silently mouths, What the fuck?
“This is the Hay-Adams in Washington, D.C. How may I assist you, sir?”
“Would you mind reading back your number to make sure it’s what I was given?” Marino says, his glaring eyes on the road.
“Were you trying to contact the Hay-Adams Hotel, sir?”
“It would be helpful if you’d tell me your number. I think I might have dialed the wrong place,” Marino says, and after a pause the woman recites the same number that’s in the electronic note I looked at.
“Thanks. My mistake.” Marino ends the call. “Goddamn son of a bitch!” He slams his meaty fist on the steering wheel.
What he wrote down is the general number for the hotel. It’s what was given to him by someone who identified himself as a counterterrorism investigator for Interpol. This is worse than a typo or even a deliberate and mocking misdirect. It’s personal, and not just directed at Marino. It may not be directed at him, period, but now’s not the moment to tell him that. The Hay-Adams means nothing to him and I doubt he’s ever stayed there.
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