The Morgan Files. Leo J. Maloney

Thirty-three Chapter Thirty-four Chapter Thirty-five Chapter Thirty-six Chapter Thirty-seven Chapter Thirty-eight Chapter Thirty-nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-one Chapter Forty-two Chapter Forty-three Chapter Forty-four

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Teaser chapter ABOUT THE AUTHOR Notes

      LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Twelve Hours

      Copyright © 2015 Leo J. Maloney

      For Duty and Honor

      Copyright © 2016 Leo J. Maloney

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      PUBLISHER’S NOTE

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      LYRICAL PRESS, LYRICAL UNDERGROUND, and the Lyrical Underground logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      First electronic edition: June 2020

      ISBN: 978-1-5161-1091-9

      While writing this book I spent time in New York City and spoke to many police officers and firefighters there. I dedicate this novel to all the innocent victims of 9/11 and to all the courageous men and women who were the first responders to that horrific terrorist attack. Thank you to all military personnel and first responders for your service to our country. God Bless America.

      Thanksgiving Day, 11:00 A.M.

      The Bahrainis walked into the Park Avenue lobby of the Waldorf Astoria precisely at the appointed time, Acosta noted, looking down at his watch. Four of them, each in a sharp dark gray suit, tieless, all sporting facial hair in various styles. They walked with deliberate strides in a loose V formation, one man taking the lead. He had a trim black moustache on an angular face of light olive skin. His eyes were hidden behind dark gold-framed aviator sunglasses, but as he drew closer, Acosta saw an impassive expression—the face of a man who would be hard to please. Acosta adjusted his tie.

      “That them?” asked Shane Rosso.

      “I would believe so, Mr. Rosso.”

      Rosso grunted in response. He was a simple man, an aging ex-cop of few words and, Acosta suspected, just as many thoughts. He was no good with guests, lacking the fine-tuned sense of politeness and propriety needed to work luxury hospitality. He was a fine head of security, though, and Acosta preferred him behind the scenes where he belonged. But the newcomers had asked for him to be present at their arrival, so here he was.

      Acosta drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. Then he slipped on a solicitous smile and walked a few paces to meet the new arrivals, hand extended for a shake.

      “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said.

      “I am Makram Safar,” said the man, offering no sign that he’d seen Acosta’s hand. His accent was mostly BBC, with only a hint of the hardness of the Middle Eastern speech. “Head of security for Mr. Rasif Maloof.”

      “Welcome to the Waldorf Astoria, Mr. Safar,” Acosta said, drawing back his hand, and, not knowing what else to do, bowing. “My name is Angelo Acosta, assistant manager. I’m here to help you with anything you might need in preparation for Mr. Maloof’s visit.”

      Safar met Acosta’s gaze for the first time through dark lenses. “I was told that the general manager would be here.” He looked at Mr. Rosso, the fish-eyed, thin-haired grunt in the rumpled suit. “I take it this is not him.”

      “I’m afraid Mr. Floyd will not be here today, sir,” said Acosta. “I guarantee that he will be here tomorrow for Mr. Maloof’s arrival. This is Mr. Rosso, our head of security.”

      Safar raised an eyebrow. “But he is not here today?”

      “My apologies, sir. I could certainly call him for you, sir, if you—”

      “There will be no need,” said Safar, waving his hand. “You will do. We will need access to your security station—exclusive access—for the duration of Mr. Maloof’s stay.”

      “Yes, that had been discussed,” said Acosta. This was completely against protocol, and exposed them to significant liability. But Maloof was paying them a not-so-small fortune to rent the Presidential Suite, and their general manager, Jerry Floyd, would brook no argument on this guest doing exactly as he pleased.

      “Is there a problem?”

      “No problem at all, sir,” Acosta reassured him. “You’ll have full access to our security capabilities. Mr. Rosso here will make sure that you have everything you need.”

      “Good,” said Safar. “We require three members of the cleaning staff on call at all times, but no one is to come into Mr. Maloof’s suite without being sent for. I cannot emphasize this point enough. Do you understand?”

      “Of course, sir, we—”

      “We will also need access to a secure and exclusive Internet connection, and you are to have a personal halal chef and laundry service on short order. Is that clear?”

      “Perfectly, sir. All that has already been arranged, as per your advance instructions.”

      “Good,” said Safar. “We have more men who will arrive with Mr. Maloof’s luggage shortly.”

      “I’ll have the porters waiting for them.”

      “Nobody is to handle Mr. Maloof’s luggage but us,” said Safar with unexpected sharpness. “Just have the keys to the suite prepared and we will take care of the rest.”

      “Certainly, sir. Now, while your key cards are prepared, I can personally take you on a guided tour of our amenities. We boast a twenty-four-hour fitness center conveniently adjacent to our—”

      “We have read the website,” said Safar. “That won’t be necessary.”

      “Very well,” said Acosta, masking his chagrin as he gestured toward the chairs in the lobby. “If you gentlemen would like to take a seat as we get your key cards squared away.”

      Rosso followed as Acosta made his way to the reception desk.

      “I do not get paid enough for this shit,” Rosso grumbled. “Babysitting a bunch of...” his voice trailed off into a mumble.

      “Screw this up and neither of us is going to be paid at all,” said Acosta. “Because we’re going to be out on our asses.”

      “You know they’re going to wreck that room, don’t you?” said Rosso. “It’s always the same with these guys.”

      “They are paying us enough to do whatever