The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

chilling, or anything in between. He often found company for the night at a nearby bar and impressed his guests with his sharp sense of humor and endless offerings of food and drink onboard the boat. Sometimes that included an entertaining ride either down in the master suite or along the Potomac.

Tonight had to be cut short though. It was time to go back to work. Another few beers might drive him to shots at the bars and a delay in getting up to Quebec and his next assignment. “Ciao, Bella,” he said affectionately as he flipped off the lights, stepped onto the dock, and headed for his condo. As he passed back by the bar he saw something going on in the shadows. Are they just making out or does someone need their ass kicked?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Matt was back on board another airplane. This flight would be a short one compared to his most recent excursions overseas. Just before noon, the Air Canada commuter jet landed at Quebec City’s Jean Lesage International Airport. He sailed through customs and was in and out of a cab in no time. Along the way, he thought about the incident in the shadows the night before. He rubbed his right hand and was glad he’d iced it after he’d knocked the big drunk on his ass. The bastard had been trying to digit the girl he’d been pouring drinks into all night and once Matt had seen the fear in her eyes he took out the trash and had left the unconscious mess for the D.C. police. As the edifice of the castle-like Chateau Frontenac Hotel came into view, a broad smile returned to his face.

The Grand Allee, the main boulevard parallel to the St. Lawrence River, ran high along the hilltop past Le Concorde Hotel, down into the old city, and ended in front of the Chateau. Automotive traffic flowed to the left, down and away from the hotel, while pedestrians walking the Allee continued straight onto a wide boardwalk built on the cliffside known as the Dufferin Terrace.

“Do you know where we can get the funicular?” the Asian woman asked Matt, assuming for some reason that he would know its location. It was essentially a hillside cable car that slid up and down on vertical rails between the upper and lower city, providing its riders with a spectacular view of the river and its surroundings.

“Straight ahead.” He pointed toward the river. “Just past the statue of Champlain,” Matt advised the woman and her group of fellow tourists.

He continued his walk toward the Chateau, stopping briefly to review the restaurant menu that was posted on the high stone wall to the right of the front entrance. There were crepes of all types, from plain and sweet with powdered sugar and maple syrup to salty, more filling ones filled with beef bourguignon.

“I know where I’ll be tonight, I hope,” he said out loud. Continuing his walk, he stopped at the security checkpoint that had been set up to block the car path leading to the elegant, gold-plated entry doors of the hotel. The pedestrian pathways on opposite sides of the car path were also blocked and staffed by uniformed police.After presenting his passport, his Canadian one, the guard checked his list and waved Matt through.

“Inside the left side main doorway is a desk where you can sign in and acquire your credentials,” the officer told him. “There will be a metal detector, as well. If there’s anything you shouldn’t be carrying with you, best turn about or toss it in that dumpster over there,” she said, pointing to the trash dumpster tucked in a corner of the small valet area.

Matt was clean. He never carried a weapon across country borders unless he was carrying an untouchable diplomatic pouch and the credentials to go with it. Sometimes a weapon was set up and waiting for him or left behind somewhere safe from a previous excursion. As he approached the doorway, a policeman raised his hand, stopping Matt before he could reach for the door.

“Please wait here for a moment,” he directed. As Matt turned to learn what the commotion behind him was, he saw two black SUVs drive through the checkpoint and stop in front of the main entrance. The boos of the crowd that had gathered quickly out on the street seemed to echo within the high, fortress-like walls of the entry area.

“Ah, the Americans have arrived,” he said to the policeman, smiling to himself as he saw the U.S. flag waving from its mount on the front of the first SUV. Four plainclothes members of the U.S. State Department’s security force jumped from the second vehicle and formed a human rope line for their protectee. Once they were in place, a side door of the lead SUV opened and out stepped the undersecretary himself – Matt’s babysitting assignment for the event, John Tilton.

“He’s put on weight,” Matt said with a shrug, a comment ignored by the policeman, who had focused his attention on the people in the area taking photos of the controversial government official.

“Would have thought the metal detectors would have been at the checkpoint, not past the damn thing,” Matt said in follow-up, but the jeers from the crowd had grown louder and drowned out his observation.

Once Tilton and his entourage had entered the hotel, they were whisked directly to the bank of lobby elevators that would take them to the Roosevelt Suite on the upper floors of the hotel.

“Hard to think FDR and Winston Churchill met here in ’43 to discuss how to kick Hitler’s ass,” Matt said to the policeman, who had turned his attention back to this apparent history buff.

“Queen Elizabeth and Ronald Reagan have been here, too,” the officer noted. “It’s a shame that guy is the best our American neighbors have been able to muster for such an important conference. The newspapers here say he’s a bit of a turd.”

“Well