Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
As soon as Arnold disappeared, Court continued moving back in the direction of the Metro station he’d left minutes earlier, just to look at the vehicles parked alongside Independence, and the people braving the wind and cold on the sidewalk.
He saw a few homeless people’s tents there in the grass; he’d seen little pockets of tents all over D.C.
today and assumed it was like this every day, as it was in most major cities.
He made a right turn, headed up a little footpath in the direction of the National Mall, and checked in with Travers, who was in the process of walking the neighborhood on the east side of the museum.
Zack chimed in, as well, saying that he had parked the Pacifica, and right now he was looking at his phone, watching the real-time video coming from Arnold’s glasses as he waited in line to buy a bottled water in the little coffee shop in the museum lobby.
Ortega herself was several people ahead of him in line, and Zack thought she was stalling, or continuing her SDR by stopping here in the lobby before her clandestine meet.
Court walked on, passed another cluster of old tents, then got a new call on his phone. He told the others he’d be right back, then accepted the call.
“Yeah?”
Matt Hanley’s voice came over his earpiece, and Court knew Matt well enough to know when he was pissed. “Gumdrop tells me you have fucking Bricklayer running point on a surveillance mission against a woman looking for a tail and possibly meeting with a member of the opposition.”
Court sighed, turned right on Jefferson Drive. “Well, when you say it like that—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?”
“We’re getting live footage inside the Hirshhorn. None of us had time to dress for the Smithsonian.”
“I swear to God, if you guys put Bricklayer in any danger, I will—”
“He’s doing great.”
Court hung up, checked back with Zack, and learned that Irene Ortega had left the line at the café without buying anything, and now she was taking the escalator that led up to the art exhibits.
He ordered Arnold to continue waiting in line so as not to arouse any suspicion, and to let Ortega go up on her own.
Travers checked in that all was clear on the east side outside the museum; Court didn’t see anything out of place himself on the northwest side, but then he turned and began walking through the Mary Livingston Ripley Garden, a small park with curved walkways and, at this time of year, next to no living foliage, and here he saw another old tent erected, close to Independence Avenue and next door to the walled garden surrounding the Hirshhorn.
This tent was different from the others he’d seen on this freezing afternoon, in that here the dweller of the tent was visible, sitting inside the open flap, covered in a dirty sleeping bag.
The man wore a beard and seemed to be in his thirties, and he paid no attention to Court as he sat there.
The man appeared to be a typical transient, but Court did what he always did in the field, and he focused carefully.
The tent dweller’s hair was matted, his beard long and unkempt.
Right before he walked by the man and lost visual, Court saw a hand come out of the sleeping bag, grasp it at the top, and pull it up closer to his neck, apparently for warmth.
The man’s face had been dirty, and his hands seemed dirty, too.
But the man’s fingernails looked trimmed and healthy.
Court Gentry had been trained to evaluate fingernails, because although it was easy to change one’s appearance in many ways to look like a laborer or even a homeless person, and it wasn’t hard to get some dirt on the hands or under the nails, the average transient did not have trimmed nails and most people impersonating one didn’t take the time to alter them.
Court turned left on Independence, and instinctively, he flashed his eyes across the street.
Another man was bundled behind a tarp here. He was too far away to see well, but the man appeared to be in his thirties, just like this one.
Court wondered if these two men were working in a team.
He kept walking, but he softly spoke into his earpiece. “Teddy, we’ve got a problem.”
“Whatcha see?”
“Homeless tent on southwest corner of AO is occupied by a possible asset.”
“Roger that, I’ll see if I can ID others in the AO. Want to consider pulling back?”
Before Court could answer, Zack’s voice came over the net. “Bricklayer is on the second floor; he’s got Ortega in sight. She’s alone but stationary, looking into another room.”
“What’s your gut?” Court asked Zack.
“She doesn’t want to go in there for some reason.”
Shit. Court wanted to know what Irene was doing, but the only way to find out was to send Reyes even closer. After a few seconds, he said, “Bricklayer. Go in that room, have a quick look around, then get out of the building.”
Arnold did not reply, which pleased Court greatly. He didn’t know if he was going to follow Court’s instructions, but it was better that he didn’t answer him.
Zack, watching the streaming feed through the glasses, picked up the play-by-play as Court walked on past the front of the Hirshhorn, past the GMC Savana, heading to the east.
Zack said, “He’s entering a room…it’s like graffiti on the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor. The whole space is a single piece of art, I guess. Everything’s black and white.”
After a quick pause, Travers spoke up. “Six, I’ve ID’d a red Econoline van over here. Two dudes in the front seat. Beardy tough guys.”
Travers was a beardy tough guy himself, but Court took his meaning. “Roger, don’t get clocked by them, head back to Night Train’s vic.”
Zack spoke again. “There are just two people in the graffiti room with Bricklayer. You’re doing good, man, just keep looking around, and when I tell you, I want you to turn to the right and go out that door on the opposite side. We’ll try to get a quick viz on their faces.”
Still Arnold said nothing.
Court was barely listening, though; instead, he was making mental calculations.
There might have been watchers in the Metro; he had clocked one or two on the west side of the Hirshhorn, and Travers had picked up two on the east. Assuming this was all one team, there would surely be more inside the museum.
Whatever the fuck Ortega was involved in, she sure was surrounded by a lot of interested parties.
Zack spoke to Arnold now. “Okay, man. Just turn right and head out that door, look slowly back over your right shoulder as you do, but don’t stop.”
Court decided they all needed to get the hell out of here. He was about to order everyone in the vehicles to vacate when Zack said, “Good. Got the image we need of two unknown subjects.”
“Everyone, abort,” Court said. “Teddy, you’re with Night Train. Bricklayer, you’re with me, I’ll take the wheel.”
Immediately Zack spoke again. “Shit.”
Court almost stopped in his tracks on the sidewalk. “What happened?”
Zack didn’t answer; instead, he said, “You okay, Bricklayer? Just nod if you’re good.”
“What’s going on?” Court demanded now. He was almost back to the work van but had slowed, readying himself to turn and race into the museum in case Arnold had gotten jumped or attacked in some way.
“No sweat,” Zack said. Then he added, “Bricklayer walked into a wall when he went into the next room. Shit happens, brother. Now…get out of there.”
—
Five minutes later, Court was behind the wheel of the Savana, driving east on Independence, south of the Capitol Building.
Arnold sat next to him; he’d already switched out his glasses and stowed the Ray-Ban video device in their proper case, but he’d said next to nothing, other than asking Court to give him a moment to collect his thoughts.
The guy was scared, still freaking out about what he’d just gone through; his chest heaved under his coat.
“You did great, Arnold,” Court said as the man rubbed sweat from his face.
“Thanks,” Arnold said. Then he added, “I think Gumdrop is going to have to tell me what I saw, because I barely saw anything. I hit a wall and then, when I was leaving, I almost fell down the escalator.”
Court fought a smile. “Usually, our operations run a little more smoothly.” He thought about what he’d said for a second, then shrugged. “Usually.”
—
The entire team had been told to conduct an SDR and then rally back at a three-story townhouse Erin Childers had rented for them in Meridian Hill, just twenty minutes to the north in an urban area of the city between Adams Morgan and Columbia Heights.
It was pitch-black by the time they arrived. Travers pulled the Pacifica into the one-car garage, while Court found parking in the alley out back for the Savana.
Once there, everyone climbed out and immediately stepped into the townhouse. Here, Jill sat at a dining table on the ground floor with several laptops in front of her, and Matt Hanley had just finished brewing a pot of coffee in the nearby kitchen.
The small team converged around the table, asset and support member alike, and they talked about the afternoon.
Jill began running facial recognition on everyone picked up on both Arnold’s glasses and the several camera feeds she’d been able to hack into, both in the subway and on the street outside the museum.
As she did this, Hanley said, “I watched the stream as it came in. I don’t think she was there to meet someone. I think she was there to try to spy on somebody else.”
“Yeah,” Court said. “And whoever was meeting in there, at least one of those parties knew Irene was going to be there. A lady was tailing her on the train, and they already had the meet location secure with more bodies.” He thought a moment.
“If Irene is not the leak in the government we’ve been looking for, then she could be in danger from whoever is. ”
Travers shook his head. “I wouldn’t say ‘danger.’ The two men I saw…they looked like muscle, like contractors, former soldiers, cops, whatever. But they did not strike me as assassins.”