Barry Eisler - The Detachment

“Jeez,” the guy in the robe said. “You going to buy one right now?”

Treven palmed the key and made an expression of chagrin. “You’re right,” he said, “that was rude.” He held out the magazine.

“No, that’s okay,” the guy said. “I can wait.”

Treven glanced at his wrist. “Oh, shit, I left my watch in the gym. No, take it, I shouldn’t have grabbed it like that and anyway, I need to get my watch.” He handed it over and headed back to the gym, wondering if Dox was as dumb as he seemed. He was starting to think maybe not.

He walked past the bodyguard, who glanced at him without interest, and into the gym. Alisa saw him and said, “Did you forget something?”

“I did, actually. My watch. Did anyone turn one in?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. Where did you leave it?”

“Back by the dumbbells. I’ll take a look.”

He started to head back. Shorrock was gone. So was the water bottle. So was the keycard.

Shit, shit, shit…

He glanced around wildly, momentarily forgetting himself. Shorrock was on an elliptical machine. He’d been obscured by one of the pillars. Okay, okay. The water bottle and keycard were on the floor next to him-he must have been in the habit of taking his things with him as he moved from station to station. And he obviously hadn’t noticed the card wasn’t his. The problem was, the card was now on the floor right next to him, and the glass wall he was facing was reflecting like a mirror because the corridor outside it was lit less brightly than the gym itself. And unlike before, when he was twisting from side to side as he did sit-ups, the elliptical machine had him facing unwaveringly ahead into the mirrored glass.

He had to swap the keys back. If Shorrock made it back to his room with the wrong key, he’d know somebody had switched them. The security detail seemed relatively relaxed, but this would be a giant red flag. They wouldn’t leave Shorrock alone for a minute, not to mention all the attention that would be focused on the guy whose key Shorrock had wound up with.

He remembered why he was ostensibly in here, and walked over to the dumbbell rack. Alisa came up alongside him. “Left side or the right side?” she said.

Shit, this was getting more complicated. “Left side,” he said.

She knelt down. An idea came to him. He squatted down next to her and pulled the laces loose on one of his sneakers.

“There it is,” she said. “You’re in luck.” She reached back and retrieved it, then stood and handed it to Treven.

He smiled. “Nothing like a little luck in Vegas.”

They started heading back to the front, passing the elliptical machines. Alisa said, “So, are you going to try the-”

Treven tripped. He let the watch go flying and arrested his fall by placing his hand on the floor right next to Shorrock’s key. Alisa lunged for the watch. She missed it, but her attention had been drawn long enough for Treven to make the switch. He was betting Shorrock’s gaze had followed her lateral movement rather than his downward one, but even if not, he’d look down and see his card and water bottle exactly as he’d left them.

“Shit,” Treven said, straightening up. “That’s embarrassing.”

Alisa picked up the watch, glanced at it, and gave it back to him. “Looks like it’s okay.”

Treven looked at it and nodded. “These are good watches.”

She looked down at his feet and smiled. “You better tie that lace.”

He bent and took care of it and they headed back to the front. “Okay,” he said, “this time I’m trying the steam room. I’ll be safer in my bare feet.”

“Let me know how it goes,” she said, giving him another smile.

He headed back into the spa and called Rain. “We’re good. Cards are switched back. Our friend is still at it. He’ll probably be an hour or so. You should head down here to the spa in case he pops in to use a toilet. Other than that, though, I don’t think he’s coming.”

“It’s okay,” Rain said. “The camera’s in place. That’ll be a huge help. If we can’t get to him in the spa, we’ll get another chance.”

Treven hoped he was right. But two near things in a row-the magazine, then Shorrock moving the key-had him on edge. Both had been saved by luck. It was hard to imagine they’d be that lucky a third time.

Getting a camera into Shorrock’s room was a lucky break, but we still had to exploit it. Overall, though, the signs were good. We had him on audio, discussing his plans for the evening: dinner at the Michelin-starred French restaurant Alex at seven; drinks at the nightclub Tryst at ten; the casino floor for gambling, or “gaming,” as the industry marketeers insist on prettifying it, before and after. I thought there was a decent chance we could wrap the whole thing up that night.

Larison and I, each accompanied by an interchangeable platinum blonde Las Vegas escort, managed to get tables at Alex, and even better, Larison had line-of-sight to the private dining room where Shorrock was being entertained. Halfway through the long meal, I felt my mobile phone vibrate in my pocket-the signal from Larison that Shorrock was heading toward the restroom. I excused myself quickly and got there ahead of him, just as we’d planned. It was empty, even the stall doors all slightly ajar. My heart kicked up a notch. This was it.

I stood at the urinal on the far right as though taking a leisurely piss and waited. A moment later, I heard the door open behind me. I concentrated on listening and resisted the urge to glance back. Footsteps, coming closer. And suddenly there he was, walking up to the urinal on the far left, obeying the unspoken men’s room etiquette that you leave as much space between you and the other guy as the arrangement of urinals will allow.

Larison would have signaled Dox by now, who would be waiting just outside the restaurant so I could duck out and hand off the cyanide canister when it was done. There was only a remote chance that anyone in the restaurant might immediately fall under suspicion, but I didn’t want to be holding the murder weapon if it happened.

I glanced over and saw Shorrock was swaying slightly, his face flushed from alcohol. My phone buzzed in my pocket-Larison again, the signal for someone else on the way. But damn it, I only needed a second. I dropped my hand into my pants pocket, gripped the canister, and started to pull it out. Just as it started to clear my pocket and in the instant before I turned and advanced on Shorrock, I heard the door open again. I froze and let the canister drop back. Footsteps, and then another patron was standing between Shorrock and me, unzipping his pants.

“Hey, Tim,” the guy said. “How are you enjoying the meal?”

“Unreal,” Shorrock said. “I can’t believe there are still three more courses. I’m stuffed.”

“Trust me, you have to save room for the poached apple cream puff. You’ll die.”

I ignored the irony and kept my eyes fixed on the marble wall in front of me, hoping unrealistically that Shorrock would be so overloaded with wine that he’d piss long enough for the other guy to depart first. But it wasn’t to be. Shorrock shook off, zipped up, and headed over to the sink. I heard water running for a moment, then heard him say, “See you in a minute.” And then he was gone, the opportunity gone with him.

I didn’t give up hope. It was a safe bet the industry executives who were wooing Shorrock had bought him not just the chef’s tasting menu, but also the accompanying wine course-a wine course that would result in frequent additional trips to the rest room. And it did-once more at Alex, and twice afterward, at the nightclub, Tryst. But every time, the restroom was occupied afterward: by another diner at Alex; by a washroom attendant at Tryst.