Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

Here he had a separate task to complete. When he finished searching the suitcase he laid out his tools and materials on the bed and went to work on the inside of the case.

He placed a sizable package wrapped in a single thin layer of plastic on the bed next to him. It was about the size of a small laptop computer and approximately one inch thick. It weighed a little more than half a kilo. He knew it wouldn’t take much to break the plastic covering. Any sharp impact or rough handling would do it.

He worked swiftly, his fingers and hands nimble. In less than three minutes he was done. He checked to make sure that everything was dry and then tossed the American’s clothes and other personal items back into the bag. He added one more little touch, then zipped the bag closed and stood it back down on the floor where he had found it. Then he exited the room and locked the door.

Now as the Libyan watched through the field glasses his compatriot scurried near the entrance to the bridge and disappeared into the darkness.

All was going well. A few seconds later the two lawyers turned out the lights in their rooms. He knew they would be tired. They had traveled much farther to get here than either of the two Libyans. Weary from their trip, within minutes the Americans would be sound asleep.

He lowered the field glasses from his eyes, pushed himself back from the parapet along the edge of the roof, and made his way toward the fire escape at the back of the building.

Simon Korff fingered the crisp bank notes in his pocket. The three stiff one-hundred-franc bills felt as if they just came off the press. They even felt warm from the lawyer’s pocket. He hadn’t seen that much money at any one time since losing his job at the bank.

He knew that he had promised his dinner companions that he would take a taxi home. He had intended to do just that. But when he got to the hotel’s front counter the night clerk wasn’t there. He hit the bell twice but no one showed up. As he stood there waiting he considered the cost of the taxi and had second thoughts. With the money in his pocket he could buy a nice present for his son and daughter-in-law. They had been so good to him. For once he would be able to do something for them.

He turned and headed out the front door. As he navigated his way around and over the cobblestones on the street the cold night air seemed to have a sobering effect. The tingling sensation at the tip of his nose began to lessen. The walk would do him good. This way by the time he got home he could slip into the apartment without stumbling and waking everyone up.

Slowly he made his way to the bridge, up the two broad steps, and onto the old wooden concourse. He steadied himself against the railing and looked down the long straight tunnel. Under the gabled roof with its massive beamed supports, the bright overhead lights showered the entire path with a yellow incandescent brilliance.

The glare may have made him feel safe, but the pounding in his head had the old man wishing for a little less radiance. Besides, Lucerne was a tourist town. No one worried about walking at night. The crime rate here was almost nonexistent.

He trudged along under the glowing lights, stopping every so often against the railing and the solid wooden walls. A few times he wondered how he had gotten from the railing on the left side of the bridge to the railing on the right without intending to do so. At one point he stumbled into a huge curved laminated support the size of a tree trunk. He reached out and slapped the solid wood as if it had assaulted him. Then he collected himself and moved on. In the distance he could see the outline of the tower at the side of the bridge. He steeled himself and moved toward it as if it were a waypoint on GPS and he was on autopilot.

By now I am starting to get irritated with Harry. “Let it go!” I tell him. “We’ll sort it out when we get home.”

“I’m not gonna let it go. Eight hundred bucks,” he says. “We’ll pay for tonight but not for tomorrow night.” Harry has hammered on the bell at the front desk long enough to rouse the night clerk, and is now arguing with the man across the counter.

The clerk is half asleep. “Sir! I have told you. Cancellation requires forty-eight hours’ notice. That is hotel policy.”

“And, as I told you, we have an emergency. We have to leave, and we have to do it now,” says Harry. “You know as well as I do the place is full up. We had to pay a premium for the rooms to get them on short notice. You’ll rent them in the morning within an hour, and for the same price. So why don’t you just print out a cancellation form and we will leave. Unless you want to wake up the entire hotel.”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot do that.”

“Then perhaps you can give me a list of the names of all the people who had a key to our rooms?” says Harry.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that somebody let themselves into our rooms during dinner and it wasn’t to turn down the covers or leave chocolate kisses.”

“Was anything taken?”

“We don’t know and we don’t have time right now to stop and find out. Tell you what, why don’t we call the police?” says Harry.

“No. No,” says the clerk. “No need for that. I’m sure we can work this out.”

“I knew you could,” says Harry.

The clerk wipes the sleep from his eyes as he shuffles his feet toward the computer to work up the form.

I look at Harry. “Please tell me you’re not gonna do the same thing for the plane tickets.”

“Let me think about it.”

It didn’t take Ana long to realize she wasn’t the only one tracking them. Her senses had been attuned to this since first setting up outside their law office in Coronado.

Whoever had her equipment still had an interest in their client, the one named Ives. Otherwise why go diving in the trash bin behind their office? If she had any doubts concerning this, they were cured when she saw them disappear onto the Marine Corps Air Station at Miramar. Sooner or later, Ana knew she would get lucky. And like bees to honey, they would come back.

She watched the lawyers long enough to see them settle down to dinner with a third man, an older guy, European from the cut of his clothes. Then she peeled off from the lawyers and keyed instead on the two men watching them from the roof across the river.

Ana carried a large quilted shoulder bag. It looked handmade because it was. She had fashioned it herself-one of her hobbies, sewing. It had little pockets stitched inside. One of them contained a small 4X mini-monocular infrared night scope. With this, from three hundred meters away, in the shadows on the other side of the river, she was able to light up the two men on the roof as if she shot them with a flare.

She watched as one of the men left the roof. Ana thought about going after him but instead sat tight. She needed only one of them. If she could take him alive and had enough time, she could squeeze him for everything he knew. Find out who hired him, a name and a location. With that she could go get her stuff.

Three minutes later she saw movement on the other side of the river. The man from the roof emerged from one of the darkened little lanes between the buildings across the way. She watched him through the night scope as he hunkered against one of the vendor stalls near the far end of the wooden footbridge.

He remained there for a while. It was obvious they were stalking someone. She figured it had to be one of the lawyers. Perhaps both of them. Ana didn’t care. What she wanted was information. She kept flashing the night scope between the one on the roof and his partner near the end of the bridge.

Finally the guy on the ground moved. She watched as he went past the entrance to the bridge. Suddenly the night scope flared. A blinding orange flash from the bright lights on the bridge caught her directly in the eye. The man had moved to where the scope was useless. There was too much light. She blinked, then closed her eyes until the glowing orange spot on her retina receded. She closed her eye, rubbed the lid, and blinked a few more times. Finally she brought the scope back up to her eye. She trained it up toward the rooftop, away from the lights. This time the man, the one on the edge of the roof, was gone.