Sparrow nodded. “I don’t expect this to take long.”
The Sparrow who drove Mason and me from the airport to the hotel filled us in on recent changes in logistics. The Sparrow tail on Walters had him in view. He’d spent the morning in the Hart Senate Office Building. His official calendar stated he had a meeting this afternoon regarding a coalition of Illinois donors.
That would be us.
Mason continued text contact with Sparrow as I did with Patrick. We may not all be in the same car, but we were on the same page.
The car pulled up to the front beneath the flag-adorned awning of the Mandarin Oriental. An attendant in hotel uniform opened the back door and welcomed us as we stepped onto the sidewalk. He held the door as we entered. The floor within glistened and dark and light pillars held domes of ornate design and artificial light. We bypassed the desk and made our way to the VIP elevator, prepared that it took a special key to access the presidential suite.
We’d received our keys in the car.
I offered it to the attendant at the stand. “Presidential suite.”
The older man nodded, slowly taking the key from my grasp as he looked from me to Mason and back. “Sirs, your names?”
“We gave you our key,” Mason replied.
The attendant went to his stand and brought a tablet to life. “We have been told that security is tight lately.”
This imbecile had no fucking idea how tight the security was. “Phillip Kennington.” I nodded toward Mason. “And Joseph Swills.”
The attendant searched his tablet. When he looked up, his eyes met mine. “I will need to see identification to confirm.”
Mason and I both reached for our wallets. To say the Sparrows were always prepared was an understatement. We removed the fake identification cards from our wallets. Phillip, a.k.a. me, was from New York. Joseph, a.k.a. Mason, was from Miami. We could both rattle off our information as if we were underage college students ready to confirm our illegal ability to drink.
The attendant spent what seemed an excessive period of time scrutinizing the IDs before he handed them back. “Hmm. I can’t find anything out of order.” Though I’d been the one to give the attendant the key, he handed it back to Mason. “Sir.” With his eyes straight ahead, he moved beyond the stand and activated the VIP elevator that would take us directly to the presidential suite.
Once we were in the elevator, alone but probably being filmed, Mason handed me the key. I took it with a huff and placed it back in the pocket of my suit coat. I could mention that I’d never witnessed Sparrow, Patrick, or Mason having an extra layer of security before, but honestly, the hotel employee didn’t deserve more of my time or thought. His opinion didn’t affect my worth.
We had more pressing matters.
When the elevator opened, Mason and I stepped into another glistening tile hallway. Our only option to proceed was an entry, consisting of two grand doors with a plaque near the doorbell. It read Presidential Suite. I removed the key from my pocket and waved it before the sensor. The mechanism within clicked. Once inside we were in a small foyer with two options. There was a door to the right or double doors to the left. Before we had a chance to choose, the door to the right opened.
“Welcome, Mr. Murray, Mr. Pierce,” Romero said as he led us into what appeared to be a bedroom—or that was what it normally was. The two beds within were pushed against the window, and in their place a large computer center had been created.
Exhaling, I took in the welcome sight. As the man in the tower, the makeshift field command posts were something I didn’t often see. “Damn, I’m impressed,” I said as I walked around the setup. “You did well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murray. I didn’t do it alone.”
Christian sat in front of multiple screens, his fingers on the keys, and earphones over his ears. I stepped behind his chair. “There he is,” I said to Mason.
Mason came up behind me. As he stared at the older man on the screen walking along a sidewalk not far from the hotel, Mason’s countenance changed. He straightened his stance and the muscles in his arm beside mine tightened. “That’s him.”
I looked around. “Show me the security for the suite.”
Romero spent the next few minutes showing me all that they had installed from the computers. The entire suite was under surveillance. It wouldn’t matter if Walters and Sparrow wanted to conduct the meeting in the living room or dining room. There were cameras and recording equipment covering it all, as well as a rotating feed from the hallway and even the lobby on the first floor.
“So you saw us coming before we arrived,” I said with a grin.
“Yes, sir. We saw the asshole at the elevator too.”
“He’s not worth our breath,” I replied.
Romero smiled. “And he can spend the next three hours trying to figure out why Phillip Kennington is in the presidential suite.”
“He obviously has nothing better to do.”
“Mr. Sparrow?” Mason asked.
Christian had removed one of the earphones and was listening to us as well as his feeds. He hit a few keys and we saw Sparrow and Garrett riding within an elevator.
“Did they stop at the asshole’s entry?” I asked.
“No, they came from the basement parking garage. We have access to this feed, but it’s blacked out on the hotel’s surveillance. When you all leave, there will be no record of Sterling Sparrow ever being in Washington DC.”
Romero led us out to the entry and into the doors to the left. It was time to see in person what had been on the screens. I stopped at the threshold. The presidential suite was stunning. I imagined spending a week away with Lorna within a place like this.
The three of us stepped into the living room. The windows lining the far wall looked out toward the Washington Monument. If it weren’t raining, we could open the French doors and enjoy an autumn day in our country’s capital. To the left, the eight-person dining room table was cleared, with the exception of a centerpiece, ready to be a conference table. To the right was a study, more intimate than the open living room for confidential discussions, and able to be closed off by a set of pocket doors.
Of course, nothing was confidential with the way the Sparrows had this place wired.
We turned as the doors behind us opened and Garrett and Sparrow entered.
“Where is he?” Sparrow asked.
Romero stepped around Sparrow and back to the control room before reentering the living room. “Mr. Walters just entered the lobby and he’s alone.”
“This will be overwhelming,” Mason said. “Four of us, one of him. Let me greet him.”
“He’s not here to meet with you,” Sparrow said. “You two” —he was speaking to Mason and me— “go wait in the study. I’ll greet Mr. Walters after Garrett answers the bell. Then, Garrett will go to the master bedroom and serve as backup. Christian and Romero will be in the computer room watching everything.”
“There’s a monitor in the master bedroom, too,” Romero offered. He turned to me. “Here” —he pulled a phone from his pocket— “this is so you can hear and see from the study.”
“It’s right...” I didn’t finish the train of thought as I examined the phone in my hand. “This is a monitor.” I’d said a statement, but there was a hint of a question in it.