Mustering as much nonchalance as he could in his shaken state, Serrin strolled to the reception desk. Having dressed for lunch, and looking more respectable than usual, he thought he just might get away with it. Besides, he was booked for the whole weekend, so he really was the part, whether he looked it or not.

“Excuse me. The gentleman who just arrived,” he breezed to the receptionist, “he’s an old friend of mine. Which is his suite?" He took a chance that Kuranita wouldn’t have taken an ordinary room. The receptionist might be fooled by that little touch, and thus give it away.

She was cooler than that, and she didn’t. “I’m sorry, sir. We cannot provide room numbers of guests without their express permission.”

“Of course, I understand. I’ll catch up with him later." He smiled politely, but he’d seen all he needed to. The ID was still flickering on the vidscreen. James Kuruyama, Communication Management Associates, Chiltern Suite. So it was a false ID, although the company seemed to be plausible enough. Serrin dimly recalled CMA as a subsidiary of the great megacorporation that actually employed Kuranita these days.

But what the hell was Paul Kuranita, Deputy Head of Active Security for Fuchi Switzerland, doing here under this alias?

Back in his room, Serrin had a lot to think about as he took his fetishes and focuses from their silk wraps. Next he unfolded the outer casing of his attache case, drew out the components of the Ingram, and began to assemble them, screwing and clipping the gun together. When he had finished, he hefted its weight in his left hand for a few moments before slamming a clip of ammunition home with a pleasing click.

In all the years since his parents had been murdered, the missile striking down the Renraku chopper with unerring accuracy, Serrin had never been able to get more than a lead on a single name.