Gone Tomorrow

“Where is it?”
    I said, “I can’t volunteer information.”
    “You’re full of shit.”
    I shook my head. “Not this time.”
    “You sure? You can take us there?”
    “I can get you within fifteen feet. The rest is up to you.”
    “Why? Is it buried? In a bank vault? In a house?”
    “None of the above.”
    “So where is it?”
    “Call Sansom,” I said. “Set up a meeting.”
    Springfield finished what was left of his water and a waiter came by with the check. Springfield paid with his platinum card, the same way he had for both of us at the Four Seasons. Which I had taken to be a good sign. It had indicated a positive dynamic. So I chose to push my luck a little further.
    “Want to get me a room?” I asked.
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s going to take time for Sansom to get me off the most-wanted list. And I’m tired. I was up all night. I want to take a nap.”
    Ten minutes later we were on a high floor, in a room with a queen-sized bed. A nice space, but tactically unsatisfactory. Like all high-floor hotel rooms it had a window that was no good to me and therefore only one way out. I could see that Springfield was thinking the same thing. He was thinking I was a lunatic to put myself in there.
    I asked him, “Can I trust you?”
    He said, “Yes.”
    “Prove it.”
    “How?”
    “Give me your gun.”
    “I’m not armed.”
    “Answers like that don’t help with the trust thing.”
    “Why do you want it?”
    “You know why. So if you bring the wrong people to my door I can defend myself.”
    “I won’t.”
    “Reassure me.”
    He stood still for a long moment. I knew he would rather stick a needle in his eye than give up his weapon. But he ran some calculations in his head and reached around under his suit coat to the small of his back and came out with a nine-millimeter Steyr GB pistol. The Steyr GB had been the sidearm of choice for 1980s-era U.S. Special Forces. He reversed it and handed it to me butt-first. It was a fine old piece, well worn but well maintained. It had eighteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.
    “Thank you,” I said.
    He didn’t reply. Just walked out of the room. I double-locked the door after him, and put the chain on, and propped a chair under the handle. I emptied my pockets on the night stand. I put my clothes under the mattress to press. I took a long hot shower.
    Then I lay down and went to sleep, with Springfield’s gun under the pillow.
    I was woken up four hours later by a knock at the door. I don’t like to look through spy holes in hotel doors. Too vulnerable. All an assailant in the corridor has to do is wait until the lens darkens and then fire a gun straight through it. Even a silenced .22 would be completely lethal. There is nothing very substantial between the cornea and the brain stem. But there was a full-length mirror on the wall inside the door. For last-minute clothing checks, I guessed, before going out. I took a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around my waist and collected the gun from under the pillow. I moved the chair and opened the door against the chain. Stood back on the hinge side and checked the view in the mirror.
    Springfield, and Sansom.
    It was a narrow crack and the image was reversed by the mirror and the corridor lighting was dim, but I recognized them easily enough. They were alone, as far as I could tell. And they were going to stay alone, unless they had brought more than nineteen people with them. No safety catch on the Steyr. Just a hefty double-action pull for the first shot, and then eighteen more. I took the slack out of the trigger and the chain off the door.
    They were alone.
    They came in, Sansom first, and then Springfield. Sansom looked the same as the morning I first saw him. Tanned, rich, powerful, full of energy and charisma. He was in a navy suit with a white shirt and a red tie and he looked as fresh as a daisy. He took the chair I had been using under the door handle and carried it back to the table near the window and sat down. Springfield closed the door and put the chain back on. I kept hold of the gun. I nudged the mattress off the box spring with my knee and pulled my clothes out one-handed.
    “Two minutes,” I said. “Talk among yourselves.”
    I dressed in the bathroom and came back out and Sansom asked, “Do you really know where that memory stick is?”
    “Yes,” I said. “I really do.”
    “Why do you want to know what’s on it?”
    “Because I want to know how