Deception

EARLY BIRD BOOKS

FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY

BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT
FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS

NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!

Deception

John Altman

For Margaret

Inevitably, chance does occasionally operate with a sort of fumbling coherence readily mistakable for the workings of a self-conscious Providence.

ERIC AMBLER

A Coffin for Dimitrios

PROLOGUE

The suntanned man behind the front desk glanced up, recognized him, and looked back down without a word.

Of course. The killer had let himself be seen in the hotel lobby twice over the past two evenings, walking in approximate lockstep with the Epstein couple as they returned from dinner. As a result, the night clerk assumed he was their son. From a short distance, after all, he appeared to be just another spoiled child of rich American tourists—wearing his tacky T-shirt emblazoned
Venezia, Mi Amore
and carrying his rolled-up magazine.

After satisfying himself that the desk clerk hadn't taken any special notice of his arrival, the killer strolled through the lobby with his eyes cast down. He climbed the staircase to the third floor and came out into the dank, quiet hallway. On his earlier forays into the hotel, he had continued down this corridor and left the hotel via the rear exit. This time, however, he came to a stop before the room marked 33. He put his ear to the wood and strained to hear.

At first came only shuffling noises. Then a toilet flushed. At roughly the same instant a television came on: CNN.

Then the woman's voice. “Café Lavena tomorrow?”

The man grunted, from very close to the door. That was good; for the killer wanted to confront the man first.

There were two objects secured in the waistband of his Bermuda shorts, concealed by the loose hang of the T-shirt. He looked to either side, confirming that he was alone, then reached down and withdrew the object on the right: a seven-inch tube of black metal, which he fit into the rolled-up magazine.

He knocked on the door with his left hand, raising the weapon with his right. On the magazine's cover was a truncated bit of the
Rolling Stone
logo, wrapping back on itself—a curlicued
ing Sto.

“Who's there?” the man's voice said.

“Room service,” the killer said, in the lowest register he could manage.

“Room service,” the man said. “Did you order something?”

“Order something?” his wife said.

The door cracked open. “I'm afraid you've got the—”

The killer raised the tube inside the magazine, tugged on the cocking rod, and pulled on the firing lever. Inside the device, an ampule of acid was ruptured; a cloud of gas discharged directly into the man's face.

As his features registered surprise, the killer pushed forward. He dropped the magazine and withdrew the second device from his shorts: another short tube, this one six inches long and silver.

The woman was sitting on the bed, rubbing her bare feet and facing the TV. She turned her head and blinked dumbly at the sight of the child who had entered her room. Her husband was still on his feet, swaying slightly.

As the husband's knees buckled, the killer moved past him. He pulled the retractable garrote from one end of the Peskett, stepped to the woman's right—she was still looking at her husband, not understanding—then whipped the cord around her throat and threw his weight back.

From this angle he could see only her temple, and the soft curve of her cheek. There were small, downy hairs on the cheek. The temple was laced with transparent veins. As the killer kept pulling, the veins turned blue, then angry violet.

After thirty seconds, it was finished.

The door was still ajar. He crossed the room, pushed it closed, and shot the bolt. He picked up the poison-gas gun which had fallen from the magazine, carried it to the bed, and set it by the Peskett.

It had been nearly silent; he had time in which to conduct his search. That was another good thing, for Keyes had not been able to tell him exactly what he was looking for. A scientific formula, yes, but in what form? Microfilm, a scrap of paper, an audiotape, a digital device, a pack of playing cards with certain corners bent—anything was possible.

He began the search, moving quickly but calmly.

CNN was doing a piece on Palestinian refugee camps. From time to time, he glanced at the screen as he worked, mildly intrigued despite himself.

There was no obvious scientific formula in the couple's luggage, on their bodies, or in the man's wallet. He went on to the next series of usual hiding places: under the bed, taped behind the mirror, tucked inside the toilet tank. Nothing. He came back into the center of the room and considered.

The man was—had been—a differential geometer. A mathematician. He should not have been terribly familiar with more sophisticated methods of concealment. He would be more apt to play clever games, bending the corners of playing cards, and so forth. But he had been working for Applied Data Systems and so he may have met people; he may have learned things.

The killer would proceed on the assumption that he had learned things.

He went through the change on the dresser top, inside the corpses' pockets and the lady's handbag. None of the coins were hollow. He inspected the woman's hairbrush, which contained no secret compartments. He unscrewed the telephone receiver and discovered nothing inside but machinery. He screwed it on again, looked absently for a moment at CNN—an advertisement for toothpaste now—and then continued.

The man's shaving brush and shaving cream were only what they seemed to be. There was no laptop computer anywhere in the room. The only piece of electronic equipment was a CD personal stereo, which was simply a CD personal stereo. The killer took out the batteries and tapped the casings with his thumbnail. The batteries were only batteries.

A worm of apprehension began to wriggle inside his stomach. He did his best to ignore it.

He moved back to the man's corpse, sprawled faceup in the small foyer, and knelt beside it. He repeated his search, paying closer attention this time to the body itself. Neither eye was artificial. Neither leg was hollow. There was no scientific formula concealed on the man's body.

He stood again, crossed the room, and searched the woman for a second time.

Nothing.

The worm in his stomach wriggled again, more forcefully.

He returned to the dresser and flipped for a second time through the man's wallet.
Steven Epstein
, the credit cards read. Visa, MasterCard, and American Express; a full complement. He peered closely at the numbers on the plastic, searching for signs of manipulation. He set the wallet aside and moved to crouch beside the luggage. He reached for the camera, removed the film, and slipped it into his pocket. Perhaps the man had photographed the formula and then destroyed it. He found himself studying the couple's airline tickets. Something might be concealed in the mundane figures here: the seat assignments, the flight number. But everything seemed ordinary.

He fingered the tickets, and something tickled his mind.

Steven Epstein, flying first class, aisle seat. What about that seemed wrong?

Then he wondered: Where were the documents for the cruise?

According to his information, the couple had been intending to board the cruise ship the following day. That had been his reason for acting tonight. Yet there were no documents pertaining to the cruise.

He opened the tickets again. The flight back to New York was scheduled for two days hence. Had they changed their plans?

As he stared at the ticket, the something tickled again. He set the ticket aside, reached for the man's passport, and opened it. Name: Epstein, Steven. Nationality: United States of America. Date of birth: 21 October, 1947. Then again to the wallet. He stared at a Montana driver's license, and frowned. The error had been so glaring that at first it hadn't even registered.
Montana
?

Suddenly he was clawing through his pocket, digging past the film. Keyes had instructed him to dispose of the photograph after memorizing the face, but the killer hadn't trusted himself; so he had bent the rules.

The man in the photograph was at least ten years older than the man who had answered the door.

The killer looked at the two dead people in the room. He swore softly.

The bellboy had given him the wrong room. The wrong Epstein.

At length, he stood. His knees popped dully, like wet firecrackers. He spent one more minute looking at the two dead people. Then he swore again, jammed the photograph into his pocket, collected his gear, and left without looking back.

PART ONE

ONE

1.

The stateroom was ten feet square.

The walls were plain white plasterboard; a single lithograph hung above the bed, picturing six turbaned men on horseback. The carpets were a bristly, artificial blue. Opposite the door was a large, round, tinted window—
a porthole
, Hannah Gray supposed, although it was much bigger than she had thought a porthole would be.

Beneath the porthole was a low redwood table featuring a lamp, a vase of lilies, and a bowl of fruit. Against the left-hand wall, when Hannah turned back to face the door, were a small desk, a wall-mounted television, and a refrigerette. Against the right-hand wall were a single twin bed, a standing lamp, and a teak dresser. Atop the dresser was a clock radio, blinking
12:00.

Inside the refrigerette she found a bottle of champagne, two chilled glasses, Evian water, a jar of macadamia nuts, and a package of double-A batteries. Inside the end table she found two packets of Bonine motion-sickness pills, a plastic bracelet, a pair of foam earplugs, and a condom labeled
Transderm Scop.

She picked up the condom, and turned it over in her hands.