Off Kilter (15 page)

He didn’t mean to grow complacent and take his personal safety for granted; it just happened. Perhaps it was the constant and repetitive bone jarring he had to endure for long hours each day as he traveled on buses that would be deemed safety hazards up north. Maybe it was the ho-hum responses from everyone around him. Or it could have been the lack of restful sleep. Whatever it was that prompted it, by the time Collin rode into Lima, he had one overriding thought on his mind: comfort.

At the suggestion of the taxi driver, Collin decided the JW Marriott, right on the coast, would be the perfect place to unwind from a week of hardship through the backcountry. Staggering into the opulent lobby, lugging his computer bag and knapsack, looking bedraggled and desperate, he was met by hotel security before he reached the front desk. It hadn’t occurred to him that his dirty clothes, unkempt hair, and beard would cause concern. After the places he had stayed the previous six nights, it had completely slipped his mind.

The two men in snappy uniforms approached from behind and startled him, causing him to let out a high-pitched “Whoa” as each guard grabbed an arm. Collin struggled and twisted, ripping his arms out of their grasp. This brought even more unwanted attention. Conversations stopped, heads turned, and eyes peered, all curious to see how the homeless American would react. He spun around and backed away a couple of steps. “I’m sorry, sir, but do you have a reservation here?” asked the taller security guard with a forced kindness.

“Not yet, I don’t,” stammered Collin, still edgy.

With a valiant effort at a sincere smile, the tall security guard cocked his head and asked, “Do you plan to stay with us tonight, sir?”

“Well, I was thinking about it, but if this is the way you’re going to treat me, then maybe I won’t.” Realizing he was on full display and there was no graceful way to sneak out now, he decided to play the indignant card. And it worked. He slipped into a character he had read about in the newspaper. Pretending to be an Internet tycoon on sabbatical, he huffed, “Do you know who I am? I deserve better treatment than this. I was featured in
The Wall Street Journal
in February after selling my company to Google. Despite my appearance, I am a respected businessman—not a criminal—and I demand an apology.”

The guard stammered. “Please, forgive me. I had no idea. Come right this way, sir,” said the tall one, as he waved an arm toward the front desk. “I am so sorry. Please, follow me.”

Little did Collin know that of the dozens of people gawking at this scene, one was a journalist who captured the whole thing on video using her smart phone. She uploaded the clip to YouTube before Collin made it to his room.

May 20

London, England

Nic Lancaster’s confidence was shaken but not his determination. Two near misses within the same week left his ego bruised. When the Navy vessel reported finding nothing unusual aboard any of the sailboats they searched in the Western Caribbean, he was dumbfounded. The videos from George Town had clearly shown a man resembling Collin Cook going to the marina. The taxi cab company confirmed a white American with brown hair was dropped off there that same morning. Nic was miffed and mystified by this average guy and his ability to elude him. That was the first.

The second failure came after an Interpol informant in Panama had reported that a man who matched the description of Collin Cook had arrived at his hotel, pretending to be a British archaeologist. Photos were sent to confirm his identity. Nic thought he had struck pay dirt. He coordinated a raid the next morning with the Panamanian Public Forces. However, it proved embarrassingly fruitless. His quarry had once again vanished into thin air. Hotel surveillance cameras produced video evidence that was strong but not 100 percent conclusive. The long hair and beard, combined with the low quality video stream, produced an 88 percent match on facial recognition software. But in his gut, Nic knew it was Collin Cook and knew he had just missed him—again. Damn that Alastair Montgomery for not giving Nic the authority he needed to sign off on the raid. Having to wait for Alastair’s approval cost him time, valuable time, which allowed Collin to sneak away in the middle of the night.

Nic was determined not to let that happen again. No more enduring the water cooler jokes about chasing down pleasure cruises or raiding empty hotel rooms. Maybe it was time to use his prime weapon: blackmail.

Nic mulled this over as he sipped his morning coffee, alone at his desk, at 6:55 a.m. His wheels were just starting to turn, devising a devilish scheme, when a dialogue box popped up on his computer screen. It was an instant message over Interpol’s internal system, coming from one of the few basement-dwelling techno-geeks who had proven useful. “Hey mate, I might have something for you. Come check this out.”

Full of impatient energy, Nic took the stairs down four floors to the “dungeon,” as the techies liked to call their quarters. The low ceiling and uneven fluorescent lighting accentuated the prison-like atmosphere that earned the IT department’s work space its nickname. Peter had weird hair, an earring, and wore lots of black. Not the type Nic normally hung out with, but since Peter was a team player who exhibited real genius, Nic liked him all right. “You got something for me?” he said as he entered the eerily dark cubicle.

“Yep. You gotta see this,” said Peter. His fingers tap-danced across his keyboard until a YouTube screen appeared. “Remember that bearded American bloke you wanted us to identify?”

“Of course. Collin Cook. Been trying to nab him for weeks. Why?”

“Well, I took the liberty of using some of the photos we collected along the way and created a filtering algorithm that scans the Internet for his face or anything with an 88 percent match. You remember that was the best we could do with the footage out of Panama, right? 88 percent?”

“Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”

“Well, we got a hit on this particular clip that was uploaded to a Peruvian news site’s YouTube channel. Watch.” He clicked on the play arrow.

Nic watched in rapt fascination as Collin Cook bluffed his way out of the hands of two security guards, who begged his forgiveness, despite his grungy appearance, at the JW Marriott in Lima.

“Check this out,” said Peter. “One of the nicest hotels in the city, and this guy walks in looking like a hobo and gets the red carpet treatment. Unbelievable.”

The video was unsteady, and the audio was unclear because of background noise. They ran the clip three more times. But it was good enough for Nic. He was certain that was his man. “That’s brilliant, Peter. When did this incident take place?”

“Looks like it was yesterday evening in Peru; just about eight hours ago. That would make it approximately half past midnight this morning GMT.”

“Can you go frame by frame?”

“Sure can,” said Peter. Some more taps and clicks, and Collin Cook was moving very slowly.

“Good. That’s
him
. Right there. I can’t believe this. He just shows up willy-nilly out of the blue in Lima, Peru. How did he get there, I wonder.” Nic’s voice elevated an octave or two above its normal high pitch. “No matter. Can you zoom in on the face?”

“Yeah, I can do that, too. It’s not the best quality, given the distance and the lighting.”

“That’s quite all right. We’ll work with it. Can you adjust the focus?”

“Will do.” Peter typed in some commands, and the image slowly became clearer.

“Brilliant. Can you save that on the shared drive in the Cook folder?”

“Of course.”

“Send me the YouTube link, as well, would you?”

“Sure thing, highness.”

“Good work, Peter. I’ll see to it that you get promoted.”

“Right you will,” said Peter, but Nic was already halfway to the door.

Calling over his shoulder, Nic added, “As soon as I get promoted.”

Nic knew he had to hurry. It was already 7:13, according to his flashy wristwatch. That meant 2:13 a.m. in Lima. Cook would be sleeping. Alastair had a meeting that started at eight, so Nic needed to catch him before that. Most mornings when Alastair had to attend meetings first thing, his mood was foul. Nic decided to just plow through it and hope to start Alastair’s day with some good news. This time he would get the authorization he needed, and Collin Cook would not escape. They had Cook where they wanted him. Time to lower the boom. On Alastair, too, if need be.

Nic contacted the secretary down the hall. Alastair checked in with her every morning. It was part of his routine. Nic asked her to let him know the moment Alastair walked in because he had some good news that required urgent attention.

While he waited, Nic made half a dozen phone calls. By the time he hung up from the last call, the trap was set. He had the intel and the cooperation he needed. The hotel management and the Peruvian police agreed to assist in the raid. The last piece of the puzzle would be Alastair Montgomery’s approval to set in motion the wheels of justice that would arrest Collin Cook for high crimes against the United Kingdom and other sovereign states.

Nic’s career was about to take a leap forward. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

His phone buzzed. He picked it up. The secretary informed Nic that Mr. Montgomery had just left her office. Nic popped up from his seat and wove his way to the outer hallway where Alastair’s office was located. He rounded a corner coming the other way and got there a step ahead of Alastair, who carried a load. A worn leather briefcase in one hand, the morning paper stuffed between his elbow and his rib cage, a cup of coffee and his phone balanced delicately in the other. He jumped with a start when Nic appeared suddenly before him. “Good Lord. Are you mad? You could give a man a heart attack.”

“Sorry about that, but I’ve got some news you need to hear before your meeting this morning.”

“Yes, about that. Give me a status update on that Cook fellow, would you?”

“Precisely. We’ve got him. Right where we want him. He’s in a hotel room in Lima, Peru, as we speak. It’s the middle of the night there, so the bloke is fast asleep, I’m sure. I’ve already called the Peruvian authorities and the hotel. Everything is ready to go. We just need your authorization to move in and capture him.”

“My approval? Why not Crabtree?”

“I don’t know, sir. Why Crabtree? Isn’t this our investigation now? Aren’t we running the show?”

“He’s no longer on our continent. I don’t see why we should.”

“Look, sir. With all due respect, there’s no reason not to jump on this right now. We know where he is. We know what he’s done. He has info that we need to catch the bigger fish. Remember? That was my assignment. You gave it to me, but now I need your approval to cinch this thing up. Will you make the call?”

Alastair stopped and scanned the area as he thought things through. He was keenly aware that they were in open space. Office doors were open all along the hallway, and the cubicles just to his left were most likely occupied. He must take action and be decisive. “Didn’t you say this the last time I signed an order to capture this guy? Didn’t you say we had on good authority that he was at The Executive Hotel in Panama City?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“Didn’t we barge into an empty room?”

“Yes, but I can explain—”

“And the time before that, weren’t you certain that this chap was aboard a sailboat just off the coast of Grand Cayman? What happened there?”

“Well, that was—”

“The point is, Nic, this is getting bloody ridiculous. We look like the Keystone Cops here. It’s embarrassing. I don’t know if I want my name on another order until I have some proof.”

“Fine. I’ll show you. Come this way.” Nic spoke through gritted teeth, trying to keep his tone in check. Alastair could be a real curmudgeon, especially in the mornings, but Nic did not expect this much harassment. He moved quickly to Alastair’s computer monitor and tapped on the keys, logging in.

“What are you doing?” Alastair asked, the annoyance in his voice undeniable.

“I’ve got a video you need to see. Bear with me while I get to it.” Within seconds, Nic had the YouTube video loading. After it played, he showed Alastair the close up photos of Collin’s face from the video and compared them to the photos they had on file. For further proof, Nic played back an audio recording of his phone conversation with the woman at the front desk of the hotel. She confirmed that the man involved in the altercation last night was in room 2321. To drive his point home, he played back another recording of his call with the police chief in Lima, who agreed under some pressure from Nic, to instigate a raid, but only if the directive was from the section chief.

Nic turned to his boss and glowered. “There you have it. We know it’s him. We know where he’s at. Now all we’ve got to do is go get him. What do you say, Section Chief?”

“I say don’t cock this one up.” Alastair’s eyes narrowed as he said it. Nic knew he was serious, but he also knew he had another video file of old Alastair, one he stored in a safe place on his phone that would be his hall pass if ever Alastair became an obstacle. Maybe Alastair needed a reminder. He held off for now. The right moment would present itself eventually.

*              *              *              *

J W Marriott Hotel, Lima, Peru

May 20

This is comfort,
thought Collin as he walked through his twenty-third floor suite. Thick carpet, soft lighting, every modern convenience and luxury he had ever imagined, and then some. Everything was so clean, so fresh, so modern. A flat screen TV, leather couches, fancy artwork. But the crowning feature was the view of the ocean. It was spectacular. He gazed out the full length window, taking it all in—the cliffs, the protruding peninsula to the south, the moon as it shimmered on the water.

When he finally finished gawking, he felt even grimier than before. A long, hot shower made him comfortable and relaxed. Dressed in his favorite sweatpants and worn out T-shirt, he stretched out on the bed. He wanted to close his eyes, but he didn’t feel sleepy. Instead, he lay there and pondered the events that had taken place downstairs. It was probably no big deal. Nothing would come of it. He forced his eyes shut and let his head sink into the down pillows.

But sleep would not come. The image of making a spectacle in front of all those people kept sweeping across the stage of his mind, followed by the words Lukas had said so many times. “Stay low. Stay small. Blend in.”

The incident had blown over just as quickly as it had started, so he forced the thought out of his mind by thinking about more pleasant things, like his Facebook conversations with Emily. Since sleep eluded him, he went online to see what was happening and to continue the communication with his dear friend.

At two o’clock in the morning, after emailing his mother, his siblings, and Rob, and messaging back and forth with Emily, he decided it was time to get some sleep. It had been a long, difficult day. And week. He needed to catch up on his rest to stay sharp. He signed off and climbed in the soft, inviting, king sized bed, gathered up the pillows, and settled in for a cozy night of luxury.

At 4:07 a.m., there was a pounding on the door. Then more pounding. When no one answered, a key card was inserted into the lock. The door swung open. Lights on. Eight military commandos stormed into the room, rifles at the ready, swinging them into every nook and cranny of the suite. Within twenty seconds, the man in charge called out, “All clear.” Over his cell phone, he confirmed his announcement. “I’m sorry, Agent Lancaster. The room is empty. There is no one here.”

“You sure you got the right room?”

“Positive. We double checked with the front desk that this is the right room, 2321.”

Nic let out a string of profanity, revealing his bitter disappointment. Hot rage boiled behind his eyes and in his chest. He panted like a dog and hissed like a viper. “You mean to tell me that man from the video, the one that looked like a beggar, never checked into his room? Even after making such a fuss?”