Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  “I think Favreau may be a hermit, too,” Cooper whispered as he unlocked their door. “He’s had the Do Not Disturb sign on since he got here and hasn’t left the room.”

  “That could be a problem,” Deuce said.

  Cooper nodded. “We’ll just have to give him a reason to go out.”

  They stepped inside their suite and found themselves in a small foyer with yet another Edgar Brandt table along the wall, this one tall and narrow with a mirror above it. After stepping around a corner into the living room, Alex couldn’t help but pause. The room was an immaculately furnished Art Deco wonderland. The walls, the curtains, the flooring, the furniture all screamed “luxury accommodations.”

  Unfortunately, the pleasing visual line was interrupted by the presence of a large rolling metal cart in the middle of the room, and the slender, leather-jacketed street bum slouched on a stool in front of it.

  Sitting atop the cart was an open laptop and three monitors mounted side by side on a stand. The street bum—Warlock, Alex assumed—was so wrapped up in whatever he was typing on the laptop that she wasn’t sure he even realized they were there.

  “Hey, Warlock,” Cooper said as they approached. “I want you to meet Alexandra Poe and—”

  Without moving his gaze from the screen, Warlock raised an index finger to silence him.

  Cooper, Deuce, and Alex exchanged looks as Warlock continued to type for a moment, then finally looked up and said in a thick British accent, “Sorry ‘bout that. I lost the connection to the CCTV feed and wanted to…”

  He paused, eyeing Alex as if he had only now noticed her, then broke into a grin. There was a sparse patch of beard on the point of his chin, while his hair looked as if he’d recently been caught in a windstorm. He reminded Alex of Scooby Doo’s friend Shaggy, and if she had run into him on the street, her first thought would’ve been heroin addict.

  The only thing that shattered that notion was the sleek, futuristic pair of glasses he wore.

  “Hold on now,” he said. “What’s this?” He gave her the once-over. “I heard you were a looker, but you’re a right fit bird, aren’t you?” He got off the stool and offered a hand to shake. “Alex, right? I’m Warlock.”

  She shook the hand as he lowered his gaze slightly.

  “And if you don’t mind my saying, that’s a cracking pair of baps Mother Nature blessed you with.”

  Alex frowned, not quite sure she’d heard him right. “What?”

  He wagged a finger at her chest. “Baps. Bristols. What I believe you Americans call hooters, although yours are more like delicate—”

  Alex had her hand around his throat before he could finish the sentence. She flung him backward onto the sofa and pinned him there by the neck, his glasses askew, his face turning red as he tried to breathe.

  “Listen to me, you little shit…”

  “Alex…” Cooper said.

  “…You talk to me like that again…”

  “Alex…”

  “…and I swear to God you’ll find yourself sipping your dinner through a…”

  “Alex, enough. We need this guy.”

  She held on a second longer before letting Warlock loose. He scrambled to his feet and backed away, coughing and staring at her with wounded, disbelieving eyes. “Bloody ‘ell! What was that for?” His voice was a strangled rasp.

  She glared at him. “You seriously don’t know?”

  He pulled off the glasses and inspected them as if they were a precious heirloom, then turned to Cooper. “This slag is mental. You expect me to work with her?”

  “If you want to get paid, I do.”

  Deuce smirked and sank into a nearby chair, crossing his ankles as he leaned back. “Have we got any popcorn in this joint? I think I’m gonna enjoy this show.”

  “He keeps talking to me like that,” Alex said, “I guarantee you will.”

  “Talking to you like what?” Warlock slipped the glasses back on and pressed a button on the frame. “I don’t know if you realize it, but I was trying to give you a compliment.”

  “If that’s what passes for a compliment in your world, then…” She paused as she noticed his eyes widening slightly, his gaze now fixed on the upper right corner of the glasses, as if he saw something moving there.

  Cooper noticed it, too. “What’s wrong?”

  Warlock gestured to the cart. “Seems our boy Freddy is on the move.”

  They all looked at the computer screens, each showing close-circuit shots of the hallway they had just traveled through, the center camera facing the right corner door. A slightly overweight man in chinos and a navy blue polo shirt stepped into the hall, checked the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob, and started the trek toward the elevator.

  Frederic Favreau.

  Cooper and Warlock moved to the rolling cart, Cooper snatching up a black plastic packet and tossing it to Deuce.

  Deuce nearly fumbled it as he got to his feet. “What’s this?”

  “Comm set. We’re running the surveillance.”

  “Where’s mine?” Alex asked.

  He scooped up another packet and tossed it to her. “You’re on comm, but you’re staying here. You can help Warlock.”

  “You’re leaving me with him?”

  “You want this ruse to work, don’t you? We can’t risk Favreau seeing you yet.”

  She understood his reasoning, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. She nodded, reluctantly, and threw a look at Shaggy’s evil British twin, who was busy pulling a metal case from the bin at the bottom of the cart.

  Cooper checked the monitors, then handed Deuce a holstered SIG Sauer and gestured. “He’s nearing the elevator. We’d better get moving.”

  Deuce tucked the rig into his waistband at the small of his back and popped in a miniature earbud. The earbud was so tiny it could only be retrieved by the short piece of nylon thread attached, and was invisible to the naked eye.

  He grinned at Alex and Warlock. “Keep it civil until I get back, kids. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  Alex showed him a middle finger and he laughed as he followed Cooper out of the room.

  She turned to Warlock, who was laying the case on the sofa she had pinned him to.

  “Okay, genius, so what’s our plan?”

  “I take it we’re calling a truce?”

  “If you can keep your so-called compliments to yourself, we’ll be just fine. What’s the plan?”

  As if all were forgiven, he grinned at her and threw the metal case open to reveal a stockpile of miniature cameras and microphones and other surveillance goodies Alex wasn’t familiar with.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a very serious desire to invade Freddy boy’s privacy.”

  CHAPTER 11

  WHEN COOPER AND Deuce emerged from the stairwell on the main floor, they found that the elevator had come and gone and Favreau was nowhere to be found.

  “He moved faster than I expected,” Cooper said and scanned the crowded lobby, seeing no sign of the guy. He touched the transmitter in his pocket and spoke into his mic. “Hey, Warlock, you still in the room?”

  “Not for long.”

  “Check the security cams for Target One. I don’t have a visual on him.”

  “Give me a mo,” Warlock said. Then, a few seconds later: “Front entrance, left side of the tarmac. He’s queued up for a cab.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cooper and Deuce hustled to the hotel entrance, where a large stone fountain bubbled in the middle of a circular drive, and saw a roped-off area to their left, where several guests were lined up next to a sign that read TAXI.

  Favreau was at the end of the line.

  Cooper said to Deuce, “Get in behind him. I’ve got a car in the hotel garage, but if I’m not back before he’s gone, try to grab a cab and follow him.”

  “Why don’t I just put a tracker on him? Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Cooper shook his head. “I don’t want to risk him finding it later. We’ll d
o this old school.”

  Deuce grinned. “My stock in trade.”

  Less than three minutes later, Cooper was behind the wheel of his rental, a perfectly maintained blue 1950 Buick Super that was as common here in St. Cajetan as a Lincoln Town Car in DC. Pulling around to the hotel’s front drive, he spotted Deuce near the fountain, waving him over.

  “Take a right,” Deuce said as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Yellow cab headed northwest.”

  Cooper hit the gas and made the turn, only to discover a sea of yellow cabs on the street ahead, all American classics like the car he was driving. This city seemed to be living in a self-induced time warp.

  Deuce pointed toward one of the cabs, an old Plymouth that looked very much like the two in front of it and one in the adjacent lane. “There. That’s the one.”

  “You sure?”

  Deuce frowned. “Do I look like an amateur? Bent license plate and rusty dent on the left side of the bumper.”

  Fair enough, Cooper thought, taking visual note of the cab’s deformities as he nudged the accelerator and sped after it.

  “He made a phone call while we were standing in line,” Deuce said. “Had the number on speed dial.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Just confirming a time and that he was on his way.”

  “So it’s a meet,” Cooper said. “This could be a problem.”

  “You think it’s Valac?”

  “I don’t know, but if it is, it’s out of character. According to his profile, Valac is extremely careful about who he does business with, and so is Favreau.”

  “Maybe Favreau’s already been vetted.”

  Cooper shook his head. “Other than the phone calls the NSA intercepted, there’s been no indication of any other contact between them, and Favreau’s only been here since this morning. McElroy thinks the reason he was summoned here at all is to give Valac a chance to check him out before they close the deal.”

  “So why the concern?” Deuce asked.

  “Because McElroy’s been wrong before.”

  The cab made a left at the next intersection, taking them down a narrow, pockmarked street crowded on either side by tall, moldering tenement buildings. There was a different feel to this part of the city, as if they had crossed some invisible line and entered the real St. Cajetan, the one that wasn’t carefully controlled and maintained by the island’s corporate overlords. You’d never find this street on any of the brightly printed tourist maps the hotel provided.

  “He’s stopping,” Deuce said.

  Cooper eased off the accelerator and pulled to the curb as Favreau’s cab came to a halt in the middle of the street. After a moment, the rear passenger door opened and Favreau emerged, looking about as in sync with his environment as a ballet dancer in a hardware store.

  “I guess we’re on foot,” Cooper said. He killed the engine and opened his door.

  “Wait,” Deuce told him. “What if he’s just being careful? He may switch to another cab.”

  Cooper nodded and tossed him the keys. “You stay with the car. I’ll follow him and give you the heads-up if he pulls anything. We should know soon enough.”

  As Cooper climbed out and closed his door, he saw Favreau rounding a corner at the end of the block. Cooper looked around for any prying eyes, noticed nothing but a couple of locals sitting on a nearby stoop sharing a joke and a joint, and headed after his target.

  He slowed as he reached the corner, cognizant that Favreau might suspect he was being followed, and made the turn as nonchalantly as possible.

  The adjacent street was empty.

  “Shit,” he murmured.

  “What’s wrong?” Deuce asked in his earpiece.

  “He’s gone again.”

  “What?”

  “You may’ve been right. He may have had another cab waiting for him. I don’t see him any…”

  Cooper heard the peal of laughter, and spotted a man and woman emerging from an alleyway about half a block down. The man, squinting against the sun, looked like a slumming tourist who hadn’t seen daylight in quite some time. The woman was dark-skinned and local, clad only in a sheer red camisole and panties, and a pair of high heels that were tall enough to cause a nose bleed. She had her hands all over the tourist, coaxing him to come back into the alley.

  Cooper knew there were two possibilities at play here. The alley either led to a whorehouse or a strip joint.

  Or a combination of both.

  “Hold on,” he said to Deuce as he headed toward them. “I think I know where our target is.”

  CHAPTER 12

  WARLOCK MAY HAVE been a rude punk, but once the clock started ticking, his ability to abandon all distractions and stay focused on his task impressed Alex.

  After checking the CCTV cams on those strange, futuristic glasses, and telling Cooper where Frederic Favreau had gotten to, he returned his attention to the case on the sofa and continued picking through the gear. He inspected each piece, setting several micro video cameras and a handful of audio transmitters to the side.

  “These should do the trick,” he said, then looked up at Alex. “Are you ready?”

  “Just waiting on you.”

  “You aren’t going to try to strangle me again, are you?”

  “Stop making me want to,” she said.

  A few seconds later they poked their head out the door, checked to make sure the hallway was clear, and headed for Favreau’s corner suite.

  “Keep an eye on the elevator,” Warlock told her. “I’ve put a loop on the security cams up here, but we wouldn’t want anyone to catch us breaking into Freddy’s room.”

  “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

  He smiled and held up a fat felt pen. “My secret weapon.”

  “A permanent marker?”

  “This isn’t just any marker.” He removed the cap to reveal what looked like the cylindrical connector for an AC adaptor in place of the usual felt tip. “My sonic screwdriver.”

  “Your what?”

  “I take it you’re not a fan of The Doctor?”

  Alex had no idea what he was talking about, and was starting to feel the urge to hurt him again. “Just get it done and explain it to me later, all right?”

  He smiled. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” She gave him a look and he raised his hands. “Sorry, sorry. My ex-girlfriend always said I’m a shameless prat who doesn’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  “I have nothing but sympathy for her. Now are we gonna do this, or wait until Favreau gets back and ask him to open it?”

  “Consider it done,” he said, and stepped up to the door. He was about to use his so-called sonic screwdriver when he froze. “Hmmm.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Looks like Freddy’s a belt-and-braces man.”

  “Belt and braces?”

  “Overly cautious. Not that I can blame him.” Warlock got closer to the door and studied the frame, top to bottom. “Unless I’m mistaken, and the likelihood of that is zero to none, he has an inexpensive but crudely effective wireless perimeter alarm hooked up to this door.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My glasses rarely lie.”

  She looked at the door and saw nothing, but was willing to take his word for it. “Okay, so can’t you use your fancy pen?”

  He eyed her with disdain. “This is for locks, not cheap counter-espionage devices. If we try to breach this entrance, Freddy’ll likely get a notification on his cell phone that someone has invaded his space, and we’ll never see him again.”

  “So we fly blind? That’s not gonna work at all. We need eyes in that suite.”

  Warlock nodded. “I really do wish I could have procured the room right next to this one. ” He looked across at the rock star’s door. “They’re bound to share a ventilation system.”

  “So maybe he’ll let us in,” Alex said. “I can distract him while you do your thing.”

  “Who? Bellamy?”


  “Is that his name?”

  Warlock nodded again. “Liam Bellamy. A Liverpudlian git who thinks playing a single chord and howling like a strangled cat is music.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan?”

  “Hardly. Considering where he comes from, you’d hope that some of the influence would have rubbed off, but this twat makes millions proving there’s no direct relationship between talent and environment.”

  “You think you could pretend to be one? A fan?”

  “Of Bellamy’s?” He looked as if she’d asked him to clean out a septic tank. “I suppose I could, but I’d have to seriously consider suicide afterwards.”

  “Works for me,” Alex said. “Hopefully you’ll wait until this op is done.”

  “Anything for Stonewell. What do you have in mind?”

  “Just follow my lead.”

  Alex moved to the rock star’s door and knocked. Loudly. She waited a few seconds, got no answer, and knocked again.

  Still no answer.

  She turned to Warlock. “Apparently he isn’t a hermit after all. Looks like you’re off the hook.” She gestured to the marker in his hand. “So show me some magic.”

  “With pleasure.”

  He stepped up to Bellamy’s door. “This hotel, like many around the world, is equipped with a key-card lock with a particular flaw that anyone with a little talent in electronics and a connection to the Internet can exploit. I discovered this trick online.”

  “And here I thought you were an evil genius.”

  “Genius? Yes. Evil? Only when necessary. But I’m afraid I can’t take credit for this one.” He uncapped the pen again and held it under the door’s lock mechanism. “There’s a small hole under here and all I have to do is poke the tip of my wand into it, and as my dear departed grandmother used to say…Bob’s your uncle.”

  A green light came on and Warlock turned the knob, opening the door.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Alex said. “Thank God for insolent punks who know how to use the Internet.”

  Warlock arched a brow. “If you aren’t careful, sooner or later you’re going to hurt my feelings. Wasn’t throttling me enough?”