Quick (17 page)

Billy studies one, then the other, then clicks the video and lets it play. The figure holding the bag walks on, then turns and glances to the left momentarily, one side of their face visible to camera. The Australian pauses it and takes in the person with a nod. ‘Right.’

Claude is curious. ‘What? What’s “right”? You know who this is?’

‘I do.’

‘How?’

‘Remember the long story I mentioned earlier?’

‘It was three minutes ago.’

Billy points at the man holding the bag within the paused video. ‘Well
he’s
the story. His name is Kurt Falandek and I’ve known him for a decade.’

‘So, we need to investigate this guy?’

Billy nods. ‘Yep, and I know just how to do it.’

~ * ~

9

It’s almost midnight when the Hyundai pulls up in front of the Grand Hyatt Hotel. Located in the centre of Kuala Lumpur, the towering glass edifice is an odd collision of bling and foreboding.

Claude hands the keys to the parking valet as Billy grabs their bags from the boot and they enter the hotel’s sprawling, tastefully opulent lobby. The Frenchman turns to the Australian. ‘So, what’s your plan?’

‘We talk to the hotel management, explain we’re from Interpol and need access to Kurt’s room. They either let us in or we organise a court order. If he’s involved there will be something in there that incriminates him.’

Claude grimaces. ‘Okay.’

‘What’s that face?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You think there’s something wrong with my plan?’

‘No no. It’s great.’ A moment passes. ‘Though we could make one
slight
adjustment.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘We
don’t
talk to the hotel management, we find out which room Kurt’s staying in, we wait until he’s not there and enter quietly.’

Billy stares at the Frenchman, confused. ‘Did you just say “enter quietly”?’

‘I did.’

‘Which actually means “break and enter”. You realise we work for
Interpol,
right?’

‘There’s no way the hotel will let us into his room and it will take at least twenty-four hours to get a court order and he will have checked out by then. And just by saying we want to get in there or want a court order, it means there’s a chance he finds out, or the real perps find out about our investigation.’

‘But it’s not legal.’

Claude dismisses the concern with a wave of the hand. ‘Legal schmegal.’

‘Really? “Legal schmegal”?’ Something tells me that’s not going to hold up in court: But Judge, legal schmegal! Oh, legal
schmegal
? Well why didn’t you say. You’re free to go!’

‘It’s a grey area.’

‘No it’s not. It’s the
black
side of the black and white area. It’s the
breaking and entering
area.’

‘Or is it just an innocent guy accidentally walking into the wrong room?’

‘It’s
breaking and entering
.’

‘But is it? Isn’t it just
entering
without any
breaking
?’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘I have no idea what that means.’ Claude rubs his face, frustrated. ‘Look, you think this is the guy, right?’

‘I think he
might
be.
Perhaps
.’

‘So we have an opportunity to know for sure. We go up there, find something incriminating and then we know he’s the guy and we focus the investigation on him and don’t waste time on anyone else. But if we
don’t
find anything we continue looking for the right guy.’

Billy studies the Frenchman for a moment, both appalled and intrigued, but mostly appalled. ‘Is this something you often do?’

‘Just when I want to solve the case. Look, you said you wanted us to be equal partners who listen to each other’s ideas, well this is
my
idea and I think you should listen to it.’

Billy regards him for a long moment, then nods reluctantly. ‘Okay. How do you propose we find out his room number? And how do we get into the room if we do?’

The Frenchman motions towards a piano bar on the other side of the foyer. ‘He’s the tall guy who looks like Dolph Lundgren’s little brother, right?’

Billy follows the nod and sees Kurt sitting at a table with two other people. ‘Yes, yes he is.’

Claude subtly directs Billy to the side of the lobby and a spot behind a large potted ficus, out of Kurt’s view. ‘Back in a moment.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Watch and learn, young man. Watch and learn.’

The Frenchman moves off as Billy watches and learns.

~ * ~

In the far corner of the dimly lit bar an old guy in an older tux delicately tinkles the ivories and creates an elegant, old school atmosphere. The Frenchman enters and sees Kurt’s table and clocks something on top of it. The way he walks subtlety changes from a confident, free-spirited Parisian strut to the rambling shuffle of a drunk uncle.

He shuffles towards the table of three. One of Kurt’s party, a young guy with dark hair, sees him coming and recoils at the sight of the intoxicated man.

The Frenchman registers his reaction and couldn’t be happier. He trips over his own feet, sets his arms windmilling, but not too theatrically, then stumbles and crashes into the side of the table, knocks over one drink, spills the other two and slumps to his knees.

‘Oh I’m so sorry thatsss really embarrassing.’ He says it in a loud, slurred whisper as he tries, and fails, then tries again, to lever himself off the ground using the table as support. It’s an extremely noisy process.

‘Sshhh!’ He says it to himself as he finds his feet and clumsily tries to dry the front of Kurt’s shirt with one of his sleeves. ‘I spilled the nice drinksss and made you damp!’

‘That’s okay. Really’ The Austrian is more surprised than upset. He looks down, scans the carpet, sees his iPhone and wallet have been knocked off the table, picks them up, then searches for something else.

‘Dag-jammit.’ Claude holds two identical room keycards in front of his face and studies them closely. ‘It’s like they’re twinsss. Only their mother can tell them apart!’ He laughs at this, then realises no one else is and stops. ‘I thought that wasss funny.’

Kurt sees the cards. ‘I believe one of those is mine.’

‘It’s thisss one.’ Claude holds one of the keycards out to Kurt— then pulls it back. ‘No, it’s thisss one.’ He holds the other card out then pulls it back. ‘No, it’sss—oh man! I got them confused.’ He looks like he’s about to cry.

Kurt tries to console him. ‘It’s okay. Really. Don’t worry about it.’

‘But I fell on the table and spilled your nice drinksss and now the cards are all muddled up.’

‘It’s all right.’

Claude suddenly brightens. ‘I know! I’ll go check with that lady in the lobbies. She can run it through the machines and tell me which card is which. I’m in room sissteen forty-two. What’s the room that are you are in, number-wise?’ Claude smooths down his hair and burps, but is too slow to cover his mouth with his hand. ‘That was disgusting. Sorry.’

‘Seventeen fifty-six.’

Claude burps again but this time pretends it didn’t happen. ‘What’s that?’

‘My room number.’

‘Oh! Fiffeen seveny-six! Got it.’

‘No no,
seventeen
fifty-six.’

‘Thasss what I said. Seventeen sissy-five—fiffy-six! One, seven, fiffy, six. Okay! I’ll go and check in the lobbies and then I’ll be back in a lobby—I mean a jiffy. Ha ha!’

‘Okay. Thank you. Are you sure?’

‘I exist! I mean ... I insist! Sorry for the inconveniences.’ Claude straightens a tie he isn’t wearing, finds his bearings, identifies the exit and veers towards it. His gait is unsteady but he tries his hardest to look dignified.

~ * ~

The Frenchman keeps it up until he exits the piano bar, then drops the act and heads for the ficus.

Billy is impressed, in spite of himself. ‘That was really something.’

Claude nods. ‘Thanks. Now it’s your turn. Room seventeen fiffy-six, I mean seventeen
fifty-six.
Here’s the card.’ He holds it out. ‘Be super quick.’

Billy looks at it, stunned. ‘I’m doing it?’

‘Yes. I have to go back in there and pretend I just lost this thing.’ He waggles the keycard.

‘What happens if he comes up while I’m in there?’

‘I’ll give you plenty of warning. Just keep your phone on and I’ll text you if he’s on the move.’

Billy nods and hesitantly takes the card. ‘Okay.’

‘Let me know the second you’re out of there.’

The Australian nods again and heads for the elevators.

~ * ~

The whole way up to Kurt’s room on level seventeen, Billy has only one question on his mind: can he go through with this. He is, after all, a cop who’s job it is to stop people doing exactly what he’s about to do.

He reaches the room and slides the card into the door.

Click.
It unlocks and all his concerns fall away. He realises the Frenchman is right. If he successfully finds a piece of evidence that ties Kurt to the robberies then they will have saved a whole load of time and effort, and if he doesn’t, well, who cares?

He pushes the door open and walks inside, lets it hiss shut behind him as he moves down the short hallway and enters the dimly lit room.

‘Good God.’

What a slob.

The place is a pigsty. Actually that gives pigsties a bad rap. There are clothes and shoes and newspapers and food trays and empty glasses and half-full bottles of Pepsi Max strewn everywhere. Billy remembers Kurt was untidy but this is something else. The Austrian was from a rich family with hot and cold running help who constantly picked up after him. Part of the reason Kurt’s dad, who was actually his stepfather if memory serves, sent him to Oz was not just to improve his racing, but to make him more independent so he’d realise people wouldn’t always be around to pick up after him. Clearly it did not work. The room looks like it has been recently burgled.
Twice.
The upside is that Kurt will surely never realise anyone has been through the place.

Billy elbows a switch to turn on the overhead light then surveys the room. What is he looking for exactly? A Michael Schumacher helmet would be a great start, to confirm that it was in the bag seen on the security video earlier.

The Australian turns to the closet, which is half open, and takes in the large mound of dirty clothing heaped at one end, big enough to conceal a helmet. He delves into the clothing with both hands, hoping to touch the helmet’s polished ball of plastic.

His fingers hit a hard cool convex surface that could only be one thing. ‘It can’t be that easy.’ Heart racing, he pulls the dirty laundry aside.

‘Ba-baum.’
Family Feud
sound for wrong answer. The top of the helmet displays a large Mercedes star. It’s not the one he’s looking for, must be one Kurt uses for his safety car duties.

‘Bugger.’ Billy returns the mound of clothes to their previous position and scans the room once more. Sure the joint looks like a bomb’s hit it but there’s not much to see beyond the clothing and room-service trays. He moves to an open Samsonite case on the far bench, but it’s almost empty. He searches its numerous interior pockets but finds nothing except an empty tube of toothpaste.

He goes over to the desk, checks to see if the pad has been used. No. He then opens the drawers. Nothing. He navigates to the right bedside table, checks the drawer, then does the same with the left side. Nada.

He crosses to the bathroom and enters. ‘Oh man.’ It’s large and even more untidy than the main room. Wet towels are everywhere, the bathtub is half full of cold water, the floor is damp and slippery and—Christ, what is that smeared on the mirror? He enters, rifles through the small wet pack beside the sink, finds nothing of interest, then withdraws to the main room, happy to be out of there.

He stands and thinks. ‘Come on. There must be
something.’

Think.

Okay. When they were teenagers Kurt hid magazines under his bed. They weren’t anything risqué, just copies of
F1
magazine. The Austrian wrote notes in the margins when he was struck by a specific insight from the interviewed driver or engineer or designer or team principal, in the hope that the information might somehow make him quicker on the track. As he didn’t want anyone else reading them he slid them under his bed. It was hardly a fortress of security but it gave Kurtster piece of mind, even though Billy always read the mags, including the scribbled margin notes, which were generally self-evident, sometimes trite, but occasionally contained a pearl of wisdom.

‘Under the bed.’

It can’t be that easy.

Every time he says ‘It can’t be that easy’ it turns out that it can’t so he’s not going to say it anymore. He’ll just think it and hope for the best. He moves to the bed, clears away another room-service tray, takes a knee and pushes his right hand under the bed, swings it back and forth.