He waited a minute, then went over to one room. Holding the pistol behind his back, he glanced up and down the hallway to make sure he was alone, then knocked. The door opened a moment later. The man scowled when he saw Schroeder standing there. It was the man he had jostled. He had taken off his jacket, and, as Schroeder had suspected, he was wearing a shoulder holster with a handgun in it.
"What the hell do you want?"
"I seem to have lost my room key. I was wondering if I could use your phone."
"I'm busy." He put his hand on the holster. "Go bother someone else."
The man started to close the door. Schroeder quickly brought the pistol around and snapped off a shot between the eyes. The man crumpled to the floor with a look of abject surprise on his otherwise unmarked face. Glancing up and down the corridor, Schroeder stepped over the body and dragged it just inside the room.
Schroeder followed the same routine, with slight variations but similar results. In one case, he rushed his first shot and had to fire twice. In another, he heard the elevator door open just as he pulled the body into the room. But when it was over, he had killed four men in less than five minutes.
He felt no remorse, dispatching them with the cold, murderous efficiency of his old days. They were simply violent thugs, no different from many he had encountered, even worked with. Worse, they were sloppy and careless. The team must have been assembled in a hurry. They were not the first men he had killed. Nor were they likely the last.
He hung do not disturb signs on each door. A few minutes later, he was back in his rental car headed for the airport. Harper was still in his office, burrowing through his paperwork like an overgrown mole.
"I talked to the TV crew," Schroeder said. "They've changed their minds. They've decided to head down to Kodiak Island to shoot a feature on bears."
"Shit! Why didn't they tell me?"
"You can call them and ask. But they were on their way out when I called them."
Harper snatched up the phone and called the hotel. He asked to be connected to the TV crew's rooms. When no one answered, he slammed the phone down on its cradle. He rubbed his eyes, and seemed on the verge of breaking into tears.
"That's it," he said. "I was counting on a check from this run to make the monthly payment on the big bird. I'm ruined."
"You don't have any other charters scheduled?"
"It's not that easy. It takes days, sometimes weeks, to put together a deal."
"Then the plane and boat are free for charter?"
"Yeah, they're free. You know anyone interested in chartering them?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." Schroeder reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick packet of bills, which he tossed onto a pile of papers. "This is for the trip out and the boat. I'll pay you an equal amount for the return flight. My only condition is that you stand by for a few days until I'm ready to leave."
Harper picked the packet up and riffled the edges. They were all hundred-dollar bills. "I can practically buy a new plane for this." He frowned. "This isn't something illegal, is it?"
"Nothing illegal at all. You'll be carrying no cargo. Only me."
"You got papers?"
"Passport and visa are all up-to-date and in order." They should be, for the money he paid for them, Schroeder thought. He had stopped in Seattle and waited impatiently while his favorite ID forger had cooked up a set of papers for Professor Kurtz.
Harper extended his hand. "You've got yourself a deal."
"Good. When can we leave?"
"Any time you're ready."
"I'm ready."
The plane took off an hour later. Schroeder sat back in his seat, enjoying the solitude that came from being the only passenger on the plane, and sipped on a glass of Scotch that Harper had thoughtfully provided. Harper was at the controls. As Fairbanks faded in the distance and the plane struck off toward the west, he took a deep breath. He was aware that he was an old man trying to do a young man's job. Schroeder had asked not to be bothered for a while. He was tired and needed some sleep.
He would need deadly clarity for the task ahead. He cleared his mind of all emotion and closed his eyes.
17
The NOAA ship Benjamin Franklin limped along like a sailor who'd been in a bar brawl. The tug-of-war with the whirlpool had taken its toll on the ship's engines, which had to be babied so they wouldn't break down completely. The Throckmorton trailed several hundred yards behind in case the NOAA vessel ran into trouble.