“As I say, maybe an hour ago. Perhaps less.”

“You’re sure it was him?” says Herman.

“Oh, yeah. He thank me for putting the muffins and fruit in the bag for him this morning. We’re not supposed to open the continental breakfast until seven. But as you know, he left early. He tol’ me to put all the room charges on his credit card and ship the bags to a hotel in Washington, D.C., overnight,” he says. “I tol’ him we can ship them air freight, express overnight, but it’s expensive. Besides, they won’t ship until tomorrow, and they don’t deliver on Sunday, so he won’t get it till Monday. He said he didn’t care. To put it on his hotel tab, and to give myself a nice tip. He didn’t say how much.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” says Herman.

I am thinking that it probably won’t matter, as Thorn no doubt stole the credit card from somebody else.

“I wonder if you could get the address for us, the hotel in Washington where the bags are going?” says Herman. “It would be a big help.”

“It’s downstairs. I’ll go get it,” he says. He takes two steps toward the door and stops. “Maybe I should take the bags down first.”

“We’ll watch them,” says Herman.

“Okay. Be right back.”

The second he leaves the room, Herman and I open both bags. Dirty clothes, two pairs of shoes, one of them dress shoes polished like a mirror, a shaving kit, neatly packed, almost anal. Herman is right. Thorn is military. Everything packed in its proper place.

“The kid didn’t pack like this,” I say.

“No,” says Herman.

It’s obvious that Thorn was getting ready to leave.

We dump everything out on the bed and start pawing through it. I check the pockets of the pants for anything left behind. They are all empty.

I slide my hand along the inside edge of the small case, into the elastic pouch where small items are sometimes stored. I find a plastic sewing kit, needles and thread, some matches, and a unique folding knife. It has a clear plastic handle through which you can see the blade.

I wonder how Thorn gets it through airport security until I open it and realize that the four-inch razor-sharp blade is ceramic. The handle is formed from a clear solid block of acrylic. To a scanner the knife would be virtually invisible.

I continue my search along the inside edge until I feel something solid rub against the back of my hand. It’s not inside the elastic pouch but behind the lining of the suitcase itself. I open the ceramic knife and slice the lining of the case, reach inside, and pull out not one, but three separate passports: one French, one British, and the last one U.S. I open them. They all have the same photograph of Thorn but different names.

“From my recollection, they look better than the ones you and I bought down in Costa Rica,” says Herman. “And a much clearer picture of the man. No wonder he wants the suitcase back.” Herman grabs all three of the passports and slips them into his pocket.

We’re running out of time. I hear the kid coming up the stairs.

Herman grabs the knife, folds it up, and slips it into his pocket. “Keep goin’, I’ll keep him busy.” He steps out into the hallway. A second later I hear the two of them talking, this time in Spanish, down the hall near the head of the stairs.

I run my hand along the liner until I feel something else. It’s not a passport. It’s too small. I try to reach it with my fingers through the slit in the lining, but I can’t quite get it.

I look for the knife and realize it’s gone. The voices are moving this way.

Herman tells Pablo he wants to check out. He tries to draw him back toward the stairs.

“Okay, but I should lock up,” says Pablo. “I must not leave Señor Johnston’s bags unattended.”

I rip the lining and reach inside. It’s a small black book the size of a pocket calendar. I don’t have time to open it. I just jam it in my pocket and start throwing clothes and shoes, the shaving kit, all of it in a jumbled mess inside the suitcases. I zip up the large bag, set it on the floor, and pull the zipper around on the smaller one just as I hear them approach the doorway. I set it on the floor, then turn and smile.

“Did you get the address?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” says Herman. “Pablo is very efficient and professional. He assures me that he said nothing to Señor Johnston about our efforts to serve him.”

“Good man,” I tell him.

“Of course, that is your business,” says Pablo. “When I give my word, it is important that I keep it.”

“Yes, indeed,” says Herman. “Let’s let Pablo lock up so I can go down and check out. Then we gotta get out of here.”

“Yes, we do,” I tell him.

Less than an hour later, we’re back in the room at the Hotel Melia. Joselyn dries her hair with a towel and watches over my shoulder as Herman and I pore over the booty from Thorn’s suitcases.

Herman opens up one of the passports and shows her a more current picture of Thorn.

“He hasn’t changed much at all,” she says. “That’s how I remember him from Seattle. Dorian Gray.”

“What’s this, I wonder?” I’m looking through the little black book. The first page is covered in a long series of numbers, dark blue ink pressed firmly into the paper as if the writer has a tendency to push too hard.

“It looks like a code of some kind,” says Joselyn.

There is a separate set of numbers on each line.

“Could be dates,” says Joselyn.

“What do you mean? There’re too many numbers on each line,” I say.

“Turn the page,” she says.

I do it and the numbers continue, for two more pages. The writing is precise, very neat, but looks hard, as if the ballpoint engraved itself in the fine paper.

“What it looks like to me is a series of dates,” says Joselyn, “at least the first six numbers on each line. Look, they’re set off by a space from the rest of the numbers on the line. It’s like two columns. The dates could be international style, not like we do it in the States. The number of the day followed by the number of the month, and then the last two digits for the year.”

“Then what’s the rest of it?” I ask. “The other numbers?”

Joselyn uses her finger and counts the numbers on each line. “Assuming the first six numbers represent dates, then there are ten additional numbers on each line. Could be phone numbers,” she says. “Area code and then seven more for the local number. Give me a second,” she says.

She tosses the towel on the bed and gets her cell phone out of her purse. “Take the numbers on the first line, forget the first six and just give me the last ten,” she says.

I read them to her and she keys them into her phone. She listens for a second, then hangs up. “Nope. It’s disconnected. Give me the next one.”

We try again.

“No, it can’t be phone numbers, must be something else,” she says.

I flip the pages. “Not necessarily. Try this one.” I read it to her and watch as she dials.

I hear it ring. She gives me a wide-eyed look and a thumbs-up. It answers, a kind of synthesized voice, not human but computer generated. It is loud enough to make out the words from where I am sitting. “Speak clearly in order to be identified.”

“Hello,” says Joselyn. Suddenly the line goes dead. She looks at her phone. “I think I dropped the call.”

“Let me try.” I dial the same number on my cell, get the same synthesized voice with the same message “Speak clearly in order to be identified.” The second I say, “Who is this?” it hangs up.

“What is it?” says Herman.

“It must be set up on some kind of voice-identification system,” I tell him. “If the wrong person calls in, it hangs up. It’s obviously a system for Thorn to communicate with someone. Probably a backup copy. He must have another one he works from and keeps this one in the suitcase in case he loses it.”

“How come that number answered but the other ones didn’t?” says Joselyn.