The two agents arrived at the motel just after dark. The
initial recce revealed that Michael Watson's trademark Porsche wasn't in the
car park, which was nearly two thirds full. The accommodation block, attached
to a 1920's public house, was a two storey building with a balcony running the
full length of the upper floor. Most of the rooms looked occupied, light
emanating through poor fitting curtains hung in front of rust framed windows.
People were walking to and from the rooms and the pub, which brashly boasted a
range of meals around the clock.
Ascending the stairs, treading carefully on the concrete,
ice laden steps, the two agents silently counted the doors along the balcony.
Walking along the quarry tiled flooring they approached room thirty two, double
checking against the loose papers they each held.
The room was quiet, but looked occupied. Briefly they
discussed in hushed voices the merits of just trying the exterior door handle,
in the hope that Watson had forgotten to lock it behind him. Checking their
surroundings, particularly for residents in transit, the senior of the two
gently tried the handle. Locked. As the second-in-command fished in his
trousers for his skeleton key they heard the unmistakable sound of a woman
talking inside.
Deciding on the 'official' approach the senior agent
knocked smartly on the door. After a pause he tapped again, firmly. Inside, the
woman's voice could be heard, querulous tones emanating. The door opened a
fraction, revealing a honey blonde woman in her thirties.
'Mrs Howells?' asked the lead, slipping his foot into the
crack of the open door.
'I've no idea who you're talking about,' said the woman,
sensing danger, trying to close the door, impeded by the foot. A man's voice
floated from the lounge area.
'Who the hell is it? What do they want?' he called, not
venturing to the door of the small apartment. The woman didn't bother trying to
explain, realising that she wasn’t going to get any support from within worth
having and that in all probability they weren't interested overmuch in her
anyway. She stood back smartly, closing the distance between herself and her
handbag. The men barged in, pushing her further into the room.
'Where is he?' asked the man who had wedged his foot into
her door. A scuffling sound from the rear of the suite, from the bedroom area,
could be heard. 'He's making a break for it,' said the lead. The other man
started to question the scenario, his read into the intel report was that there
would be either two men, one drugged or ill, or there would be the same two men
plus a woman and up to two further men. This looked like just a woman and a
man, and he didn't fit the profile of the drugged or ill man he had been sent
to recover. The lead had dashed into the bedroom and had engaged in a scuffle
with whoever was in there. Number two looked around nervously.
'Where are they?' he asked the woman, who clearly wasn’t
enjoying any of this, nor was she looking for a fight. Escape was written all
over her face.
'Who? I don't do multiples. One at a time, straight. That's
my bag. More than one at a time gets you messed up, not that its doin' me any
good tonight,' she said, thrusting her handbag onto her shoulder. To her
surprise the man didn't stop her leaving the room, but instead wandered through
to the bedroom where the scuffle was ending, predictably given that one man was
a middle aged businessman and the other was a Secret Service covert operations
agent, trained to kill with his bare hands.
'Its the wrong address, wrong people. We've stuffed up,' he
offered. The lead maintained the head lock he held the man in and looked at his
opposite number. 'She's on the game, its not the target,' he added, shrugging
his shoulders.
'Its what was said on the phone message and what the motel
computer had down,' replied the lead, refusing to believe what he was hearing.
'I've no idea what has happened, they've duped us. They
must have hacked the motel computer records or something. Chances are we've
been sent in entirely the opposite direction to where we needed to be. The boss
said they were probably working for the yanks, they would have the resources to
pull a stunt like this,' he said. The lead agent released the quivering
businessman and pushed him roughly towards the bed.
'Come on, we'll need to report this in. It’s not going to
go down well,' he said, striding out of the suite.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright Ray Sullivan 2011
The characters, places and events described in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, places or events, past or present, is coincidence. All rights reserved
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