The Morgan Files. Leo J. Maloney

he said, “is the suite ready for our special guests?”

      “Housekeeping is just about done, Mr. Acosta.” He looked down at his watch and considered that he might just get off work on time. Things seemed to be running smoothly, and suddenly Thanksgiving at home seemed like a real possibility. All he had to do was to get organized and keep everything humming.

      Acosta took the express elevator upstairs and did a quick check of the multiroom suite—he had gone through it much more thoroughly earlier—and then returned to the lobby, where Safar and the others sat in stiff silence.

      “Gentlemen, please follow me.”

      It was a silent ride up. Upon arriving at the floor, Acosta opened the door marked THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. He gestured at the sprawling three-bedroom, 2,245-square-foot apartment appointed with Georgian furniture. “Would you like me to give you a tour? We have some exclusive items donated by past US presidents, which are themselves—”

      “We will manage from here,” Safar cut him off. “My men will be coming down to confer with Mr. Rosso on security. Please tell your staff to stay clear from this floor unless summoned. Is that clear?”

      “Of course,” said Acosta. He stood, expecting further directions. Instead, Safar just said, “Go.”

      Acosta bowed and took his leave. Just three days, he told himself as he got into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. And just another ninety minutes before he could leave, if all went well.

      Acosta emerged into the lobby, walking as if he had purpose, but his step lost its spring when he reached the front desk. He was not actually needed anywhere at the moment, but he was still running on the nervous energy of attending to their exacting guest. He thought of calling the chef to confirm once more, but he had already done that not two hours before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the Bahrainis emerge from the elevator and started toward them before he noticed that they were moving toward Rosso, who escorted them into the back rooms. Acosta sighed and threw up his hands, then walked back to the front desk and called over a guest who was in line for checkout.

      Before long, a town car arrived with the remaining two members of Mr. Maloof’s security team and the luggage. As instructed, Acosta directed them to the elevator and left them there to go up on their own to the correct floor. He glanced at his watch. Quarter of an hour to the end of his shift. Bob would be arriving to relieve him within minutes if he wasn’t late, and Bob was never late. He shifted his weight on his aching feet.

      There was a lull in checkout, and it looked as though Acosta might actually be getting out of there when a man in a cheap black suit, clearly a livery driver, walked into the lobby. He looked around and identified Acosta as the one in charge, going straight for him.

      “Hey, you know where those Arab dudes went?”

      “Do you mean the Bahraini gentlemen?” asked Acosta.

      “Arab, Bahraini, I don’t care,” said the driver, agitated. “I brought them all the way in from the airport, and I still haven’t been paid.”

      “I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding,” said Acosta. He picked up the hotel intercom and dialed their room. “We’ll get this sorted out in a minute.” The phone returned a busy signal. He pressed down the hook and redialed. Busy again. “I’m sorry,” he told the driver. “I can’t get through.”

      The driver leaned on the counter. “Listen, man, I gotta get going. If I don’t make it home in the next hour, the wife’s gonna have my head. Can’t you take care of it? Charge it to their room or something?”

      “It’s against policy,” said Acosta. “I really can’t.”

      “Hey, man, I gotta get out of here,” said the driver. “But I ain’t leaving until I get paid.”

      Acosta cast a sidelong glance at the clock. If he didn’t make it out within the next ten minutes, he’d hit horrendous traffic.

      “Let me see what I can do,” he said. He walked to the elevator with slight trepidation, reassuring himself with each step. Maloof wasn’t there yet. What harm could there be? They would appreciate the service he was providing in letting them know personally.

      Acosta got into the elevator and hit the button for their floor. He planned out what he was going to say. The right level of deference and solicitousness would disarm their complaints, he was sure. It was just a matter of taking it far enough.

      The elevator doors parted open and he walked to the Presidential Suite. The door was ajar and he heard talking inside. He approached the threshold.

      “Gentlemen, pardon me for interrupting,” he said, knocking lightly and pushing the door open. “I’m afraid there is a situation—”

      Acosta caught sight out of the corner of his eye of something black and heavy on the dining room table, which he could just see from the door. A second look told him it was several heavy black objects, and a third confirmed the suspicion that hovered at the edge of his consciousness.

      Guns. Not just handguns, but those—what were those called? Submachine guns. Like Uzis, but not quite. Certainly something way beyond what this kind of security team would need—and wouldn’t they need permits for this kind of thing? What could be their—

      His thoughts were interrupted as he saw that Safar was standing across the entry foyer, looking right at him. Acosta backed away as Safar moved forward.

      “I truly, deeply apologize, sir,” began Acosta.

      “Not at all,” said Safar with a vicious grin and a solicitude built on the most menacing undertones. “Please, Mr. Acosta, come in.”

      He drew closer. Acosta could not hope to evade him without turning around. But he clung to the hope that, if he made no explicit sign of what he had seen, Safar would not stop him. “There really is no need,” he said. How far was the elevator? He didn’t dare look back. He took tiny backward steps, the logic of cornered prey taking over his mind. “I’ll come back at a more opportune time.”

      In three more strides, Safar reached him. Acosta froze. “Please,” he said, his face inches from Acosta’s, his breath hot like a lion’s. “Stay.”

      Acosta turned to run away, but as his finger pressed the elevator button, he saw a flash of black cross in front of his eyes and felt a tug at his neck, so tight. He couldn’t breathe. He was pulled back and his legs gave out. He fell on the carpeted floor, the wire tight around his neck—surely it would be cutting into his skin by now—as his lungs burned for air. He heard a ding, and the last thing he saw before the world faded to black were the art deco doors sliding open to reveal an empty elevator paneled with rich mahogany.

      Black Friday, 6:13 A.M.

      The tablet shook in Alex Morgan’s hand as the train rocked side to side. She set it down on her lap in frustration. Reading was going to be impossible. She shut her eyes and tried to lean her head back but soon realized that the noise in the car was going to make sleep impossible, too. She opened her eyes and saw that Clark had his phone raised up to take a picture.

      “Smile,” he said.

      Clark Duffy, tall and gangly in a hoodie with red earbuds popped into his ear. Clark Duffy, who smoked clove cigarettes and played a badly tuned guitar on which he knew four chords. Clark Duffy, who’d been her friend for years, but had lately been making awkward passes at her, and had not taken her polite ignoring of those passes as the rejection that it was. This was building toward an unpleasant confrontation that she didn’t like to think about. It had gotten to the point that she was actually a little put off at making the trip down to New York with him.

      “Wanna see?” he said, turning the phone’s screen toward her. She leaned forward. Normally she wouldn’t care how she turned out in other people’s pictures, but she was still getting used to her new pixie haircut, and the unfamiliarity of her own visage got the better of her. She was pleased to see that the short brown hair framed her face quite nicely, bringing out her brown eyes.