Smith needed no further incentive to move. He sprinted to the entrance five feet in front of him, yanked the handle to swing open the door and tumbled through the opening. A second shot hammered into the metal panel. Smith kept moving, running down the narrow hallway and deeper into the hotel’s interior. The door slammed closed behind him.
Smith jogged through a warehouse area, past pallets of supplies and through another door. This one led to a quiet, carpeted hallway, with soft lighting. He slowed to a fast walk, shoving his bleeding hand into his jacket pocket, still clutching the small duffel with his other. His palm burned and he was sweating freely. He thought the presence of the cameras in the alley would keep the shooter from following him through the back area, but the lobby would be crowded and a perfect location for someone to slip up behind him and slide a knife into him before moving off.
The registration area lay before him, and he headed that way but kept sweeping his gaze around the lobby, looking for anyone suspicious. He scanned the area, looking for more security cameras, but found none. He figured he had a few minutes before the shooter made his way around the building and into the hotel. That is, if he intended to try a second time. Smith moved fast to the registration desk.
A young male employee smiled at him as he approached. Smith swallowed, and did his best to settle his jangling nerves and affect a pleasant, unconcerned attitude as he stepped up to the counter.
“Jon Smith, checking in. And I understand I have a package waiting for me?”
The young man greeted him, but Smith found it difficult to follow the conversation. He uttered some inane response to the clerk’s questions, and retrieved, one handed, a credit card from his wallet. He turned and leaned against the counter, bending his body to once again watch the room, but finding nothing out of the ordinary.
“Mr. Smith? Your keys and your package. Have a nice stay.” The clerk’s voice snapped Smith back to attention. He gave an absentminded nod and collected the room key and the small Federal Express box with his name on it. He looked at the room number.
“904? Is that on the ninth floor?”
The clerk nodded. “Yes. It’s our concierge level.”
Smith pushed the key back across the table to the clerk. “Could you give me a room on the second floor?”
The clerk got a puzzled look on his face. “But you’ve reserved a concierge level room.”
Smith gritted his teeth at the delay. “It’s a superstition of mine. Afraid the fire ladder won’t reach to the ninth floor.”
A look of understanding passed over the clerk’s face. “Oh yes. Of course. We saw the images from the Grand Royal. I do apologize. Let me just change that. I’ll put you in a suite instead.”
“But please use a different name. I don’t need a horde of reporters tracking down my room number.”
“Our system requires a name next to a room number. Is there any pseudonym you wish to use instead?”
“Robert Koch.”
Smith steered clear of the elevator, opting instead to take the stairs. When he entered the room, he crossed to the side of the window and closed the curtains, flipping on a light over the desk. He shrugged out of his jacket, taking care to keep the injured hand steady as he went to the bathroom to check the wound.
It was an angry red slash on the fleshy part of the palm, but not deep and not serious. The pain far outweighed the damage done. Smith washed it with soap and wrapped it in a washcloth. He returned to the desk and ripped open the box, revealing a lightweight laptop and a set of keys along with a valet ticket, presumably to the car. He logged onto the Internet and sent an immediate e-mail update, telling Klein about the attack and that for security purposes he might not spend the night at the hotel. As it was, he would be hard pressed to leave safely. He weighed the idea of taking the car now, before the shooter had time
Smith jogged through a warehouse area, past pallets of supplies and through another door. This one led to a quiet, carpeted hallway, with soft lighting. He slowed to a fast walk, shoving his bleeding hand into his jacket pocket, still clutching the small duffel with his other. His palm burned and he was sweating freely. He thought the presence of the cameras in the alley would keep the shooter from following him through the back area, but the lobby would be crowded and a perfect location for someone to slip up behind him and slide a knife into him before moving off.
The registration area lay before him, and he headed that way but kept sweeping his gaze around the lobby, looking for anyone suspicious. He scanned the area, looking for more security cameras, but found none. He figured he had a few minutes before the shooter made his way around the building and into the hotel. That is, if he intended to try a second time. Smith moved fast to the registration desk.
A young male employee smiled at him as he approached. Smith swallowed, and did his best to settle his jangling nerves and affect a pleasant, unconcerned attitude as he stepped up to the counter.
“Jon Smith, checking in. And I understand I have a package waiting for me?”
The young man greeted him, but Smith found it difficult to follow the conversation. He uttered some inane response to the clerk’s questions, and retrieved, one handed, a credit card from his wallet. He turned and leaned against the counter, bending his body to once again watch the room, but finding nothing out of the ordinary.
“Mr. Smith? Your keys and your package. Have a nice stay.” The clerk’s voice snapped Smith back to attention. He gave an absentminded nod and collected the room key and the small Federal Express box with his name on it. He looked at the room number.
“904? Is that on the ninth floor?”
The clerk nodded. “Yes. It’s our concierge level.”
Smith pushed the key back across the table to the clerk. “Could you give me a room on the second floor?”
The clerk got a puzzled look on his face. “But you’ve reserved a concierge level room.”
Smith gritted his teeth at the delay. “It’s a superstition of mine. Afraid the fire ladder won’t reach to the ninth floor.”
A look of understanding passed over the clerk’s face. “Oh yes. Of course. We saw the images from the Grand Royal. I do apologize. Let me just change that. I’ll put you in a suite instead.”
“But please use a different name. I don’t need a horde of reporters tracking down my room number.”
“Our system requires a name next to a room number. Is there any pseudonym you wish to use instead?”
“Robert Koch.”
Smith steered clear of the elevator, opting instead to take the stairs. When he entered the room, he crossed to the side of the window and closed the curtains, flipping on a light over the desk. He shrugged out of his jacket, taking care to keep the injured hand steady as he went to the bathroom to check the wound.
It was an angry red slash on the fleshy part of the palm, but not deep and not serious. The pain far outweighed the damage done. Smith washed it with soap and wrapped it in a washcloth. He returned to the desk and ripped open the box, revealing a lightweight laptop and a set of keys along with a valet ticket, presumably to the car. He logged onto the Internet and sent an immediate e-mail update, telling Klein about the attack and that for security purposes he might not spend the night at the hotel. As it was, he would be hard pressed to leave safely. He weighed the idea of taking the car now, before the shooter had time
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