He scanned the electronics store as customers came and went—an older couple, the young man who had arrived just after he walked in, with tattoos that would have impressed Innis, and a couple of girls, teenagers checking out the latest in cell phones.
The signal at the inn had been weak at best. The signal was stronger inside the store, through the rooftop dish he'd spotted earlier and no doubt a signal booster somewhere in the back of the store.
It was almost noon. Gamers that were in for the full tournament in Paris would still be at it. Those who dropped by to watch had gone home hours ago, or zoned out on their substance of choice.
Thirty seconds—the minimum amount of time needed to track a call, if someone was scanning for a hit, and if they were capable of it.
After everything that had happened, after Cate's phone log had been hacked, he wasn't into taking chances.
The voice that eventually came on was hoarse—too much to drink, or too much recreational substance—but recognizable.
“I need information.” James stepped to the back of the store where no one would overhear the conversation.
“Do you fucking know what time it is?” Innis croaked irritably on the other end of the call.
Did he? James wondered.
“Most people call it the 'next day,'” he replied, no patience for attitude or conversations about the time. “I need information.”
He ignored the crude response on the other end of the call.
“I need to know about Marcus Aronson,” he replied. “Everything you can find on him—interviews, his early career as a field correspondent, then at the university, known associates, wives, lovers, children. Everything,” he said again.
Forty seconds. He was running out of time, out of that safety zone.
“He's probably among the dead.” Innis replied the obvious. “They're still sifting through the rubble. It was all over the news.”
But why was he dead?
In the wrong place at the wrong time? A coincidence? He didn't believe in coincidences.
“And I need you to work your magic on that image from the security film. It's important. I need a face and an identity to go with it.”
“Anything else?” Innis sarcastically replied.
“I'll let you know.”
Fifty seconds. The muscles at the back of his neck tightened.
“Call me as soon as you have something.” He ended the call, cutting Innis off mid-complaint. He tapped in another number and left a message.
“Aye, Danny, I need your help. That friend of yours. It's important.” He gave the name of the person at the gallery that the Captain had given him.
“It's important.”
He didn't leave a name but ended with something Danny would recognize.
“Running on empty, my friend.”
Both calls had been brief, short enough that they might not have been picked up.
Call it paranoia, call it that extra sense that woke him in the middle of the night, that had saved his ass more than once. He liked to think of it as insurance.
Watch, listen, be aware of your surroundings. He scanned the shop—Mr. Tattoo in a long conversation with the clerk, no doubt something philosophical considering the words inked down one arm under an elaborate skull—'brotherhood, love, peace;' the older couple, staring at Mr. Tattoo and whispering back and forth; the careful glances between the two girls, then the quick grab of the display phone that would have made a street thief envious, and in a few years they would be mothers of the future generation, or supporting a habit with whatever could be stolen and sold on the street.
He pocketed the throw-away phone and headed for the exit, passing the girls on his way out.
“Put it back,” he told them. “They've got you on camera.” He angled a glance toward the camera scanning the store. The risk of hanging out in such places, but he had to take it.
