The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

over the top of his clothing was becoming tedious. The shockingly abrupt temperature change from stepping outside a heated building was playing havoc with his lungs, as well as his eyes. The heat made his eyes water, then the cold outside air froze the tears. His hands were already gloved, so picking the frozen gems from the corner of his eyes was not an option. Every movement, every process was an effort.

He had taken a coat hanging from a peg in the foyer and spread it on the ground beside the vehicle and on top of the footprints. He needed to be able to move freely, so he removed his jacket and gloves. He knew he had only minutes to perform his tasks. The cold was biting him. His heartrate increased greatly, and he could feel perspiration at his armpits solidifying. He lay on the coat and pushed himself around the underside of the vehicle, shining the torch’s meagre light into the wheel arches and behind the wheels themselves. He used his feet to scull himself, the coat sliding on the ice. He found the device wedged between the fuel tank and the chassis. He ignored it and continued his search. You never stopped the search on the first thing you saw. Many good bomb disposal specialists had slipped up in such a way. Usually through complacency because of their workload. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan demonstrated this with copious quantities of IEDs. It made for over-worked personnel and bombers who had been quick to exploit this. Temperature was a factor and the Taliban and ISIS knew this. They would plant IEDs inside hot vehicles. Deep under the seats. A specialist in a bomb suit pulling up car seats could be working in 50°C or more. Sweat in their eyes, clammy hands, too hot to function, unable to breath. They found what they thought was an IED, called it and missed the main device as they exited the oven and made for fresher air.

King made his way around to the engine bay and shone the torch. He knew enough about engines to know what shouldn’t be there. It all looked ok. He got out from underneath and got to his feet. He was freezing now, shivering. He looked at his hands. Shaking. Not what you wanted for removing a device from a fuel tank. He thought back to the upturned snowmobile. He could have given chase. And he could have walked into an ambush. He looked at the SUV and called it right there. Any device not connected to a door, boot lid or bonnet would only be detonated in one of two ways. Remote control; but then it would have gone off already. Or movement. Doors and lids detonated a device by pulling a pin to open an electrical or fuse connection. Movement devices were almost certainly reliant on a ball of mercury which rolled to complete an electrical circuit. Removing one, if that was an option, was a complicated affair and not best attempted with shaking hands and a bad case of shivering.

He put his jacket back on, tucked the hood up over his beanie and put on his gloves. He was done here. It was time for a drink.

16

 

King dropped his bag at reception and put the key on the desk. He hadn’t stayed in a hotel with a physical key for a long time. The brass tag with his room number on it looked old fashioned, but he missed those sorts of things more these days. Everything was seeming so clinical and characterless the older he became.

“How can I help?” the receptionist asked.

“How busy are you?” he asked but could see the confusion on the young woman’s face. He added, “The hotel, I mean.”

“Oh, about half-full.”

“I’d like to check out,” he said. “And check into another room.”

“You are not happy with your room?” she asked.

King looked around, then leaned forward conspiratorially. The young woman did the same. King said quietly, “I’d like you to check me out,” he paused, slipped a one-hundred euro note across the desk. “I’m a writer, and I work under a pseudonym, a pen name. I’m being hounded by my agent to finish a project, and it’s ruining my creativity. I don’t want anybody knowing I’m still up in these parts.” He slid the note over to her and she placed her hand over it. He kept hold of the note, bonding them in clandestine transaction. “This is for you,” he said. “Just book me in for two more nights under a Finnish name, and I’ll pay for the room in cash. I really appreciate your help.”

The receptionist smiled. “No problem, Sir…” She looked at the computer screen and clicked the mouse a few times. She unhooked a brass key from the cabinet beside her and slid it across the desk. “Room two-ten,” she said and smiled.

The room was one-hundred and fifty euros a night and King slid another three, one-hundred euro notes across the desk and returned her smile. He knew how hotels worked. Everybody had a scam – it helped get the staff through the unsociable hours, lack of respect from guests and low wages. A click of the mouse and a twenty-euro note to a trusted housemaid and King’s stay could be made invisible. And that was what he was counting on.

“Thank you,” he said.

Back inside his room, King left the snow clothes hanging on a chair in front of the radiator and took a hot shower. He soaped and shampooed twice and leaned against the tiles, letting the hot spray soothe his aching shoulders and the steam clear his sinuses. He felt cold inside. His efforts searching the SUV had left him frozen to his core. He had trudged back to the police station and taken the snow mobile back to the hotel. Changing rooms and checking off