“Is he still out there?”
“What do you think? They’re always out there.” Jacob engaged the lock, walked back to the bed and sat down.
“So what do you want to do?” I asked.
He rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands and stared down at the bag. In one carefully lined space, no larger than an envelope, were eight 16GB memory cards jammed with unauthorized photos from our trip.
What had seemed so clever back in the states seemed like madness now. Our guides had been saying things. Strange things that meant nothing—each taken on its own. But added together it gave us the sense that even here, behind the closed door of our hotel room, we were being watched.
The backup plan of flushing the SD cards, crushing the spy cam, and discarding the fragments across the parking lot no longer seemed like an option.