In the low light his eyes were dull. “I’ll come straight to the gym. Stay safe.”
“You, too.” She gathered the laptop, and retrieved her beanie from her coat pocket and pulled it low, her wig and scarf swallowing most of her face. She was wearing the camel coat, black dress, scarf and boots she’d worn through immigration but they were less recognizable than the blue coat.Goodbye sanctuary.
“Webs of the spider, remember?” he said.
She nodded, filled her lungs, took a last look at Jamie, for courage, and opened the door.
Stale cigarette smoke mixed with fresher fumes, garbage and damp. She dared not watch the Prius as Jamie maneuvered it to the roller door, which began to crank open. In her peripheral vision she sensed the smoking driver turning to look—taking the attention away from Samira.
“We’re almost out of time.” Rafe’s voice strained. “Holly, get out now or I swear I’m—”
“He’s nearly done with the phone call,” Holly whispered.
Samira pushed open a door into a low-lit corridor. She followed a waft of chlorine to the fitness center. A young bearded guy pounded a treadmill, a tinny beat buzzing from his earphones. Behind him a glass wall revealed a few swimmers in an indoor pool. Samira pushed open a door to a changing room. Deserted. She shut herself in a stall, sat on a bench and pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. Jazz played through a speaker. An air-conditioning unit hummed.
She hit the mic button. “I’m in the women’s changing rooms at the fitness center.”
“Noted.” Rafe’s voice.
How long before Jamie returned? Would he get back in the building? Would he be arrested? Captured?
She opened the laptop. Nothing she could do about that but there must be more she could do remotely...
After a few minutes, Holly cleared her throat and murmured an “mmm-hmm,” like she was replying to Hyland. More talking, then silence. “Okay, he’s in the bathroom. I’ve got the—”
The distant phone trilled again and abruptly silenced. A man’s voice.
“No, Pops, that’s my phone.” Holly sounded like she was shouting through her sleeve. A snap—the phone going into her clutch? “I’m going downstairs for coffee!”
In Samira’s earpiece, a door opened, then shut. A change in background noise. More voices. Samira’s heart thumped as if she were the one breezing past a crack squad of diplomatic security and goons.
Holly couldn’t take the lift down to the lobby or she’d risk walking right into Laura coming up. Samira checked the floor plan. “Holly, get out of the lift at level two and take the stairwell down between rooms 212 and 214.”
A squeal. A door opening? The background noise muted. “I’m already on the stairs, heading down.” Holly’s echoing voice labored, like she was jogging. “Oh shit.”
A beat. “Holly?” Rafe’s voice, shaking—also on the move. Any second he’d spot Holly.
“Stop!” A man’s voice, in the background—of which mic?
Clattering, clunking, heavy breathing. Rafe’s or Holly’s? Samira clutched her scarf.
“You?” A woman’s voice. Not Holly. Oh God, was that...Laura? She’d come up the stairs? “What the hell?”
A war cry from Holly, a hollow smack, a crash, a groan. “My purse,” she hissed. “The phone. Behind a plant. Stairs. Sixth floor.” She cried out—in pain, this time.
“She’s wearing a wire.” A man’s voice. The connection crackled and died.
“Holly?” Samira whispered. No answer. “Rafe?”
“I can’t find her. Holly, if you’re there, say something.” Silence. “Samira?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m on the stairs outside the sixth floor. Holly hasn’t come past and she’s not above me. She said she was taking the stairs. So where the fuck is she?”
Cold swept over Samira. “I know what’s gone wrong. There are two stairwells, one at the end of each floor.” The door to the bathroom swished. Two women came in, chatting. Samira lowered her voice. “She must have taken the south stairwell. You’re in the north.”
“How do I find the south stairwell?” His voice rolled like thunder.
