Джозеф Файндер - House on Fire

The ground floor of the hotel had high ceilings, so I estimated the height at three stories to be around forty-five feet. Directly below was hard stone. Would I survive if I jumped? Probably, if I rolled right. But I’d probably also break some bones. Which I preferred not to do.

I unfastened the anchor from the railing and put it with the rope and all the other gear into my backpack. Then, grasping the steel pipe, I swung my legs up and over. Climbing down the railing, my feet dangling, I swung my feet around and then touched down on the steel rail of the floor below. Megan’s balcony. I gripped the bottom rung of the third-floor railing as I swung my feet again, torqueing in toward the glass doors, and then I let go, landed on the second-floor balcony.

The drapes were drawn — I’d drawn them myself — and I could see that the lights in the room were on.

I’d left them off.

Someone was in Megan’s suite. Turndown service? Or was it Megan herself?

For at least the time being, I was trapped outside. I went over to the sliding doors and gently, slowly, tried to pull them open.

They were locked. I definitely hadn’t done that. Either the housekeeper had done it or Megan had returned early from dinner again because the Lactaid hadn’t done the trick, and for some reason she had locked the balcony doors. And now I was definitely stuck here.

I’d known this was a possibility, so I’d thought it through, the worst-case scenario.

I looked out the balcony, eyeballed the drop at fifteen to twenty feet. Onto hard stone. Maybe fifteen feet from the bottom of the second-floor balcony. Definitely doable. To parkour champions, this was nothing.

I didn’t have time to overthink it. I swung my legs outside the railing, grabbed the top rung, then dropped rung by rung until my feet were dangling in the air — and then I let go. Spun and crouched and dropped, landing, hard.

I sprang to my feet, wincing a bit. I did a survey: legs okay, knees relatively okay.

A minute later, I pulled out a mobile phone and called Dr. Zubiri.

“Ready,” I said.

I was fairly certain no one had seen me climb or descend the hotel’s exterior. Hotel security was what I worried most about, and I hadn’t seen any of them. But as I was stuffing the ropes and carabiners and such back into my backpack, a florid-faced, thick-set guy strolled past. He didn’t seem to notice me, but something about him got my attention. He looked like a retired soldier.

I made a mental note.

I was hungry by then — I hadn’t eaten since the lobster tail at lunch — and was planning to order room service when I got back to the suite and saw that Sukie was gone. There was only a note, on hotel letterhead — Join me at dinner downstairs xx. I found her sitting alone at a table set for two. She was drinking coffee and looking at her phone. She was wearing a white blazer over a white T-shirt and white pants with sandals.

I called over the waiter and ordered a New York strip steak, medium rare.

When the waiter had left, she said, “Want to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

I smiled. “Better for you if I don’t.”

She furrowed her brow, shook her head. “Really?”

I looked around the dining room, saw her father sitting at a big round table with Megan and Fritz. The others were probably big shots in the sales department. This was their event. They were hosting the CEO.

Then someone approached Conrad Kimball. Dr. Zubiri was saying something urgent. Kimball looked receptive. He was nodding, almost rhythmically. Then he appeared to ask something, and Zubiri replied.

I had a fairly good idea of what they were talking about. If Zubiri was doing what we’d agreed upon, he was telling Conrad that a reporter had called him, asking about the suppressed Tallinn study. That the reporter had a copy.

Conrad leaned to his left and muttered something to Fritz. Then the two men stood up and left the dining room.

If I had figured out Conrad Kimball correctly, he would be heading directly to his hotel suite to confer with Fritz. Zubiri had provoked a crisis; now Conrad would be huddling with his security chief in his suite. Talking aloud, near one of my recording/transmitting devices, about the Tallinn study. I wouldn’t have to return to retrieve the devices; they would broadcast out compressed files every thirty minutes, send them via text message.

I’d be electronically eavesdropping on Conrad Kimball.

Sukie and I returned to the suite, and about thirty-five minutes later, my iPhone lit up. I’d just received a text containing a compressed audio file.

The crisis conversation was under way.

People really do generally behave in predictable ways. Conrad and his security chief were talking, and I was capturing their words. I listened to a moment of the audio file through my AirPods to make sure the recording was working:

VOICE 1 (CLEARLY CONRAD KIMBALL): The Tallinn study? I thought the only copy left was in Katonah, and I burned the goddamn thing!

VOICE 2 (PROBABLY FRITZ): Could someone have found it in Estonia? Could the scientist in Estonia be talking, after all this time?

CONRAD: Dr. Kask? Not very easily. We took care of him years ago.

FRITZ: You think Megan’s behind this?

CONRAD: She’s ruthless. She’ll do anything.

FRITZ: True.

CONRAD: I want this weekend to go off without a hitch. I don’t want trouble from her. I don’t want her getting in the way.

FRITZ: Understood.

CONRAD: Why is Sukie here?

FRITZ: I’m working on that. I can’t figure it out yet.

Sukie passed through the sitting area where I was listening with my AirPods, right around the moment when her father spoke her name on the recording. It was disorienting.

I took out my earphones. “I think I have what I need,” I said.

I noticed that a red blinking light on the room phone had just come on. I pointed out to Sukie that one of us had a message. I called the front desk.

“Yes, Mr. — Brown?”

“Yes.”

“You have a message from a Mr. Heston. He left his mobile number.”

It was a few minutes before nine, but Fritz Heston had left his message just five minutes earlier. I called his number.

“This is Fritz,” he said by way of answering the phone.

“Nick Brown,” I said. “You wanted to talk.”

“Mr. Brown, I’m terribly sorry to trouble you after dinner. It can certainly wait until morning if you prefer.”

“Let’s talk right now,” I said. “What’s this about?”

“I’d rather talk in person. Would that work for you?”

We arranged to meet in five minutes in the lobby. Sukie was watching a documentary about Beyoncé. “I’m off to meet Fritz,” I said.

“Really? For what?”

“No idea. He wants to meet me.”

She looked alarmed. “What do you think he wants?”

I shook my head. Actually, I had a pretty good idea what he wanted.

“I’ll be back soon.” I left her watching the documentary and went downstairs.

Fritz Heston was sitting in an easy chair in the lobby, dressed, as he was at dinner, in resort attire. A muted, vaguely Hawaiian shirt and chinos.

He got right up as soon as he saw me. Extended his hand and shook firmly. “Mr. Brown,” he said.

“I didn’t expect to see you here. Is security a concern in Anguilla?”

Anguilla was a small island; cruise ships didn’t stop there, and its only flights went to other Caribbean islands. There was only minor crime. It was safe.

“Security’s a concern everywhere these days,” he said. He gestured to another chair close to his, and we both sat down. The lobby was empty. There was no one around.

“What are we talking, snorkeling accidents?” I said. “You can’t be expecting protesters down here. They couldn’t afford it.”