their way back in. Shoppers, rushing for their final few purchases. A repair crew, trying to pump the water out of a leak in some foundations they were digging next to the river. But none of that caused me a problem. I had no need to hurry anywhere. There was no sign of the guys from the courtyard. Or the woman. And still no word from Fothergill.
A courier arrived at the hotel twenty-five minutes after I got tomy room. She brought two packages for me, secured with official consulate seals. I asked her to wait while I opened them. And the first one, I gave straight back. It contained photographs, courtesy of the INS. Portraits of travelers. Everyone who’d arrived in Illinois from overseas in the last week. Followed by the records from all the surrounding states. The stack was five inches thick. And even without the note confirming that there were no matches for the dead men’s fingerprints, I knew it wouldn’t tell me anything. It was pointless having sent it. A typical example of a desk guy trying to give the impression of productivity. One of the skills you had to master, to be a success on Fothergill’s adopted side of the fence?
The second envelope wasn’t much more useful. It was from the police lab. There was an initial analysis of the men’s clothes. A breakdown of their last meals. Details of their physical condition, before they were shot. And a sketchy inventory of McIntyre’s apartment, where they’d died. Every aspect came up blank. There was nothing to tell me where the dead guys had come from. What they’d been doing. Or where McIntyre was likely to be, now. None of which was a surprise. It was par for the course at this stage of a job. There was little to do besides settling down and waiting for more information. I was used to it. And at least I was in a hotel. I had a bed. A bathroom. A TV. And room service.
I guess my feelings about the quality of the intelligence he’d gathered didn’t reach Fothergill until the morning because I didn’t hear from him until past eight o’clock, when I was still contemplating the need to leave the comfort of my duvet. And even then, he only sent me a text message.
qqo?
Questions, queries, or observations? That was standard protocol following a remote briefing, and no more than I was expecting.
natt
, I sent back. Nothing at this time.
I knew what his reply would be without looking at the phone.
hypafo
.
The inevitable,
Hold your position—await further orders
.
In other words, sit and wait. The bane of service life. There was no telling how long the machine would take to churn out something useful, so I decided to get started with some breakfast. I ordered room service. A full English, with extra coffee. It was a good choice. I followed it up with a shave and a shower. And then crossed to the window to sketch out my own plans for the day.
The sky was a radiant, unbroken blue. It reminded me of deep, clear water. I thought about strolling over to the lake. Maybe carrying on along the shore for a while. Seeing how the city looked, floating above the waves. But I wouldn’t be able to go far. I needed to stay in touch in case we got a lead on McIntyre. Somewhere closer at hand would be better. Somewhere central. Something unique to Chicago, since I wasn’t planning on being here long. I moved to the window on the other side of the room, and straight away my eyes settled on a pair of massive antennas that rose above the surrounding buildings like white devil horns. They were on the roof of the Sears Tower. Or whatever it was called now. The tallest building in the world for more than twenty years. Still the tallest in America. And now, there it was, calling to me.
I pulled the tourist information folder out of the desk drawer and checked the address. Read up on the building’s history. Glanced at extracts from its original blueprints. Skimmed through photographs of it being built. Studied a table of key facts. Looked for details of its observation deck.
A courier arrived at the hotel twenty-five minutes after I got tomy room. She brought two packages for me, secured with official consulate seals. I asked her to wait while I opened them. And the first one, I gave straight back. It contained photographs, courtesy of the INS. Portraits of travelers. Everyone who’d arrived in Illinois from overseas in the last week. Followed by the records from all the surrounding states. The stack was five inches thick. And even without the note confirming that there were no matches for the dead men’s fingerprints, I knew it wouldn’t tell me anything. It was pointless having sent it. A typical example of a desk guy trying to give the impression of productivity. One of the skills you had to master, to be a success on Fothergill’s adopted side of the fence?
The second envelope wasn’t much more useful. It was from the police lab. There was an initial analysis of the men’s clothes. A breakdown of their last meals. Details of their physical condition, before they were shot. And a sketchy inventory of McIntyre’s apartment, where they’d died. Every aspect came up blank. There was nothing to tell me where the dead guys had come from. What they’d been doing. Or where McIntyre was likely to be, now. None of which was a surprise. It was par for the course at this stage of a job. There was little to do besides settling down and waiting for more information. I was used to it. And at least I was in a hotel. I had a bed. A bathroom. A TV. And room service.
I guess my feelings about the quality of the intelligence he’d gathered didn’t reach Fothergill until the morning because I didn’t hear from him until past eight o’clock, when I was still contemplating the need to leave the comfort of my duvet. And even then, he only sent me a text message.
qqo?
Questions, queries, or observations? That was standard protocol following a remote briefing, and no more than I was expecting.
natt
, I sent back. Nothing at this time.
I knew what his reply would be without looking at the phone.
hypafo
.
The inevitable,
Hold your position—await further orders
.
In other words, sit and wait. The bane of service life. There was no telling how long the machine would take to churn out something useful, so I decided to get started with some breakfast. I ordered room service. A full English, with extra coffee. It was a good choice. I followed it up with a shave and a shower. And then crossed to the window to sketch out my own plans for the day.
The sky was a radiant, unbroken blue. It reminded me of deep, clear water. I thought about strolling over to the lake. Maybe carrying on along the shore for a while. Seeing how the city looked, floating above the waves. But I wouldn’t be able to go far. I needed to stay in touch in case we got a lead on McIntyre. Somewhere closer at hand would be better. Somewhere central. Something unique to Chicago, since I wasn’t planning on being here long. I moved to the window on the other side of the room, and straight away my eyes settled on a pair of massive antennas that rose above the surrounding buildings like white devil horns. They were on the roof of the Sears Tower. Or whatever it was called now. The tallest building in the world for more than twenty years. Still the tallest in America. And now, there it was, calling to me.
I pulled the tourist information folder out of the desk drawer and checked the address. Read up on the building’s history. Glanced at extracts from its original blueprints. Skimmed through photographs of it being built. Studied a table of key facts. Looked for details of its observation deck.
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