“Well, hopefully we will soon,” I say, trying to sound optimistic.
I cross over West End Avenue and see the line of limousines up ahead. I figure I’ll go past them, get a quick look at the building from the outside, and then find a spot to do some recon, so I can send some information back to Clark.
I stroll on casually, approaching the first of the limos. They’re all the same — shiny, black, private plates and tinted windows. The driver of each one is inside, sitting still behind the wheel like a mannequin. I throw a sideways glance at the one in the middle — Hussein’s driver — as I pass. He’s got a Middle Eastern look about him, styled facial hair and a dark suit.
I draw level with the front doors, which are up a short flight of steps. Walking past, I look casually at the two men standing guard outside. Something’s not right… they’re almost certainly American, wearing black suits and sunglasses. I very quickly look them up and down, and from their overall shape and body language, I can tell they’re well built, disciplined, definitely packing inside their jackets, and have earpieces in. I walk on, crossing over to the other side of the street at the end, and then over Riverside Drive, finally coming to a natural stop by the park.
“We have a problem,” I whisper urgently as I sit down on a bench, resting my bag at my feet.
“What is it?” asks Clark.
I fumble about inside my bag, finally retrieving a digital camera and Wi-Fi transmitter. I do my best to not look like a spy or a tourist, and set the camera up, connecting it to the transmitter so the feed streams back to Clark’s system. Then I aim it at the house.
“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure those guys on the door aren’t terrorists,” I say.
Clark’s silent for a few moments, studying the feed I’m sending him. I adjust the camera a little, zooming in to give him a better look at the guys standing guard on the entrance.
“Adrian, I’m running facial recognition software on those two now, but working remotely, it might take some time.”
It’s my turn to fall silent. I don’t know who those guys are, but I know who they look like. They look like G-men… and the first, obvious question? Who in the U.S. government could possibly be meeting with Yalafi Hussein? The next obvious question? Why would someone from the U.S. government be meeting with someone in charge of recruiting for a large terrorist organization?
“I take it I’m to proceed as planned?” I ask.
“We have to,” confirms Clark.
“I figured. Okay, I’m going to head around back, see if there’s a way in. Any movement inside that you can see?”
“Negative. Everyone’s still in position, judging by their heat signatures.”
“Okay, give me five minutes.”
I put the camera away and stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder before walking down Riverside Drive, toward West 80th Street. I cross over, so I’m on the same side as the apartment. I walk along the side of the property, glancing in the windows as I pass. There’s not much to see, but I get a glimpse of another guy in a suit that looks suspiciously non-terrorist like.
The buildings have terraces, so there’s no way for me to get access to a rear entrance or anything. I walk on, drawing level with the front door of the adjoining property, which appears to be a block of apartments, as opposed to one big stand-alone townhouse, like the one Hussein is in. I look up, seeing two windows overlooking the street, with the roof of the bay window just below them. To their left is a small ledge underneath a window on the second floor of Hussein’s building.
I’ve just had a really crazy idea…
“Bob,” I say into the comms unit. “Which room did you say the meeting is taking place in?” I ask.
“Second floor — the front room, facing the street and overlooking the limos,” he replies.
I look up again. I wonder…
“What about the windows on the opposite side?” I ask. “Facing Riverside… same floor.”
“Let me check,” he says, pausing for a moment. Again, I hear the tapping of keys. “It looks like that room is down the hall from the meeting. There’s a guy outside the door, but the room itself is empty. Do I want to know why you’re asking?”
I smile to myself. “Probably not. Thanks. Just keep your eyes open — I think I’ve found my way in.”
I walk up to the door of the apartment building and press the buzzer for each number until someone answers. It was number six when I got lucky.
“Hello?” says a distorted, female voice.
“Oh, hey,” I say. “I live in number three — I’ve gone and forgotten my key. Can you buzz me in please?”
She chuckles. “Happens to me all the time,” she replies. “Sure thing.”
I hear the buzz and the click as the door unlocks. I step inside to a small vestibule, with wooden mail boxes mounted on the right hand wall, a single elevator opposite on the left, and stairs directly ahead.
“Bob, don’t suppose you can pull up the layout of the apartment building next door, can you?” I ask.
“Adrian, there’s only one logical, and frankly insane, reason why you would want me to do that…” he replies, the skepticism and sense of impending doom clear in his voice.
“Yes. Yes, there is.”
He sighs. “One sec, and… okay. What do you need?”
“The room facing the street — which apartment is it? And please don’t say six.”
“Let me check,” More key-tapping for a moment. “It’s apartment five.”
Phew. Okay, so that’s fortunate, as I know they’re not home. But, I know whoever lives at number six is, and they might hear me breaking in, which would be awkward.
“Thanks, Bob. Give me a few minutes.”
“I’ll be watching…”
I take the stairs, two at a time, to the top floor, coming out in a small hallway. I look around. Four is on the left in front of me, with five opposite. I’d need to double-back on myself down the short hallway to get to six. There’s a single window at the end facing me, in the wall separating the first two apartments.
I walk over to the door of five, knocking once and placing my ear against it, listening for any sign of movement. After a minute, happy it’s empty, I rest my shoulder bag at my feet and reach inside for a lock-picking kit — another handy little gadget, courtesy of our sponsors at GlobaTech. I’m not a master at this, but after a couple of minutes fiddling with the lock, I manage to open the door.
Quickly packing up my things, I step inside, closing the door quietly. It’s a nice, spacious apartment — must cost a small fortune to live here. The main room is an open plan lounge with a kitchenette on the right hand side. There are two doors at the opposite end — two rooms next to each other. I’m guessing the one on the left is the bedroom, as that’s where the windows will be.
Without paying any more attention to the apartment itself, I head over and open the door, stepping into the bedroom, as predicted. A double bed is on the right, in a small alcove created by the large, fitted wardrobe unit that’s dominating the wall. To my left are the two windows. I step toward them and peer out, spying the roof of the bay window below. It’s only a couple of feet down and, as I look across to the right, it puts me pretty much level with the window in the room next door, down the hall from Hussein’s mystery meeting.
I take off my holster, putting it in the bag and keeping one of my Berettas out. I attach the suppressor to it and tuck it in the waistband of my pants at the back. I then zip up my jacket and put the bag over both shoulders, before lifting the bottom of the window and sticking my head out. I look up and down the street, seeing if anyone’s paying me any attention. The road is busy, but there aren’t many people on the sidewalk, so as long as I’m quick, I should go un-noticed.