Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [37]
“It’s closed,” Drummond said.
“I know, but I was thinking that someone who can hot-wire an amphibious vehicle might be able to open a hut.”
The hut proved to be nearly as secure as a vault, an industrial version of the prefabricated metal storage sheds sold at home improvement stores—the bamboo façade was hot-glued to the exterior walls, synthetic grass was stapled to the roof. Its door and window were fastened by combination locks.
“An interesting piece of information about combination locks is that many have small keyholes on the back,” Drummond said.
Charlie eagerly flipped the lock over and spotted a tiny round keyhole in the upper right corner. “Excellent piece, Dad!”
“Did you know that many people use the same combination lock for years without ever noticing the keyhole, until a thief defeats it.”
“How does the thief defeat it?”
Drummond gazed down the beach, as if regarding a beautiful painting. “How would I know?”
“Say you were a onetime CIA operations officer, who took a five-day course in lock-picking when you were at the Farm …”
The shock of actually finding the Clarks might have bowled Stanley over if Hadley hadn’t seized his hand and steered him behind a grassy rise in the sand, out of the fugitives’ sight.
“Good choice of hotel,” he said under his breath.
“Next time we decide to take a ‘romantic stroll along the beach,’ remind me to request permission to bring a sidearm.”
Stanley had an AK-47 and three handguns in his apartment in Paris, but rarely took them to work, although, like now, they often would have come in handy. As opposed to FBI agents, CIA officers didn’t carry firearms—the bureaucrats usually withheld permission for fear of their operatives being exposed as CIA officers and of the resulting flaps.
Antibureaucratic vitriol sharpened Stanley’s senses. He regarded the stretch of beach where the Clarks had disappeared. “We ought to go after them.”
Hadley opened her purse and drew out her BlackBerry. “And take them ourselves, with no weapons?”
“Just tail them. In a minute or two, they’ll have a whole new wardrobe from that beach supply shack or the shops in the lobby. Another ninety seconds and they’ll have helped themselves to a car in the guest parking lot that no one will realize is gone until morning at the soonest. By the time our backup mobilizes, the rabbits will have blended into the half a million people on this four-hundred-square-mile jungle.”
“They’ll know we’re tailing them, though.”
“I can live with that. If we can stall them for as little as two minutes, we’ll have half a dozen police cars and a helicopter in play.”
By way of agreement, she started back to the hotel, scrolling down her phone menu. “I’ll call the dry cleaners.” She meant their backup unit.
Stanley looked past her, toward an odd rustling in the bamboo.
Drummond and Charlie emerged from the stalks just a few feet away, crisp new Hôtel L’Impératrice T-shirts over their wet suits. They brandished pistols of sorts with four-foot barrels and spearheads protruding from the muzzles.
Stanley was hit with a one-two punch of surprise, then fury. Why hadn’t he heeded his instincts and rushed the criminals the first moment he saw them?
“Fort-de-France Dry Cleaning,” came the Yankee-accented voice of the backup unit’s chief over the BlackBerry.
Holding a finger to his lips, Charlie held forth a thick sheet of hotel stationery. With the point of his speargun, Drummond directed Stanley and Hadley to the big block letters on the stationery, although Charlie’s intent had been obvious.
By the light of Hadley’s BlackBerry, Stanley read:
FOLLOW THESE INSTRUCTIONS IMMEDIATELY OR WE WILL SHOOT YOU:
RAISE YOUR HANDS.
ONE OF YOU, SAY, ENTHUSIASTICALLY: “LET’S GO FOR A DIP ANYWAY!”
SAY NOTHING ELSE.
Raising his hands, Stanley glanced at Hadley in hope that she had a better plan. Her hands were already in the air, and though the night made it hard to tell, she was pale.
“Let’s go for a dip anyway,” she said with