Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [115]
Charlie found the Country Inn lobby empty. The middle-aged Pakistani man behind the reception desk, embroiled in a phone conversation that could only be spousal, didn’t look up as Charlie exited.
The Dollar Store was a treasure trove. The shaggy blond wig Charlie selected, though probably intended for a woman, appeared fake only on close scrutiny—a man could wear it and pass for a biker. The horn-rimmed sunglasses, likely sitting on the spinning rack since the Dollar Store was the Quarter Store, might be taken as retro-chic and would certainly alter the contours of his face. He also picked out several sweatshirts and a camouflage-print coat. If Eskridge’s people were to ask young Mysti at the register what Charlie had purchased, they would net a dozen possible descriptions.
Getting into the spirit of obfuscation, Charlie bought three more wigs, a fisherman’s hat, and a purple poncho.
“School play,” he said with affected sheepishness as he set everything onto the conveyor belt.
Behind the counter, Mysti smiled reflexively. Her gaze was fixed on the round security mirror overhead. Charlie saw the reflection of an elderly woman sliding a Christmas ornament—three for a dollar—into her blouse.
Leaving the store, Charlie started back across the street to the Avis two buildings down. He noticed security cameras on three of the car rental agency’s walls. Even with the big blond wig and sunglasses, he would thwart decent facial recognition software for only a few seconds, if that.
Farther up the block, Hattiesburg Rent-A-Car, a spruced-up shed with a hand-painted sign and three dusty Chryslers in its unpaved front lot, looked more promising.
Closer inspection revealed that it too had a security camera in a plastic dome the size of a salad bowl suspended from the ceiling.
Charlie cursed car thieves if only as an outlet for his frustration.
Then he considered joining them. He had watched his father hot-wire cars often enough. Of course, he’d also watched Darryl Strawberry hit 450-foot home runs.
Necessity won. He returned to the motel parking lot, stopping to tie his shoe between one of the big rigs and the old Buick, a two-toner with beige side panels.
The easiest way to gain access to a vehicle, his father had said, is by opening a door. People left them unlocked far too often. Charlie reached tentatively for the handle on the driver’s door of the Buick, bracing for the car’s owner to burst out of the motel.
The lobby door remained shut.
Odds were the Buick belonged to the man behind the reception desk. And odds also said a place like this didn’t pay for security cameras in the parking lot.
Gingerly, Charlie pulled up the handle. The door opened, hinges croaking. The dome light flickered on. Still no one seemed to notice.
He darted into the driver’s footwell, pulling the door shut behind him. Careful to keep his head below the window line, he smashed his wounded shoulder into the radio. It stung, but he quickly stretched out across the floor, flipped onto his back, and studied the ignition barrel.
On its underside, he found a curved rectangular panel the size of a Pop-Tart and plucked it free. Now he needed to find the two reds from among the jungle of wires inside the ignition barrel. Nervous perspiration burned his eyes.
He spotted the reds. Without much hope that it would work, he touched their ends together.
The engine sputtered to life.
Charlie would marvel later. Now his eyes darted toward the lobby door.
The usual.
The scant sunlight had failed to burn the heavy fog off Mobile Bay by late morning. Although sixty degrees, the day remained too blustery and generally dismal for most pool or waterfront activities. A few joggers and bicyclists used the trails through the Grand Hotel’s lush grounds. The G-20 security teams couldn’t have been more conspicuous. Many of the agents wore shiny black coats emblazoned with SECRET SERVICE and HAZMAT and COUNTERSNIPERS. The conference wouldn’t kick off until evening, but guard stations already formed a wall around the