Countdown / Iris Johansen.

Abstract

Find the key.

The hotel room was dark but he didn’t dare turn on a light.
Leonard had told him that Trevor and Bartlett were usually in the restaurant for an hour, but he couldn’t count on it. Grozak had experience with that son of a bitch over the years and he knew Trevor’s instincts were still as keen as they had been when he was a mercenary in Colombia.

So he’d give himself ten minutes tops and get out of here. His penlight flashed around the room. As sterile and impersonal as most hotel rooms. Take the bureau drawers first. He moved quickly across to the bureau and started going through them.

Nothing.

He went to the closet and dragged out the duffel and searched through it hurriedly.

Nothing.

Five minutes to go.

He went to the bedside table and opened the drawer. A notepad and pen.

Find the key, the Achilles’ heel. Everyone had one.

Try the bathroom.

Nothing in the drawers.

The grooming kit.

Pay dirt!

Maybe.

Yes. At the bottom of the kit was a small, worn leather folder.

Photos of a woman. Notes. Newspaper clippings with photos of the same woman. Disappointment surged through him. Nothing about MacDuff’s Run. Nothing about the gold. Nothing here to really help him. Hell, he’d hoped it was–

Wait. The woman’s face was damn familiar. . . .

No time to read them.

He pulled out his digital camera and began to take the pictures.
Send the prints to Reilly and show him that he might have the ammunition that he needed to control Trevor.

But this might not be enough for him. One more search of the bedroom and that duffel . . .

The worn, dog-eared sketchbook was under the protective board at the bottom of the duffel.

Probably nothing of value. He quickly flipped through the pages.
Faces. Nothing but faces. He shouldn’t have taken the extra time.
Trevor would be here any minute. Nothing but a bunch of sketches of kids and old people and that bastard–

My God.

Jackpot!

He tucked the sketchbook under his arm and headed for the door, filled with heady exultation. He almost wished that he’d run into Trevor in the hall so that he’d have the chance to kill the son of a bitch. No, that would spoil everything.

I’ve got you, Trevor.

* * *

The alarm in Trevor’s pocket was vibrating.

Trevor tensed. “Son of a bitch.”

“What’s wrong?” Bartlett asked.

“Maybe nothing. There’s someone in my hotel room.” He threw some money down on the table and stood up. “It could be the maid turning down my bed.”

“But you don’t think so.” Bartlett followed him from the room to the elevator. “Grozak?”

“We’ll see.”

“A trap?”

“Not likely. He wants me dead but he wants the gold more. He’s probably trying to find a map or any other info he can get his hands on.”

“But you’d never leave anything of value there.”

“He can’t be sure of that.” He stopped outside the door and drew his gun. “Stay here.”

“No problem. If you get killed, someone has to yell for the police, and I’ll accept that duty. But if it is the maid, we may be asked to leave this domicile.”

“It’s not the maid. The room’s dark.”

“Then perhaps I should–”

Trevor kicked the door open, darted to one side, and hit the floor.

No shot. No movement.

He crawled behind the couch and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.

Nothing.

He reached up and turned on the lamp on the end table by the couch.

The room was empty.

“May I join you?” Bartlett called from the hall. “I’m a bit lonely out here.”

“Stay there for a minute. I want to make sure . . .” He checked the closet and then the bathroom. “Come in.”

“Good. It was interesting watching you tear through that door like Clint Eastwood in a Dirty Harry movie.” Bartlett cautiously entered the room. “But I really don’t know why I risk my valuable neck with you when I could be safe in London.” He looked around. “Everything looks fine to me. Are you becoming paranoid, Trevor? Perhaps that gadget you carry has a short circuit.”

“Perhaps.” He glanced through the drawers. “No, some of the clothes have been moved.”

“How can you tell? It looks neat to me.”

“I can tell.” He moved toward the bathroom. The grooming kit was in almost the same position as he’d left it. Almost.

Shit.

He unzipped the kit. The leather case was still there. It was the same black as the bottom of the kit and might not have been noticed.

“Trevor?”

“I’ll be with you in a minute.” He slowly opened the case and looked down at the articles and then the photo. She was looking up at him from the photo with the challenging stare he knew so well. Perhaps Grozak hadn’t seen it. Perhaps he wouldn’t think it important even if he had.

But could he afford to risk her life on that chance?

He moved quickly to the closet and jerked out the duffel and tore up the support board.

It was gone.

Shit!

* * *

Harvard University

Hey, I thought you were going to study for that final.”

Jane glanced up from her sketchbook to see her roommate, Pat Hershey, bounding into the room. “I had to take a break. I was getting too intense to keep a clear head. Sketching relaxes me.”

“So would sleep.” Pat smiled. “And you wouldn’t have had to study so hard if you hadn’t been out half of last night playing nursemaid.”

“Mike needed someone to talk to.” Jane made a face. “He’s scared to death that he’s going to flunk out and disappoint everyone.”

“Then he should be studying instead of crying on your shoulder.”

Jane knew Pat was right, and she’d had moments of exasperation and impatience last night. “He’s used to coming to me with problems.

We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“And you’re too soft to send him away now.”

“I’m not soft.”

“Except about people you care about. Look at me. You’ve gotten me out of quite a few jams since we started to room together.”

“Nothing serious.”

“They were serious to me.” She strolled over and glanced at the sketch. “Good God, you’re drawing him again.”

Jane ignored the comment. “Did you have a good run?”

“Upped my distance a mile.” Pat flopped down in the chair and began untying her running shoes. “You should have come with me. It’s no fun for me running alone. I wanted the satisfaction of leaving you in the dust.”

“No time.” Jane finished the sketch in three bold strokes. “I told you, I had to study for my chemistry final.”

“Yeah, that’s what you told me.” Pat grinned as she kicked off her shoes. “But here you are drawing Mr. Wonderful again.”

“Believe me, he’s not wonderful.” She snapped the sketchbook shut. “And he’s definitely not the type of man you’d take home to meet your mom and dad.”

“A black sheep? Exciting.”

“Only on soap operas. In real life they’re big trouble.”

Pat made a face. “You sound like a jaded woman of the world.
You’re twenty-one, for God’s sake.”

“I’m not jaded. Jaded is for people who don’t have enough imagination to keep life interesting. But I’ve learned to tell the difference between intriguing and troublesome.”

“I could learn to live with that kind of trouble when it’s packaged so nicely. He’s gorgeous. Sort of a cross between Brad Pitt and Russell Crowe. You must think so too or you wouldn’t keep drawing his face.”

Jane shrugged. “He’s interesting. I find something new in his face
every time I draw it. That’s why I use him as a distraction.”