He anchored his lower body, wedging a knee against the wall, and lowered himself until one arm and shoulder were through the gap. The room was warm, but the sweat beading on his forehead had more to do with the fact that he was hanging upside down in the closet of a heavily guarded Iranian envoy. Slaton reached along the hangar rail, but the suits were beyond his grasp. He quickly extracted himself and pulled an empty wire hangar from the rack overhead, twisting it straight but leaving the hook on one end. On his second try he managed to snag both of Hamedi’s jackets and pull them closer. He took note that one was black and the other dark gray. Slaton was reaching for the Scotchgard, and still hanging inverted in the void, when the closet door below suddenly rattled.

Slaton jerked himself up, but there was no time to replace the ceiling tile, which left a gaping hole. He saw light as the door swung open, and then a pair of shoes thumped against the wall. The door shut again. Slaton closed his eyes and breathed out. He distinctly heard voices from the lower room, a casual discussion in Farsi.

He was reaching for the can of Scotchgard again, ready to finish the job, when the second interruption came. A knock on Madame Dupre’s door. He heard the mechanical ratchet as the handle engaged, and then a thump when the door caught on the security chain he’d thankfully set.

Someone was trying to enter the room.

*   *   *

Brigit Fontaine, carrying a load of clean hand towels under her arm, called though the cracked door of the Bertrand Suite. “Femme de chambre,” she said in her best singsong maid’s voice.

She heard no reply, but her guest was certainly inside because the chain was engaged.

“Madame? Serviettes d’aujourd’hui? Plus tard, ou—” Brigit froze.

A man was leaning into the gap, and from the waist up—that was all she could see—he was quite naked. He was also covered in sweat and seemed out of breath. He was a tall fellow and, she did notice, rather attractive and muscular.

He smiled at her brazenly, and said in a husky voice, “Madame est engagé.”

“Oh! Certainement … pardon, monsieur.”

“Trente minutes de plus,” he said.

“Trente minutes?” Brigit repeated. “Ah! Oui, monsieur, trente minutes.” Not knowing what else to say, she took an awkward step back.

The door shut gently.

She looked over her shoulder and saw Nicolette down the hall, standing by her cart at Number 12. Brigit scurried silently in that direction and began calling in a harsh whisper. “Nicolette! Nicolette … quel scandale!”

Chapter 46

FORTY-SIX

In spite of what he’d told the housekeeper, Slaton did not plan on thirty minutes.