FOUR SEASONS HOTEL
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Tuesday
The Baltimore Field Office called them before the helicopter landed with the news they’d found Samir Basara. Sherlock called Dillon. “I hope you can hear me over the rotor. He checked into the Four Seasons last night, Dillon. We’re nearly there. We’re landing on the Pier 7 Heliport on Clinton Street, not more than two miles from the Four Seasons. What are you up to?”
Savich said, “I’ll let you know if it works. This is all I need. Remember, Sherlock, you’re my wife and Sean’s mother. Take care of yourself.”
Four Baltimore Field Office agents were standing next to two large FBI SUVs at the helipad. Giusti assigned each of them an exit as soon as they arrived. “I called up the plans in the helicopter. This should cover all the ways out. Everyone okay with this?”
The agents were hyped, wanted to be in on a possible takedown of a major-league terrorist and assassin.
Cal, Kelly, and Sherlock walked through the resplendent lobby and presented themselves to the clerk at the registration desk. They showed the young man their creds and asked about one of their guests, Mr. Bruce Condor, businessman. The registration clerk hemmed and hawed and said he would try to find the manager.
“Take us to his office,” Kelly said. “Now.” The clerk looked at her and nodded. While Kelly and Sherlock went to the manager’s office, Cal made the rounds of the lobby, speaking to bellboys, parking attendants, and the concierge on duty. He showed each of them Basara’s photo. It was the day shift, and no one recognized him.
Kelly and Sherlock followed the clerk through the beautiful gold marble lobby with its three huge chandeliers and artfully arranged flowers, to the manager’s office, to the right, beyond the concierge’s desk.
He rose, eyed the two women behind the scared-looking registration clerk, and frowned. “What seems to be the problem, Jeb?”
Sherlock and Kelly simply stepped forward, introduced themselves. The man only stared at them, not pleased. Kelly raised her eyebrow.
“I’m Mr. Gibson,” he said at last, but he didn’t move around from behind his desk.
“FBI? Why are you two ladies here at the Four Seasons?”
Both of them heard the snark, knew what he would have liked to say was two bitches. What a joy, Sherlock thought, to be a female and have to have this idiot for a boss. A pity this was so urgent, there wasn’t time to dismember him.
“We need to know the room number of one of your guests, Bruce Condor.”
Up went the chin, his shoulders squared. “You will need a warrant for that, Agent. We value our guests’ privacy.”
Kelly told him this man was the prime suspect in the attempted bombing of St. Pat’s. Mr. Gibson was not moved. He thrummed with attitude.
“As I already said, you will need a warrant,” he said, and Sherlock would swear he smirked.
Kelly stepped around his desk and right into his face. “Mr. Gibson, this is a matter of national security. If you do not allow us immediate access, I’ll call my brothers at the Baltimore FBI Field Office back and tell them to arrive in full SWAT gear, ready to search the hotel. I can’t imagine that would make your guests very happy. Has it occurred to you that your company might find fault with you for trying to harbor a known terrorist?” She leaned in close. “I hope he was happy with your room service, by the way, otherwise, given who and what he is, he might come back and pay you a personal visit.” She held out her hand. “Give me the card key. Now.”
Mr. Gibson dropped the snark and called up the data on his laptop. He buzzed the front desk, and when another clerk arrived, he handed Sherlock the card key. “Suite 613,” Gibson said, attitude back in full force. “Mr. Condor is not here. And before you ask, he did not register a car in our parking garage, nor do we have any record of his destination today.”
Kelly asked, “How long ago did he check out?”
Gibson looked at the registration clerk. “Less than an hour ago.”
“Has the room been cleaned yet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Probably not, Mr. Gibson,” the clerk said.
They left Mr. Gibson and headed across the lobby. Kelly saw all the agents were in place. Cal joined them as they headed toward the bank of elevators. He waved the photo. “Day shift, no luck.”
They rode to the top floor and walked to the end of the long corridor to a set of locked double doors, suite 613. They drew their Glocks, stuck in the key card without knocking, and pushed both doors open. A young woman who had folded clean towels draped over her arm let out a scream.
Luckily, she’d just arrived. They hustled her and her cart out of the suite and started searching.
“Even on the run, our guy likes his pleasures,” Kelly said, looking around at the luxury suite with a view of the Inner Harbor.
The three of them split up the big suite and went to work. They were about ready to hang it up when there was a knock on the door. It was Jeb from the registration desk. “Mr. Condor ordered room service after midnight last night. A bottle of Golden Slope chardonnay and some food. I checked with the kitchen, and the employee who delivered the order is still here.”
Sherlock wanted to kick herself. She hadn’t thought to ask about room service. She wondered if Mr. Gibson knew Jeb had brought them this information.
Elena Wisk was tall, thin, and pretty, and looked both tired and excited. She nearly bounced into the suite, then suddenly yawned right in front of them. She flushed with embarrassment, told them she was just going off duty from the night shift. Evidently, Jeb hadn’t told her Mr. Condor was a terrorist—yet, at least.
Yes, she’d brought Mr. Condor a tuna salad sandwich with potato chips and a bottle of chardonnay. He was good-looking, she said, but he looked tired. He told her the chardonnay would help him sleep, and he had a big day tomorrow—today, now—and he wanted to be ready. “I uncorked the chardonnay for him and told him I was from northern California. I said something about Golden Slope being a good choice. It’s from a Napa winery I’d visited some years ago. He said it was better than anything he’d ever tasted from his family’s vineyard. I asked him where that was, and he frowned and got me out of the suite real fast. I guess he didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t know why. He gave me a big tip.”
Slipped up there, didn’t you, Hercule? Cal showed Elena his picture of Samir Basara. She nodded. “Yes, that’s him.”
They asked her more questions, but the well was dry. Then, on her way out of the suite, Elena turned in the doorway, “I guess I’m really tired. I forgot, Mr. Condor was talking on his cell phone when I arrived.”
All three of them went on red alert. Kelly asked, “Did you hear anything he said, Elena?”
Elena pursed her lips. “I wasn’t really listening, you know? But it was something about the person he was talking to doing a good job and he knew he could always count on him, something like that. That’s all I got. What’d he do? Something really bad?” She shivered.
Sherlock merely patted her shoulder. “Thank you, Ms. Wisk, we really appreciate all your help.” She called Dillon on speakerphone, told him about the call Basara had made.
“Yes, that checks out,” Savich said. “I pulled up the cell data from the cell tower that services the Four Seasons Baltimore, looking for outgoing calls after Basara arrived there last night. One single call was made from an unregistered phone, a burner phone, and it was activated yesterday. The number that cell phone called was right here in Washington, D.C., and it was also unregistered. We’ve either found ourselves a pair of drug dealers, or Basara called a henchman.”
“The room-service clerk said it was about midnight,” Sherlock said.
“Yes, that’s it. Good to have confirmation even though we thought he would be heading toward Washington.” He added, “You live here. Now I’m working with the carrier to try to locate both of those phones in real time.” He paused again. “Well, maybe I’ll use a shortcut.”
Cal took the phone. “Keep us in the loop, Savich. We’re finishing up here and we’ll be heading to Washington to join you. That call means someone arrived here ahead of Basara to see to his needs, like parking a car at the airfield, with that burner cell left in the glove compartment. It means he’s very probably got a gun.”
“I know,” Savich said, “I know. I’ll see you soon. Be careful, all of you.”
Sherlock took the cell back from Cal. “Dillon? Are Sean and Gabriella out of the house?”
“They’re at my mom’s already. No worries there, Sherlock.”