A gray limousine pulled up the narrow side street that edged the hotel. The same blonde, husky man he had seen near that casino a few nights before, Pablo noticed, hurried to the car, lugging two suitcases on wheels. Without pushing in the handles to the cases, he heaved them into the limo’s trunk, after which he slammed it shut and rushed back inside. The chauffeur pulled to the intersection, turned right, and idled on the boulevard.
Maybe the youth was Foster, Pablo thought. Maybe Foster had hidden out at the Franz Joseph all along. Or grown too confident from no intel service tracking him down for years and had only recently checked in from some outlying hideout. A hiding in plain sight tactic. Maybe he had, after years honing his survival instinct, chanced an appearance at the hotel f
