Lynne Heitman - The Pandora Key aka The Hostage Room

“Why? Are you interested in a trade?”

“You told me you had information to give me on Blackthorne. I need to know what you have and where you got it.”

“Yeah, I made that up.” I rolled up out of my tilt and pulled my notebook from my backpack. “I don’t have much. I heard something about them from another guy who is also scared to death of them.” I glanced up at Kraft. “Same as you, right? Isn’t that who has you peeking out from behind the curtains? Mr. Black and Mr. Thorne?”

“Tony Blackmon is dead, Cyrus Thorne is running the show, and I have good reason to be careful.”

Kraft stood up and started pacing around the room again. He forgot his beer, went back for it, looked in the mirror, then finally turned and sat sidesaddle with one foot on the floor and one dangling. “This guy you talked to, who is he? What’s his name?”

“He was a reporter. He said he dug too deep into Blackthorne. Now he’s a-” Kraft was about to fall off his perch waiting for my answer. “Now he’s not.”

“What’s his name? I’ll bet I’ve already talked to him.”

Max Kraft was a tricky guy, but Lyle had made it pretty clear he wanted nothing to do with Blackthorne. It wasn’t for me to be throwing his name around. “All I can tell you is he was doing a story on the 809 hijacking. Somehow he ran into Blackthorne. He told me to steer clear of them. I’m trying to take his advice.”

He wet his lips. “I can tell you what he wouldn’t.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I want to talk to him. I want his name.”

“I won’t give it to you.”

“If he dropped the story, he doesn’t deserve your protection.” He took another swig of beer. Judging from the face he made, either the beer was flat, or he had a deep and genuine contempt for Lyle. “No journalist worth his ink would or should ever drop a story like this. People need to know. But it’s his loss. This is Pulitzer time, baby. You watch. My story will blow the doors off.”

“Good for you.” I stood.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t need a billion dollars, if it even exists. I’m not giving you the name of my Blackthorne source. But I do have this.” I pulled out the 809 manifest and held it up. “The names and contacts of most of those people from Salanna 809 are on here. I’m violating all kinds of confidences by giving it to you, and I’m taking your word on the video, but I’ll still make the trade.”

He opened his hand, looked at the flash drive, and tossed it over. I flipped the manifest onto the bed. Then I thought of one more question. “Do you know why Blackthorne would be tailing Rachel?”

He had been reaching for the manifest. He stopped. “Rachel, the one who got the message from my computer?”

“Well, technically, Roger’s computer, but yes. They tried to scoop her up last night. We just got away, and they weren’t nice.” I brushed away my bangs to show him my forehead. “What would they want with her?”

“Shit.” He went back over to the window and peeked out. “Blackthorne is trying to kill me. They’ve been chasing me all over the world trying to get to me, and you’re just telling me this?”

“Why is Blackthorne trying to kill you?”

“Because my story is going to blow-”

“Blow the doors off. You told me, but you won’t tell me why. It’s a little vague for me to really connect with. What I heard is that it’s a private military firm out of Virginia that contracts with the U.S. government and others to provide services up to and including combat. Also intelligence.”

“That’s how it started, and that’s what it looks like, but that’s not what it is now. Blackthorne is the CIA on steroids. What the CIA would like to be if it weren’t for the Constitution and government oversight and diplomacy and international laws and political infighting and lots of ass-covering.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“All you need to know is they don’t want anyone to read what I’m writing, and the only reason they would be tailing her would be to get to me.”

My backpack was getting heavy, so I sat down on the edge of the bed again to try to think that through. Something about it didn’t work. “If you’re the only thing that connects Rachel to Blackthorne, how would they have known about her? Until an hour ago, neither one of us knew who you were.”

“The e-mail. That goddamn e-mail that I didn’t even send.” He was starting to move around the room with purpose now, collecting his dirty clothes from the floor and throwing them into a canvas bag. “I told you I was using translators? I had one who found out Thorne was looking for me. He copied a bunch of my files and sold them to him behind my back. That has to be it.” He tossed his kit bag into the larger canvas bag. “But it doesn’t matter. If they know about her, then they know about you, and if they know you’re in Paris, then I’m fucked.”

Interesting wording. It was exactly what Lyle had said. So far, everyone I knew who was connected to Blackthorne was fucked. But I had to get back to an earlier point. “Did you just say that Thorne had copies of some of your files?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

I pulled the USB drive from my pocket. “From before or after you erased Rachel’s video?”

“I don’t know. I guess…uh…” He leaned over to stuff one of the hotel’s fresh white towels into his bag, which was the only reason the round that crashed through the window, twitched the curtains, and flew past my ear missed his head and lodged instead in the cheap hotel wall behind him.

MAX KRAFT WAS OBVIOUSLY USED TO BEING SHOT AT. HE hit the deck loudly and promptly.

“Motherfucker.”

I was right behind him. Another round came through the window and punched through the drywall, this time around bed height. The window must have been shatter-proof, because it popped with the sound of each shot but didn’t break. With the heavy curtains drawn, whoever was out there had to have been firing blind, which was to our advantage.

I reached instinctively for my Glock, which wasn’t there. I hadn’t even tried to bring a firearm through French customs. Kraft apparently hadn’t had the same issues. He was holding what looked like some kind of a compact Beretta, maybe nine-millimeter.

“Can you shoot that?”

“I can shoot.”

“How many rounds do you have?”

“Two clips,” he said. “Ten each. You know, don’t you, that that’s the only way out.” He pointed at the front door. The booming quality of his voice came out under stress, even when he was whispering. “I can’t believe you brought these people.”

“I’m not the one in trouble with Blackthorne, so be quiet and let me think.” I pulled out my phone, but the phone in the room rang before I could dial. I picked up.

“Hello?”

“We’re not interested in you.” It was a man’s voice, soft and a little seductive. I looked at Kraft, who seemed alarmed that I was taking calls.

“What can I do for you?”

“You can come out alone. Leave the reporter inside. If there are weapons in the room, bring them out with your hands in the air.”

“Uh-huh. Then what happens?”

“You can walk away. We’ll take it from there. I’ll hold fire for five minutes.”

I checked my watch and marked the time. “Can I confer with my colleague and call you back?”

“You have five minutes. If you don’t come out, we’ll come in.”

The line went dead, and he didn’t leave his number. I had to count that as a no. I scrolled to the number I had preprogrammed into my cell and dialed it. As it was connecting, I looked at Kraft. “Get ready. We’re leaving right now. I’d stay low if I were you.”