Uri watched the bus, watched Ferguson, didn’t see the bicycle messenger speeding along the edge of the parked cars, going against the one-way traffic. As Uri swung his door open, the bike messenger slammed into it, bike crashing over, the messenger taking the spill in a roll, popping back up on his feet, coming at the Israeli.

“Fuckin’ tourist,” the messenger yelled, extending his arms, locking them to shove Uri.

Ferguson had just started across the street when he heard a crunch behind him. Didn’t turn his head to look, too many years of tradecraft. Instead he checked the reflection in the big plate-glass windows that lined the arcade of shops on the ground floor of the hotel. In the reflection, he saw the bike on the ground, the open car door, saw the messenger roll up, spring at the guy getting out of the car. The guy slipped the shove easily, quick move, great balance, then an elbow into the bike messenger’s ribs as the momentum of the shove carried him past. Krav Maga move – that home-grown shit the Israelis taught all their guys. Mossad move. Three other guys had gotten out of the car, too. All the right age, right size.

Four Mossad guys popping out of a car behind him? Ferguson didn’t know what it meant, beyond nothing good. Meant they were waiting for him, though. Which meant they knew he was coming. Probably the damn phone. Probably Weaver.

Ferguson continued across the intersection, watching the window. The Mossad guys were spreading out, two heading north up Adams, two continuing after him. Not hurrying, trying to look casual.

Ferguson kept on Wabash and then turned into the retail arcade on the ground floor, below the lobby, saw a guy coming toward him carrying a shopping bag. Face wasn’t a good match for him, but the guy was the right size, was wearing the same type of nondescript raincoat, same color hair. Ferguson dropped his phone into the guy’s shopping bag and then ducked into one of the shops, turned behind a display.

He saw two of the Israelis come through the revolving door into the arcade, scanning. They stopped. The taller one, the one who had dropped the bicycle messenger, pulled a smartphone out of his pocket, checked the screen. Guy scrunched up his brow, nudged the other guy, and they went back out the door. Turned north. Same way shopping bag guy had gone.

That proved it.

“Fuck,” said Ferguson.

“May I help you?” A voice behind him, a little disapproving.

Ferguson turned. Little, nattily dressed guy, maybe five and a half feet, might go one hundred and twenty-five with a pocket full of change. Gelled hair, manicure.

“No,” said Ferguson. “No, I don’t think you can.”

Uri and his wingman were most of the way up the block, Uri splitting his attention between the screen on the phone and the pedestrian traffic. Sidewalks were crammed. Had to get a good look more than a couple of people ahead. Then he saw the guy in the raincoat. Short, salt-and-pepper hair, right size. Could be. Sped up. Drifted left. His wingman knew the drill, drifted right so they’d come at Ferguson from both sides. Only a couple yards back now. Readout on Uri’s screen said he was right on top of Ferguson’s phone and pacing it. But he was close enough to see this guy wasn’t Ferguson. Fucking bike messenger. Should have killed the son of a bitch.

He stopped, punched the team button on the phone. The other two should have been coming in the west end of the arcade just after he left the east.

“You guys see Ferguson go out that way?”

“No. He didn’t come west.”

The Israeli thinking Ferguson was probably gone. Probably got a sniff because of the damn bike messenger, planted his phone on this schmuck for cover and took off. But the Israeli still had numbers and firepower on his side. Attack, always attack. That was the Israeli way. Both at once was better, but one was better than none. Get Chen, then run Ferguson to ground.

“OK, screw Ferguson for now. We take Chen. Cover the arcade, both ends, watch the elevators and escalators. Looks like she’s still in her room.”

The Israeli and his wingman jogged back toward the door.

Ferguson figured the other two would be spreading out to cover the arcade. Best move would be to break contain, get outside, get clear. But only if he wanted to sacrifice Chen. Figured it was time to decide whether he believed his own bullshit. Called out Weaver because he’d lost his moral compass, such as it was. Now he had to decide. Did he throw Chen under the bus to save his own ass or did he stand up?

Big crowd coming, trade show group or something, all in suits, those lanyards with name tags hanging around their necks. Ferguson used them as cover to cross the arcade, got into the knot of suits, went up the staircase to the lobby. He was all in now. Only way back out was through the Israelis. One of the suits split left, texting away on his BlackBerry, heading for the men’s room. Ferguson needed comms, trailed the guy into the john, gave him an elbow across the base of the skull as soon as they cleared the door, dropped him to the floor like a bag of flour. Grabbed the BlackBerry, hoping to hell Chen was online. He knew she used some kind of tech voodoo to keep her connections secure, mostly just to piss off Paravola. Didn’t know whether that would help with an incoming message, but it was the only chance they had. Ferguson started texting.

014. Her room number backwards, that was their emergency identifier, let her know to answer.

Go

Blown 4 Mossad

In house?

Yes

Your 6

Lobby

Roger

All he could do. Ferguson dampened a paper towel, wiped down the BlackBerry, dropped it next to the guy on the floor, the guy just starting to moan. Ferguson slipped back into the lobby.

Good hide in the corner – big ass planter, out of the traffic flow, with a view of the elevators.

Chen worked quickly but knew better than to hurry. She slipped her laptop into her backpack, along with the operational cash – ten thousand dollars in twenties. Then she twisted the silencer onto her .25, dropped that into her right hand pocket, put the 9mm in her shoulder holster, slipped on her jacket, grabbed the backpack, flipped it on, adjusted the coat so the 9mm didn’t show, made sure the backpack straps were clear in case she needed to draw.

She picked up two small black boxes from the desk, peeled the strips covering the adhesive patches off the back, stuck one on each side of the door, and threw the switches. Next she picked up the landline in her room, dialed the ops desk, and set the phone down, leaving the line open. Went through the connecting door to Ferguson’s room, walked across the hall listening at doors. No sound at the first door, but TV noise from the room directly across from hers. She tapped on the door.

“Yes?” A man’s voice. Good.

Chen remembered to smile, how supposedly people could hear that in your voice.

“Hi, um, this is kind of embarrassing, but I think I left my key down in the locker room after my workout. I called the desk, they said they’d send somebody, but it’s been like fifteen minutes. I’m going to be late for an appointment. I was hoping maybe I could borrow your key? Or you could just run down there with me?”

Heard movement, the guy walking to the door. She looked up at the peephole, made sure to put a little flirt in it. She put her hand in her jacket pocket.

The man’s voice. “Sure.”

The door opened, the guy stepping back, letting Chen in.

“I’ll just grab my key,” he said.

He turned into the room. Chen pulled the .25 from her pocket, shot him through the back of the head. She closed the door behind her and watched through the peephole. The Israelis would be there soon.

Uri knew the Asian woman should still be on the fourth floor. He had one team covering each other up the stairwell and one man watching the elevators. Uri stayed behind to cover the lobby, watching the stairs and escalators, just in case.