Samurai closed the door of room 1406 and put down the black briefcase and leather travel bag that he had brought with him from the car. He inspected the surroundings and the bathroom and put his spare clothes in the closet to hang. Then he sat down at the bureau-vanity and opened the briefcase to lay out the contents and check them item by item, moving with the unhurried purposefulness that comes with total confidence. He set aside the electronic homer, which was still registering the transmission from the bug that he had planted on Ashling, loaded the two weapons that he had selected for the job—one a regular 9mm auto-matic, the other a compressed-gas pistol that fired up to four nonlethal knockout darts tipped with a neurotoxin, effective in seconds—and replaced them in the briefcase. He stowed the briefcase out of sight in a drawer, and picking up the homer again, he let himself back out into the corridor.
The signal led him through the hotel's central block into another wing, then up to the eighth floor, partway along a corridor, and finally back down a level via the emergency stairs to pinpoint the source as room 7319. He spent some time surveying the approaches from all directions, noting the locations of fire exits and elevators, and familiarizing himself with the layout from the floor plan displayed at the end of the corridor. The floor plan also told him that 7319 was a two-room suite consisting of a living room with bathroom opening off inside the main door, and a bedroom with a second bathroom through another door at the rear. He walked the floors above and below one more time, took a look around the outside, and then returned to his own room to consider his options.
Almost certainly, Ashling had contacted Pipeline and was being hidden here as a prelude to being moved out of the country. Pipeline would have at least one, probably more, of their people in there with him constantly. They would be on guard, naturally, against anyone's approaching via the door, which ruled out impersonating the likes of hotel staff or outside delivery carriers. Samurai's reconnaissance outside had eliminated the windows as a practicable means of entry, also.
He got up and moved around the room, examining the ceilings, flooring, and the wall at the rear of the closet. The building was of fairly recent construction, incorporating a low-cost, highly modular design that enabled maximum use to be made of preformed sections fabricated off-site. The heating and air-conditioning outlet was high in the wall to one side of the closet. The inside of the closet stopped short in that direction, indicating that the space beyond might house the ducting to the outlet—in which case it possibly passed between floors. Also, the bathroom backed onto the closet, making it logical to suppose that the same shaft might carry the plumbing, also. Samurai tapped along the end wall on the inside of the closet. It sounded hollow, sure enough, but offered no ready way of gaining access.
He went around into the bathroom and found an -enclosed space beside the shower stall, walled in by screw-down panels, just where such a shaft would be. He brought a multipurpose tool that included a screwdriver bit from his briefcase, and in less than a minute lifted the lowermost of the panels away. Inside was a vertical shaft carrying ducts and various sizes of pipes. There was little room to spare, but it would take him at a squeeze. A probe upward and down with his penlight confirmed that the shaft continued to the adjacent floors without serious -obstacles. The screws went into hollow-wall anchors that could be cut from the inside. Satisfied, and with the outline of a plan now taking shape in his mind, he replaced the panel and left once more for the other wing of the hotel.
Back on the eighth floor, he found as he had expected that room 8319 was situated immediately above 7319. The floor plan there also confirmed that 8319 was identical in layout. Samurai went to the door of 8319 and tapped lightly, with a prepared excuse should someone answer. Nobody did. It was a Saturday, not yet evening. There seemed to be no convention or major function being held in the hotel that weekend, and he was banking that the chances of the room's being unoccupied were high. As a final check, he went back to his own room and called the hotel on an outside line.
"Atlanta Hyatt. Can I help you?"
"Yes. Could I have room 8319 please?"
There was a pause, then, "I'm sorry, but there doesn't appear to be anyone answering. Would you like to leave a message?"
"Could you tell me if they've checked in yet?" Samurai said.
"One moment, I'll check." He waited. Then the clerk came back on the line. "That room is empty, sir, and we don't show any reservation for tonight. What was the name?"
"Carrel. Ms. Judy Carrel."
Another pause. "I don't see any reservation here under that name. Are you sure it was for tonight?"
"Yes, I am. Isn't this the Hilton?"
"No, sir. We're the Hyatt."
"Oh, excuse me. My mistake."
"Would you like the number of the Hilton?"
"It's all right. I have it here. I'm sorry to have troubled you."
So, the suite above the one that Ashling was hiding out in would be empty for a while at least. That was all that Samurai needed to know.
Taking the briefcase, he went out to the front and moved his car around to the parking area outside the door at the rear of the other wing. The inside of the trunk was virtually a mobile larceny, homicide, and espionage laboratory. From its contents Samurai selected a basic kit of tools and drills, several microphone probes along with amplifier and earpiece, and transferred them to the briefcase. Fifteen minutes later he let himself quietly into suite 8319 with a master magnetic passcard stolen from Housekeeping. A quick check of the bathroom confirmed that the hotel's construction was uniform—it was the same as in his room.
He opened an inch or two of seam in the carpet in the center of the living room. Then, working carefully and silently, he bored a hole through the floor panel, and -after that a finer hole almost through the ceiling slab below, into which he inserted one of the audio probes. Through the earpiece he was able to pick up the voices in the suite below, which, although muffled and only semi-intelligible, gave him the number of people down there and a feel for their whereabouts and movements. After repeating the procedure in the bedroom and by the doorway to the living room bathroom, he established that there were three others present besides Ashling. One of them was always in the outer room near the door, which was to be expected, while the others moved around haphazardly. Ashling himself tended to remain in the bedroom at the rear. Also, the TV was on—which was good.
Samurai checked his watch. It was still early evening. Plenty of time. He collected his tools and equipment -together in the bathroom and removed the bottom panel by the shower. Inside was a shaft similar to the one he'd found in his own room. There were no nasty surprises. Taking some cutters for the screws below, a couple of other -basic tools, the 9mm automatic, and the dart pistol, he eased himself in between the largest of the ducts and a pipe run and lowered himself carefully and noiselessly to the corresponding part of suite 7319 below.
Twenty minutes went by before one of the guards came in to use the bathroom . . . and went out without a murmur. Samurai lowered the limp form into the shower stall and took out the dart pistol. He flushed the toilet and shot a needlelike projectile into the guard's neck that would keep him out until the next morning, afterward dissolving in the body fluids to leave just a tiny puncture. Then Samurai sauntered casually out into the living room and shot a second guard before anyone out there realized that the person coming out of the bathroom was not the one who had gone in.
But the third's reactions were fast. Even as the second guard was falling, he crossed the living room and was through the door leading into the bedroom. Samurai's reflexes were as quick, however, and before the guard could close the door behind him, Samurai hurled one of the chairs with enough momentum to send the guard staggering back, then followed on through to deliver a sidekick into the midriff that sent the guard reeling backward over one of the beds. While Ashling, who had risen to his feet from a chair by the window, watched, horrified, Samurai leveled the pistol again and shot the guard in the chest through his shirt. The guard stiffened, and fell back onto the bed, senseless.
"Oh, my God!" Ashling whispered.
Samurai turned and laughed derisively at the expression on the scientist's face. "Don't worry. We don't want killings. Too many complications. It'll keep them out until I get back here to tidy things up."
Ashling stared at him in confusion. "But you're one of the volunteers, Demiro, isn't it? . . . I thought you'd been transferred away. What's going on? I don't understand."
"Let's just say for now that there's more going on than you know about. There isn't time now. Ask Nordens to tell you about it when we get back." Samurai made a curt wave with a hand, and Ashling followed him back into the living room. Suddenly he clutched at his chest and fell against the side of the doorway, his face contorted in a grimace. Samurai looked back at him.
"What is it?"
Ashling made a gurgling noise and held on to the doorjamb, his face white. "Pill," he croaked. "White jar . . . other bathroom."
Samurai steered him to the nearest chair, sat him down, and went swiftly through to the bathroom opening off from the living room. Among the articles strewn over the sink top was a white pill container with a label bearing Ashling's name. Samurai picked it up, filled a glass with water, and went back to Ashling.
Ashling took one of the capsules, downed it with a drink of water, and sat weakly, waiting for his breathing to -recover. Samurai waited perhaps half a minute. The TV in the room was on. A program was just beginning about tropical -insects. Finally he asked, "Okay? Can you move now?" Ashling didn't respond, but continued panting, staring down at the floor. "Come on," Samurai said, straightening up. "We have to get your briefcase. What else do you need?"
And that was the last thing that Samurai remembered.
With no sensation of time having passed, he woke up to find himself covered by a blanket on a rubber-topped couch in clinical surroundings. After a few seconds he recognized it as the recovery room in the experimental wing at Pearse.