by Greg Rucka
“There’s a first time for everything,” I said.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
At nine minutes to six, my radio squawked, and I heard the call I’d been waiting for.
“One-four-four-one, air-conditioning not working,” the dispatcher said. “Can maintenance get up there and check the thermostat, please? VIP room.”
“Janet? Les. I can handle that,” came the response. “Be about fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks, Les.”
I used my cell phone to call Panno. “Here’s what I need you to do—”
“Wait,” he said.
“There’s no time to wait. I need this done, and I need it done now,” I said. “You have to get to a house phone, you have to call the switchboard, the operator, and you have to tell them that you’re in fourteen-forty-one, and that you just called down about the thermostat in the room. You need to tell them that it’s working again, that you don’t need anyone to come up, that they can cancel the call. Do you understand?”
“He’s got guards with him.”
I stopped halfway to the door of the locker room. “How many?”
“Three. I think they’re all Gorman-North. Killer has a plan for getting one of them down here, but I don’t know about the other two.”
“Use the house phone, then call me back,” I said, and hung up, and waited for my Motorola to speak once more. It seemed like it took a very long time before it did.
“Les, honey, you there?”
“I’m on my way up there now, Janet, tell them to hold their horses.”
“No, they just called down to say it’s working again, you don’t have to bother.”
“No kidding? Okay, then, I’m taking my break.”
“You enjoy your dinner, hon.”
My phone rang.
“Done,” Panno said. “We’ve got one of them off the room now; your wife made a point of asking some questions about a certain guest at the front desk, and she was insistent enough to make them nervous. This guy’s down here, talking to the manager.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s outside, but you’ve got two either in or on the room. I don’t know how you’re going to manage that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “I’ll call you when it’s done.”
“Good lu—”
I hung up before he could finish, took my toolbox, and headed for the service elevator.
It was as I stepped out onto the fourteenth floor that two of the things I’d missed struck me at once. The first was that fourteen-forty-one could, conceivably, not be the room Jason Earle was in; Alena had disconnected the thermostats in two of the rooms, and he could only be in one of them. I was quite possibly headed to the wrong place.
The second thing was more irrational, and struck me just as I was able to confirm that I, at least, was headed to the right room. Panno said the guards were Gorman-North. That Earle had brought guards at all worried me, and that there were only three of them confused me. If there had been more, I’d have believed he’d been tipped to our attempt at Georgetown, and was building protection around himself. But only three, I didn’t know what to make of that, if it was only for show or for ego or for something else entirely. If it was a trap then it wasn’t enough muscle. If it was for his protection it wasn’t enough coverage.
So what the hell was it?
I came out of the service corridor and into the carpeted hallway to see two men standing post perhaps fifty feet away. They saw me as I emerged, and both turned to watch my approach, and I raised my free hand in greeting, trudging towards them. They didn’t wave back, but one of the two knocked on the door they were guarding, then stuck his head in, most likely to announce my arrival.
“Sorry,” I said as I drew closer. “Sorry, it’s been crazy this evening, I got up here as soon as I could.”
“Can I look in your toolbox, please, sir?” the larger and older of the two asked me.
“Yeah, sure.” I handed it over to him. He set it down on the floor and opened it, began rifling through the contents.
The other guard, perhaps six or seven years younger than his partner, was looking at me closely. I met his eyes and he looked away, checking down the hallway. He hadn’t liked the eye contact, which had been the point of doing it.
His partner closed the box and handed it back to me, saying, “There you go.”
Then he opened the door, and held it until I had stepped fully into Jason Earle’s suite, before letting it fall closed behind me.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
“Maintenance,” I called.
“Go ahead.”
I looked to the source, saw a man seated at the desk by the window off to my right. He was bent to his work, a large pen visible in his hand, and I watched as he put pen to paper, scribbling quickly. He didn’t raise his head at all. The two words were the extent of his acknowledgment that I was even there.
I stared at his back for a moment, then moved to where the thermostat was on the wall. I set the toolbox down at my feet, snapped it open, then used a flathead screwdriver to pop the faceplate free. It dangled on its wires, and, now exposed, I could see where Alena had disconnected the mercury switch to render the thermostat useless. I ignored it, fiddled for several seconds, then dropped the screwdriver back into the box. It went in with a clatter, and at his desk, the man stiffened for a moment in annoyance, then resumed what he had been doing.
From my breast pocket, I pulled the rag I’d grabbed and sprayed it with a hit from the can of WD-40. I stood up again, using my body to block any view he might have if he turned around, pretending to work the thermostat some more while running the rag over the two buttons on the faceplate. The smell of the solvent was rich in the air.
I went back to the toolbox again, clattering through it, then pulled the small metal box Alena had given me and popped open the top. I took a second to glance to the desk, and the man still hadn’t even turned to see me, now moving a new set of paperwork in front of him. With the top of the toolbox as a shield from his view, I tapped the contents of my little tin onto the corner of my rag. The granules were fat and almost chalky, light gray. I closed the tin with one hand, stuffed it back into my pocket, then turned to the faceplate one more time. I smeared each button with the rag.
The room seemed very quiet, just the sound of two men working to two very different ends.
I folded the edge of the rag over into itself, then folded it again, and then used it to protect my fingers as I fitted the plate back into position over the thermostat. Then I folded it a final time and tucked it carefully back into my pocket. The buttons glistened slightly from the WD-40, but against their own almost-white, the powder was nearly impossible to see.
I cleared my throat, and when he didn’t respond, said, “Pardon me, sir?”
He straightened in his seat, half turning. “Yes?”
“I’ve done everything I can, but I don’t have the parts I need with me. I’m going to have to go back downstairs to get them.”
“I see.”
“If I can bother you for a moment to come over here, I’d like to show you the reset, though. That way, if it starts working, you’ll be able to get it set how you like without me needing to come back up here.”
Even from across the room, I heard his sigh. Then he capped his pen and pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and started over towards me. I turned away, to face the thermostat.
“All right, go ahead,” he said.
I indicated the two buttons on the faceplate. “Once it’s in reset, you need to reinitialize it. The way you do that is by holding these two buttons down together for about five seconds. You do that, you should hear a click. You want to try it, you should be able to hear it now. Won’t do anything, but you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“Both of the buttons at once, like this?” He pushed his index and middle finger of his left hand against the buttons, depressing them firmly.
&n
bsp; “Just like that, now you hold it.”
He held them down for several seconds, then released, saying, “I didn’t hear anything.”
“I’m sorry, sir, are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t work first time.”
He shook his head slightly, finding me tiresome, and again depressed the buttons with his index and middle fingers. He held them longer this time, and I could see the circulation in his fingertips diminishing from the pressure he was applying. After almost ten seconds, he released.
“Nothing.” He looked at his fingers, searched for a place to wipe them, then gave up. “Don’t you clean your work surface after you’re done with it? It’s covered with oil.”
I pulled the rag again, still folded, and used it to wipe the faceplate down, saying, “Sorry about that. I forget sometimes.”
“I didn’t hear anything that time, either.”
“Must be something in the power source, then, like I was afraid of.” I replaced the rag in the same pocket as before. “I’ll see if I can’t find a replacement, bring a whole new unit up here.”
“If you could. It’s getting stuffy in here.”
“Shouldn’t take me too long, sir.”
I turned to face him, and Jason Earle was looking at me, and our eyes met.
I thought about everything I wanted to say to him. How I wanted to tell him that he was a dead man and he didn’t know it yet and that I had killed him. I wanted to tell him why I had done what I had done to him. I wanted to tell him that Elliot Trent had taken my bullets with a smile all in the hope of this moment. I wanted to tell him that he had taken my best friend from the world, and that I didn’t care who the hell he was or thought he was, she hadn’t been his to take. That he shouldn’t have done it, he should have let it all go, because I would have been happy to do the same. I wanted to tell him that I almost had, but that, like Elliot Trent, I had someone who was precious to me, even more than Natalie had been, and he had threatened her, too, and that I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—let that stand.
I wanted to tell him that there were some things that had to be answered, and that I knew one day I would have to answer for this.
All the things I wanted to say to him.
I didn’t say any of them.
Because Jason Earle looked me in the eyes, and he didn’t know who I was.
He had no idea who I was.
“Sorry to have disturbed your work, sir,” I said, and I closed my toolbox, and I walked out of the suite.
I didn’t look back.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
An ambulance crew was rushing through the lobby when I came out of the elevator, and I had to sidestep them as they rolled their gurney into my car before I was even all of the way out. I’d changed back into my earlier clothes, replaced the toolbox and radio where I’d found them, stuffed the coveralls into the duffel I had in my hand. I rubbernecked until the elevator doors slid closed, then turned to find Panno waiting for me. We headed out together, into the warmth of the evening.
“She called three minutes ago,” Panno told me. “She says she’ll meet you at the Jefferson Memorial.”
“No trouble?”
“None. You?”
“He didn’t know who I was. I think, even if I looked exactly as I did four years ago, he still wouldn’t have known.”
“You’re probably right,” Panno said. “C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.”
She was exactly where she said she would be, and Panno walked with me to where Alena stood waiting, watching the last of the daylight reflecting off the river. There were cherry blossoms still in the trees, and the air was heavy with the scent, and she turned when she heard us approaching, watching as we came closer.
“You did it?”
“It was on the radio on the way over,” I told her. “It’s done.”
“So are we,” Panno said. “The IDs you’re carrying will work another two days, should be long enough to get you both wherever it is you’re going. After that, they’ll be useless. Danielle and Christopher Morse will be discovered, dead, before the end of the week, and when that happens, Interpol will update their entries on Drama and Patriot to reflect the same thing.”
“Thank you,” I said, still looking at Alena.
“It’s what you wanted? That’s what you wanted in return?” Panno asked.
“I want one more thing,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I want to go home,” I said, and I took Alena’s hand in mine, and together, we walked to the car, to begin the long trip back to Kobuleti.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The dark days of this novel were illuminated by several people. A handful of them are named here.
Keith Giffen, Geoff Johns, Grant Morrison, Mark Waid, and Stephen “Sarge” Wacker, all of whom helped far more than they realized, in manners they could never have foreseen. MG3 or the Fab Four (plus Pete Best), call it what you will; you all create the remarkable, and are all remarkable in your own right. It has been an honor to serve with you, and to my dying day, I will remember and cherish what it is we have created.
Morgan and Matthew. A simple thanks. Now give me a Will save, DC 20.
Eric Trautmann, weapons-grade wiseass and steely-eyed missile man supreme. Your assistance, guidance, and friendship are unparalleled. Both you and Gabi enrich our lives.
Matt Brady. Yes, Matt, you can be my sidekick. Now get to work.
Irwyn Applebaum and Nita Taublib. Thanks for giving me the time. I hope like hell you’re soon rewarded for your faith, patience, and passion.
Kate Miciak, for enduring Kateness, and for really, really pissing me off this time. But then again, if it was easy, everyone would do it. Right? Right?
Angela Cheng-Caplan. It’s done, now. I’ll get to work on the other stuff.
Maggie Griffin. You are a light in dark days, and a joy at all times. I could thank you for a thousand things, but for now, I will thank you for this—Bristol, where your sorrow and your strength first broke my heart, and then mended it. And if anyone asks just what it was we were doing in my hotel room, just smile knowingly.
David Hale Smith. I owe you more than just Scotch, my friend; I owe you Kevlar and a long vacation. Thank you for everything that you do, and the passion, style, and intelligence with which you do it. You’re still the second-best decision I ever made in my life.
And finally, once again, to Jennifer, Elliot, and Dashiell. You are my heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GREG RUCKA is the author of Private Wars, A Gentleman’s Game, and six previous thrillers, as well as numerous graphic novels, including the Eisner Award–winning Whiteout: Melt. Whiteout is currently in production as a major motion picture starring Kate Beckinsale. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his family.
ALSO BY GREG RUCKA
KEEPER
FINDER
SMOKER
SHOOTING AT MIDNIGHT
CRITICAL SPACE
A FISTFUL OF RAIN
A GENTLEMAN’S GAME
PRIVATE WARS
PATRIOT ACTS
A Bantam Book / September 2007
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2007 by Greg Rucka
Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rucka, Greg.
Patriot acts / Greg Rucka.
p. cm.
1. Assassins—Fiction. 2. Mistaken identity—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.U2968P38 20
07
813'.54—dc22
2007006927
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90411-6
v3.0