quarter falling into one of the vending machines’ coin-return slots.

Cadaret pulled up in the breezeway two feet before the room, flattening himself against the wall-though not too flat. A passerby might guess he was waiting for his wife, using the bricks to scratch his back maybe. He reached sideways and banged on the door three times.

There was no response.

Mortimer took a quick look around. Still no one about. He signaled this to Cadaret.

Cadaret knocked twice more and said into the door, “Charles and Drummond Clark, Special Agents Mortimer and Cadaret, FBI.”

Again, nothing.

Mortimer listened for a creak of weight shifting on carpet. He heard none.

“We know you’re not responsible for the taxi driver,” Cadaret said. “We’re here to get your assistance in finding out who is.”

Mortimer aimed his Walther at the zero in the plastic room number mounted at eye level on the door. His overcoat still concealed the weapon from all points of view except that of whichever rabbit would open the door. By the time Drummond or Charlie Clark glimpsed the gun, a hollow-point round would have entered his head, driving him back into the room. Cadaret would follow and, with his own. 22, take out the other Clark.

As Cadaret crept closer to the door, Mortimer scanned the area. He shook his head, informing Cadaret the coast was clear.

Cadaret whirled and kicked the door inward. The wind masked much of the smash. Leading with his gun, Cadaret dove to the carpet and rolled, coming to a halt on one knee, planning to shoot both men.

He fired no shots. Instead he turned and beckoned Mortimer. Warily, Mortimer stepped in. Cadaret appeared to be alone in the room.

Brody must have gotten the number wrong, Mortimer thought, until Cadaret directed his attention to the rumpled comforters and blankets. Not only had someone clearly lain in each bed, particles of cinder-no doubt from the house on Prospect Place-and similarly shaded smudges remained on the sheets and pillowcases.

Cadaret rose slowly, his gun aimed at the closed bathroom door. There was no need to discuss the plan-Mortimer got it from Cadaret’s eye movements.

Nodding his acknowledgment, Mortimer tapped the room door shut behind him and stole toward the bathroom. Adrenaline slowed down time, sharpened his senses, and left him swollen with an exhilarating sense that he could shape circumstances to his will.

He knelt by the bathroom door and prepared to fire his Walther twice-and only twice. He was confident no additional rounds would be required.

He counted to three with his fingers. On three, Cadaret lowered a shoulder and flew at the door. It flew inward, ripping the shower curtain from the rod above the bathtub, rings and all. Everything clattered into the tub, which, like the rest of the bathroom, was empty.

“Did you find them?” Brody asked, and just as soon wished he hadn’t. The agents’ demeanor said enough.

“We suspect they took someone else’s car,” Mortimer said.

Impossible, thought Brody. “There are just three other rooms rented. All of them are on this side of the inn. And look-” Stepping out of the office, he pointed down the breezeway. Three cars were parked outside their respective rooms.

He considered, though, that while he had been sitting in his office pricing widescreen TVs online, the fugitives might have sneaked around the back of the building to his own car. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“Are you okay?” Mortimer asked.

“I don’t know,” Brody said, bolting for the other side of the building.

Rounding the corner, he could see that the Reserved: Management spot was empty. He stopped and placed his hands on his knees to prevent himself from collapsing under the weight of his own stupidity. How had he gotten it into his head that shaking down fugitives would provide them with a sense of security?

Mortimer and Cadaret rounded the corner behind him. “Mr. Brody, can you give me the make, model, color, and tag number?” Mortimer asked.

Brody sighed, thinking not of the car, which was late in life, but the value of its occupants. “It’s a red, ninety-three Toyota Cressida, Jersey plate T-E-N dash P-I-N.”

“We ought to be able to get a statewide be-on-the-lookout alert on the system in a matter of minutes,” Mortimer said, hurrying to his car, presumably to effect the BOLO from a computer. “We’ll get it back for you.” His cool failed to buoy Brody. The fugitives would have to be idiots to keep the car long.

Brody returned to the office with Cadaret. “You may have information, whether you realize it or not, that can help us,” Cadaret said as they sat down.

Brody couldn’t think of a thing that would be of use to them. Desperate to increase his reward prospects, however, he added insights and innuendo as he recounted his chat with Charlie, including Charlie’s admission that he was on the lam and thinking of going by bus to South Dakota. Wherever possible, Brody sprinkled in what little else he knew, like that the old man was wearing pajamas.

Cadaret asked, “Have you told any of this to anyone else?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good,” Cadaret said. His words were punctuated by a muffled blast.

Brody’s eyes fell on the gun Cadaret was aiming at him.

Then came a searing pain unlike anything Brody ever had felt, and all at once the world was cold and black and-

Cadaret posted a BACK IN FIVE MINUTES sign in the office window. Watching from the driver’s seat of the Caprice, Mortimer dialed a local number. One ring and a man answered, “Road service and towing.”

“Hi, I’ve got a dead battery,” Mortimer said.

“No problem, man. Where are you at?”

“Montclair, at the library.”

“I got a guy I can get there in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“Great, thank you.” Mortimer hung up and opened the door, admitting Cadaret.

They drove onto the New Jersey Turnpike as soon as the paramedic van pulled up at the motel office. Three men, clad head to toe in white medical garb, exited the van. While

the first tidied the office, the second and third removed the corpse. They got a chuckle out of the A. BRODY placard beside it-Cadaret had removed the letter R.