Martin"s Secret

The Lear-jet touched down on Tampa International Airport’s Runway 19R at 5:30 a.m. During the flight, Grant had shared a limited number of classified files with Luther but only after insisting that Ramsey sit in the copilot seat to ‘make sure Jack’s eyelids didn’t get heavy’. Grant wasn’t really worried about Jack, a former fighter-pilot accustomed to flying dangerous night missions in distant war-torn countries. He considered Ramsey a knuckle-dragging iceman and just didn’t want him hanging around while they discussed classified information. A former Secret Service case manager, Grant knew classified leaks nearly guaranteed unintended consequences.

Certified ACR subcontractors were continually exposed to classified information so it was vital that leaks be discretely capped at the source. Whether knowingly, or by the bliss of ignorance, most subcontractors lived with physically enforceable liens.

After a quick airport breakfast, the men rented a vehicle and started the half-hour drive to the city. The bright, orange hue of sunrise silhouetted the east and bathed the west side of Tampa and the city’s dark streets were traced by lines of head and taillights. Jack weaved through the morning traffic along I-275 in the rented Suburban as Grant worked on his disguise, which included a hairpiece and beard.

Luther and Ramsey had managed to get a few hours of sleep on the plane while Jack and Grant, both pilots, rested half as much between shifts flying the plane.

“I’ve got a transponder hit” – Luther pointed toward the waking city of 400,000 - “he’s at the downtown Hilton on Ashley Street, probably gettin’ some shut-eye.” He delicately tapped the transponder against the door. “But I’m getting multiple signals, can’t tell what floor or room.”

“False echoes,” reasoned Grant. “If he’s in the building, we’ll find him.”

Jack set the vehicle’s GPS and they exited the Ashley Street ramp which parallels the Hillsborough River mere blocks from the premier five-star hotel. Jack whipped into an adjacent parking garage where he found a space on the second level. Before they exited the vehicle each man attached a suppressor to his handgun and holstered it.

The plan was to approach Martin’s room in staggered teams of two after Ramsey got the room-number from a lobby clerk. Grant decided entering the posh hotel separately wearing hats and sunglasses would help maintain anonymity and the two-prong assault would provide for backup should something go wrong. Luther and Ramsey had volunteered to go in first.

“They’re trapped like rats; we even have the element of surprise. Like I told Fererra in New York, he’s one guy, a computer geek, we’ll handle it,” bragged Luther to no one in particular.

“Fererra was right, you don’t listen,” huffed Grant. “Martin Harbach is not a ‘computer geek’. He’s the computer, and you’ll be better off remembering that.”

Luther didn’t take the criticism well. “All those files prove is that he’s ex-CIA. He got lucky when he capped my guy in Colorado. I’ve been up against a few rogue agents like him and I’m still here.”

“Luther’s right, we’ll call you guys when we’re done,” spouted Ramsey, his confidence bolstered by his bosses’ brag.

Jack, who’d listened with arms folded, chimed in. “It’s a win-win for us, Grant. Either we don’t have to get our hands dirty, or they get offed and we finish the job.”

Grant smiled and studied the two outside contractors for a moment before speaking. “We’ll wait in the lobby for your text. You have twenty minutes from the time you pass the doorman to finish the job.”

“Don’t stop for coffee, this won’t take long,” clucked Luther.

Grant ignored the sarcasm and made a call to an ACR facility in New York to give a designated hacker the hotel’s name and address and to discuss tapping into the facility’s phone bank and security system.

“You need to stop whatever you’re doing and get on the Tampa Hilton system,” stressed Grant.

He popped two Tums and waited impatiently for the company’s New York hack-and-crack to massage software for passwords that would discretely connect her with the Hilton’s phone and security programs.

“I’m in. I can point those cameras at the ceiling if you want!” The enthusiasm in her voice was the equivalent of a fist pump.

“Shut down their phone system and every camera they have for fifteen minutes beginning the instant you receive my text,” Grant instructed.

“Piece of cake,” chirped the hack queen.

“Remember, don’t make a move until you receive my text, ETA is five minutes!” With that Grant ended the call.

Once he and Jack were in the Hilton lobby Grant sent the New York text from behind a copy of the Tampa Bay Times he was pretending to read. From reservation clerks to security guards, employees who’d been routinely going about their business were upended when the phone system crashed.

Ramsey seized on the opportunity the chaos provided and told a room service clerk that he was there to meet Martin Harbach. She wrote room 9-1-4 on a notepad and tried to contact Martin’s room.

“I’m sorry but there’s something wrong with the phones, I can’t announce visitors,” said the befuddled clerk.

An impatient man standing behind Ramsey shouted in a gruff voice at the clerk to “hurry up” and a woman behind him grumbled about poor service loud enough for all to hear. Soon the hotel’s normally pampered guests were impatiently bobbing their heads, grumbling and even cutting in lines they perceived to be moving fastest.

“No worries, I left something in the car anyway,” Ramsey blurted apologetically blurted to the hotel registrar. “If my head wasn’t fastened I’d forget it too,” he added and smacked his forehead like Detective Columbo.

As he left the desk he nodded at Luther who was sitting, legs crossed, pretending to read the newspaper in a leather chair near the center of the lobby. They walked separately to the lavatory where Ramsey quickly checked the stalls to be sure they were alone. He turned his head left and right, sweeping the room one more time before speaking.

“He’s in Room 914, phones and cameras are neutralized,” said Ramsey.

Luther pulled his Glock from its shoulder holster, racked its slide and slipped it back in the holster as the two made their way to a freight-elevator.

“We got fourteen minutes,” Luther snapped. “There’s a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for you,” he said, knowing the money would up Ramsey’s motivation.