John said, “Thanks for helping us cover those. What worries me is that if he managed to get to France, there are scores of European private jet outfits available to him—”
“I’ve got him!” It was Agent Gray Wharton, who’d burst into the room, waving his laptop. He was so excited he was nearly jumping up and down. “Twelfth on my list was Manchester Private Jet Hire—they had three international bookings in our time frame. They were pissy at first about warrants and customer privacy until I told them who we were looking for. They couldn’t move fast enough.
“They e-mailed the eight passport photos of their clients. I wasn’t sure any of them matched our guy until I ran them through facial recognition. Even with the beard, this one is a good match for Basara.” He put his laptop down on the conference table. “Take a look. His passport’s under the name of Bruce Condor, supposedly born in Caldicott, Maine, some thirty-five years ago. He told the woman at the counter he was an American businessman, returning home. Get this, no one with that name and birth date has ever filed a U.S. tax return and he has no Social Security number. It’s got to be him, I know it to my boots.”
John said, “Where did he book to, Gray? Timbuktu?”
“No.” He shot a look at Sherlock. “That’s what’s unbelievable. He arrived nine hours ago at Baltimore Washington International Airport.”
Zachery was almost out the door when he said over his shoulder, “I’ll call Mike at the Baltimore Field Office, tell him the situation, and he can marshal his troops. Kelly, Cal, Sherlock, you guys head down there right now. I’ll have the helicopter waiting for you at Thirty-fourth Street.”
John was shaking his head in disbelief. “Amazing. He could have flown to safety, but instead he’s flying right into the maw of the beast. Why would the Strategist do something so foolhardy? Has he gone entirely lunatic?”
Sherlock said aloud what everyone was thinking. “I can think of only one reason he’d come here. He wants to kill me.”
John was silent, remembering how close Mary Ann and Ceci had come to death in St. Paul’s. Was Sherlock in his sights now? “If that’s his plan, he’s gone crazy enough. You be careful, Sherlock.” Sherlock knew he’d be calling Dillon right away.
FOUR SEASONS HOTEL
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Tuesday
The Baltimore Field Office called them before the helicopter landed with the news they’d found Samir Basara. Sherlock called Dillon. “I hope you can hear me over the rotor. He checked into the Four Seasons last night, Dillon. We’re nearly there. We’re landing on the Pier 7 Heliport on Clinton Street, not more than two miles from the Four Seasons. What are you up to?”
Savich said, “I’ll let you know if it works. This is all I need. Remember, Sherlock, you’re my wife and Sean’s mother. Take care of yourself.”
Four Baltimore Field Office agents were standing next to two large FBI SUVs at the helipad. Giusti assigned each of them an exit as soon as they arrived. “I called up the plans in the helicopter. This should cover all the ways out. Everyone okay with this?”
The agents were hyped, wanted to be in on a possible takedown of a major-league terrorist and assassin.
Cal, Kelly, and Sherlock walked through the resplendent lobby and presented themselves to the clerk at the registration desk. They showed the young man their creds and asked about one of their guests, Mr. Bruce Condor, businessman. The registration clerk hemmed and hawed and said he would try to find the manager.
“Take us to his office,” Kelly said. “Now.” The clerk looked at her and nodded. While Kelly and Sherlock went to the manager’s office, Cal made the rounds of the lobby, speaking to bellboys, parking attendants, and the concierge on duty. He showed each of them Basara’s photo. It was the day shift, and no one recognized him.
Kelly and Sherlock followed the clerk through the beautiful gold marble lobby with its three huge chandeliers and artfully arranged flowers, to the manager’s office, to the right, beyond the concierge’s desk.
He rose, eyed the two women behind the scared-looking registration clerk, and frowned. “What seems to be the problem, Jeb?”
Sherlock and Kelly simply stepped forward, introduced themselves. The man only stared at them, not pleased. Kelly raised her eyebrow.
“I’m Mr. Gibson,” he said at last, but he didn’t move around from behind his desk.
“FBI? Why are you two ladies here at the Four Seasons?”
Both of them heard the snark, knew what he would have liked to say was two bitches. What a joy, Sherlock thought, to be a female and have to have this idiot for a boss. A pity this was so urgent, there wasn’t time to dismember him.