The Kosmogord was one of the city's more prominent hotels: an orientally inspired extravaganza of marbled halls and pointed arches, with an indoor arboretum and cascading rock pools giving its main lobby area something of the look of a Moorish palace garden.
Samurai arrived shortly after 9:30, disguised since Ashling knew him, and booked a single room, again as George Lincoln—although by now what name he chose didn't matter. Having deposited his briefcase, he went back to the elevators and visited every floor, noting down the room numbers indicated on the direction signs at each level. That gave him a list of all the rooms in the hotel. He then returned to his own room and began calling each of them in turn to pose the same question:
"Hello, is this Mr. Kubalov's room? . . . I'm sorry, I must have the wrong number."
But when he tried Room 1205, a woman's voice -responded. "Yes. Who is this?"
Samurai penned a heavy circle around 1205 on the list he'd been working through. "Room service here, ma'am. Sorry to trouble you, but we've got some confusion over an order here. Was it 1205 that wanted a chicken salad for two and a carafe of wine?"
"No, not us."
"Oh, then it must be the other one. Sorry again for disturbing you.
"That's all right. These things happen."
"Thanks. Good night."
"Good night."
In room 1205, Kay replaced the phone and turned back toward Scipio and another Pipeline member called Julius, who were watching her expectantly. Julius had also been -involved in the Ashling business and would be traveling to Luna with them tomorrow.
"He's here," Kay told them.
In the staff section at the rear of the second floor, the hotel security manager came back to his office, unlocked the door and went in, and never knew what hit him.
Samurai relieved him of his blue blazer, tie, badge and ID, and passkeys. He didn't like these kinds of impersonations, but there was no time left for fooling around. This would be his last chance to intercept Ashling before the launch tomorrow morning.
Ten minutes later, after using the emergency stairs to stay out of sight as much as possible, he came to the door of Room 1205. He checked the gun inside his jacket and the other items concealed about his person, looked each way to be sure he was alone, and rang the bell. There was no answer. He tapped on the door, waited, and then rang again. Nothing. After checking around him once more, he produced the security manager's passkeys, slid the gun from its holster beneath his arm, then entered swiftly and -silently, closing the door and swiveling to cover the room from a crouch against the wall in one smooth movement.
It was deserted.
Samurai straightened up slowly, nonplussed. There were no people, but the signs of rapid departure were everywhere: ruffled beds, one with pillows stacked at the end; drawers half open; a folded newspaper on top of the vanity; used napkins in the trash bin. He went through to the bathroom. Sink and shower used recently, towels damp and crumpled. He came back out and rummaged through the trash bin. There was a receipted bill from the Harbor Light Bar in Hamburg, along with a couple of Ukrainian Airlines boarding passes from Odessa to Novosibirsk direct, dated December 3. He picked up the newspaper and saw that it was the Berliner Zeitung from the day previous to that. Some papers that had been inside the fold dropped out and fell to the floor. Samurai picked them up and examined them. Most were of no interest. One, however, had written on it among other things, Dr. Andre Ulkanov, -Neurophysiology Dept., Science Institute at Copernicus 3, and a phone number with a lunar access code.
Still uncomprehending, Samurai returned to his own room and called the hotel on an outside line.
"Kosmogord, good evening."
"Hello, Room 1205, please. Mr. Kubalov."
There was a pause, then, "I'm sorry, sir. The person of that name has already checked out."
"What? How recently? I talked to him less than an hour ago."
"He left within the last half hour, sir."
"I see. . . . Thank you." Samurai hung up and stared at the phone.
So perhaps he hadn't been careful enough after all, he thought to himself as he put his own clothes on again. His call as room service must have tipped them off, and obviously they were taking no chances. He wouldn't locate Oleg Kubalov again tonight, anywhere in the city. There was nothing for it, then, but to return to the Kestrel and go on to his fallback plan of pursuing Ashling to Luna tomorrow morning.
On his way, he reflected on the incredible sequence of bad luck that had dogged him all the way from Pearse. It was uncanny. He had managed to miss Ashling by a hair's breadth every time; and in not a single instance had Samurai actually caught a glimpse of him.
If he hadn't seen him with his own eyes before whoever it was jumped him in the hotel in Atlanta, he could almost have believed that Ashling didn't exist at all.