He flagged down a taxi. “Hassler, per favore.”
In the lobby, Robert approached the concierge. “See if there’s a flight out of here tonight to Paris, please.”
“Certainly, Commander. Do you prefer any particular airline?”
“It doesn’t matter. The first flight out.”
“I will be happy to arrange it.”
“Thank you.” Robert walked over to the hotel clerk. “My key, please. Room 314. And I’ll be checking out in a few minutes.”
“Very good, Commander Bellamy.” The clerk reached in a pigeonhole and pulled out a key and an envelope. “There’s a letter here for you.”
Robert stiffened. The envelope was sealed and addressed simply: “Commander Robert Bellamy.” He fingered it, feeling for plastique or any metal inside. He opened it carefully. Inside was a printed card advertising an Italian restaurant. It was innocent enough. Except, of course, for his name on the envelope.
“Do you happen to remember who gave you this?”
“I’m sorry,” the clerk said apologetically, “but we have been so busy this evening…”
It was not important. The man would have been faceless. He would have picked up the card somewhere, slipped it into the envelope, and stood by the desk, watching to see the room number of the slot that the envelope was placed in. He would be waiting upstairs now in Robert’s room. It was time to see the face of the enemy.
Robert became aware of raised voices and turned to watch the Shriners he had seen earlier, entering the lobby, laughing and singing. They had obviously had a few more drinks. The portly man said, “Hi there, pal. You missed a great party.”
Robert’s mind was racing. “You like parties?”
“Hoo hoo!”
“There’s a real live one going on upstairs,” Robert said. “Booze, girls—anything you want. Just follow me, fellows.”
“That’s the American spirit, pal.” The man clapped Robert on the back. “You hear that, boys? Our friend here is throwing a party!”
They crowded into the elevator together and rode up to the third floor.
The Shriner said, “These Italians sure know how to live it up. I guess they invented orgies, huh?”
“I’m going to show you a real orgy,” Robert promised.
They followed him down the hall to his room. Robert put the key in the lock and turned to the group. “Are you all ready to have some fun?”
There was a chorus of yeses…
Robert turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped to one side. The room was dark. He snapped on the light. A tall, thin stranger was standing in the middle of the room with a Mauser equipped with a silencer, half drawn. The man looked at the group with a startled expression and quickly shoved the gun back in his jacket.
“Hey! Where’s the booze?” one of the Shriners demanded.
Robert pointed to the stranger. “He has it. Go get it.”
The group surged toward the man. “Where’s the liquor, buddy?”…“Where are the girls?”…“Let’s get this party on the road…”
The thin man was trying to get through to Robert, but the crowd was blocking his way. He watched helplessly as Robert bolted out the door. He took the stairs two at a time.
Downstairs in the lobby, Robert was moving toward the exit when the concierge called out, “Oh, Commander Bellamy, I made your reservation for you. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one A.M.”
“Thanks,” Robert said hurriedly.
He was out the door, into the small square overlooking the Spanish Steps. A taxi was discharging a passenger. Robert stepped into it. “Via Monte Grappa.”
He had his answer now. They intended to kill him. They’re not going to find it easy. He was the hunted now instead of the hunter, but he had one big advantage. They had trained him well. He knew all their techniques, their strengths, and their weaknesses, and he intended to use that knowledge to stop them. First, he had to find a way to throw them off his trail. The men after him would have been given a story of some kind. They would have been told he was wanted for smuggling drugs, or for murder, or espionage. They would have been warned: He’s dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill.