Edge by Jeffery Deaver Page A

We hadn’t been attacked. The crazy Russian had a hidden gun that had emerged after significant consumption of equally clandestine vodka. The discharge of the silenced weapon was accidental but the Taser hit to his back, compliments of me, had not been.
    I told duBois, “I’m checking in now. I’ll call in twenty.”
    â€œIn twenty. Okay.”
    In a few miles I slowed, signaled and turned into the long drive of the Hillside Inn. The white colonial buildings, stuccoed and gabled, squatted in the middle of five acres of attractive landscaping: geometric lawns, trimmed trees, English gardens, roses still in abundant bloom. Though I doubted she was in the mood to appreciate it, I hoped Joanne would enjoy a brief glance at the grounds, given her interest in gardening. Despite Maree’s sarcasm earlier, I am a bit of a tour guide, in that it works to my advantage to keep my principals occupied and content.
    The Hillside Inn was indeed situated on anincline, though more at the bottom than the side, and was backed by naked farmland. There was an anemic forest to the right but a lifter or hitter would have a tough time approaching from a distance without being seen.
    I headed up the drive, then cut right and through the parking lot to the back of the motel, avoiding the large windows in the lobby. I parked and told everyone to stay inside. I walked through an archway between two wings of rooms at the back and headed for the office. There were twenty-two cars in the lot. I have a scanner with a direct uplink to a national DMV database but to scan that many cars would take some time and look suspicious. Besides, in all my years of this business, I’d never known a lifter or hitter to park at a halfway or safe house in a vehicle with tags that would give him away.
    I fished in my wallet from among the ten credit cards in various personal and company names and found the Artesian MasterCard, issued in the name of Frank Roberts. Artesian is a real company—well, it’s incorporated, that is—and has an impressive Web site. Had we ever decided actually to go into computer software design, we had a lengthy list of potential customers who’d emailed us. My organization has a number of cover companies like this, and research specialists like duBois have fun writing up a briefing sheet on each of them, incorporating all sorts of information like bios of chief executives, exotic locations for sales conferences and even ad campaigns. Shepherds spend hours memorizing the data so we can have credible, if brief, conversations on the subjects of computer design, aircraft hydraulics, deli meat and cheese and a number ofother products and services—I’ve been told my recitation of these cover stories is unsexy, if not boring, and discourages further inquiry. Which is, of course, the point.
    I checked in, noted nothing out of the ordinary with the desk clerk and a bellboy, then returned to the SUV, seeing nothing that aroused suspicion in the parking lot either.
    I opened the driver’s side door and announced, “Bring your things with you.”
    â€œI thought we weren’t staying here,” Maree said.
    â€œFor a little while. We’re switching vehicles.”
    â€œYou think that’s necessary?” Ryan asked.
    â€œJust a precaution.” If there’s a mantra in the personal security field, that’s it.
    â€œThere a hot tub?” Maree asked. “Preferably with a cute masseur named Raoul?”
    â€œI’m afraid you’ll have to stay inside,” I repeated.
    Maree’s look silently reiterated her comment about my attitude as a tour guide.
    I ushered them quickly into the two-bedroom suite, tactically the best in the Hillside Inn for defense since there was no sniper vantage point outside. Joanne looked around blankly. Her sister seemed genuinely disappointed at the small, sparse place. Maybe she thought the federal government should put some