Klempner

Damn phone…

What’s wrong with the fucking thing?

I tap in again. Nothing happens.

I’m several floors up, heading back for my hotel room. The signal should be strong up here.

I inspect the screen…

Yes… plenty of signal…

Better contact Dakho… Get him to supply a new one…

A more reliable model this time…

Arriving at my room door…

… A brief shufti along the corridor…

… I’m alone. A quick inspection that my slicked-on hair is still in place…

… It is… a faint dark line against the white paint, which peels away, then drops to the floor as I slide the card into the lock and push the door open…

I toss the useless phone onto my bed then start to shrug off my jacket…

… and in mid-movement, I stall.

My spine prickles and without meaning to, I’m standing stock-still, Glock in hand, staring around the apartment.

What’s wrong?

Working on automatic, my hand follows my eye, weapon aimed, but…

I don’t see anything.

Nothing has moved.

Nothing has changed.

on a vase of lilies and wafting

still lies in vacuumed stripes, with

Really?

foot down by one of the existing footprints: a perfect

it, outside on the balcony, folded up on the table, alongside my

turn the handle of the bedroom door.

beside the pillows, a pair of bath-towels folded, for some inexplicable reason, into the

do they

and coffee kit, biscuits, a small box of foil-wrapped chocolates, a comments

hand, with the other, at arm’s length, I flick open first one

but my own clothes. And while shirts garishly printed with pineapples and palm trees might

Only one place left…

drawn to the

second… ear cocked… gun at

mixed warbles and screeches of birds, the hiss

door and it bangs open, bouncing on

than a tidemark around the bath where I’ve washed away the sweat of the

alarms are

What triggered it?

my heart plays percussion against

Calm down…

Breathe…

Think…

What happened?

was barely in

Outside then…

Something in the corridor…

to aim the gun-barrel at the ceiling, I dart a look outside.

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