“Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” she asked in a soft Southern voice.
I looked around, took the place in. Another very odd thing: no coffee table with magazines, no comfortable chairs or couches for clients or salesmen to cool their heels.
Munce, Price & O’Toole looked like a very tightly wrapped place.
I showed her my press pass, issued by the N.H. Department of Safety, which had my name, photo, and the name of my former employer, Shoreline magazine. I held it for just a second or two, long enough for her to recognize it as a press pass, and hopefully not long enough for her to memorize my name.
“I’m working on a story about different lobbying firms in Washington and what their clients feel about deep-sea fishing rights.”
Her smile didn’t change a bit, but her voice seemed shaky. “Deep-sea what?”
“Deep-sea fishing rights. Haven’t you heard about the fishing quota controversies in the Northeast?”
“I can’t say I really have, sir.”
“That’s my point. More people need to know about these issues, and I’m looking for information about possible lobbying actions that your firm has conducted. Is there a spokesman I can talk to?”
The receptionist quickly regained her composure. “I’m afraid there isn’t.”
“Really? Nobody to interact with the news media?”
“Our firm rarely interacts with the news media. We find that our clients prefer it that way.”
“How about community outreach?”
“We don’t do community outreach.”
“Oh. Well, can you tell me which clients may have an interest in deep-sea fishing rights?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”
“But what kind of clients do you have?”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”
“Really, I mean, can’t you tell me—”
A quick buzz on her phone. She toggled something and nodded, speaking into her Bluetooth. “I see. I see.”
Then she looked up at me, widened her smile some. “You know, Mister… ”
“Smith.”
“Smith,” she said. “Someone’s coming right now who might be able to help you.”
“I’m sure.”
I turned and got the hell out.
I was about ten feet down the sidewalk when I realized my earlier mistake. The place looked quiet, small, and non-threatening. All of which were quickly proving to be false. I was certain that when I’d walked into that lobby, I was being observed and recorded, both by sound and vision. Plus I wouldn’t doubt that there were hidden metal detectors or X-ray devices around the doorframe through which I’d gone.
Which meant to someone sitting in a room, deep in the building, that an armed man was in the lobby, asking lots of probing questions. Hence the call to the receptionist, to encourage her to keep me in place.
I got to the corner, glanced back. Two men had emerged from the doorway of Munce, Price & O’Toole, one breaking left, the other breaking right. They strode quickly and purposefully.
So did I. I went down and crossed the street, dodging through traffic, all of the drivers no doubt conducting the people’s business, and I got a barrage of honking horns for my trouble. Another glance back.
There. An alleyway behind the building hosting Munce, Price & O’Toole. Two more men emerged. Their heads swiveled as they scanned the streets, and then they were looking at something in their hands.
Another good guess. Print-outs of my face, from hidden cameras in the lobby.
I kept on moving, trying to keep the fast-moving pedestrians between me and the sharp eyes of the wolves trying to pick up my scent. I had no illusions. If those men or others were to catch up with me, all it would take would be a long-distance Taser shot, or some sort of device to shoot a projectile with a nerve agent, or something else equally impressive to drop me. A few seconds after that, I would be bundled into an unmarked van or an ambulance, and then I would be gone. I’d probably end up in a basement or a lonely farm somewhere, about to receive an interrogation from folks thinking waterboarding was just a passing fad. I could try to get a shot off first at my pursuers, but who would I shoot? The guys following me, or people about me who might be working for the same employer?
My pace picked up. I went past a Starbucks and a number of other buildings with open, inviting doors.
But those invitations were all traps.
I couldn’t chance ducking in someplace, to be cornered.
My hand was under my coat, on the butt of my Beretta.
Still moving.
Was that a shout?
Still moving.
A horn blared.
Honked again.
Another shout.
I spared a half-second glance to my right.
A Diamond cab was pulled to the side, with a familiar-looking driver.
A set-up? An ambush? Could I trust him?
I went to the cab’s rear door, opened it up.
I was tired of being paranoid.
He was accelerating before I even had the door closed, and made a sharp left corner, blasting through a red light, causing a screech of brakes and another blast of horns. I caught my breath and looked out the rear window. None of my pursuers seemed to be after me. Even then, my driver took no chances. He made a couple more turns before we were traveling at a steady pace along J Street.
“Thanks,” I finally said.
“Glad to be of service.”
“How the hell did you end up there?”
I could see his strong shoulders shrug. “You’re a man who likes passing around the green. I like guys like that. So I figured I’d hang around the neighborhood for a while, see if you needed another ride.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is that all?”
A chuckle. “The way you asked me for a place. Most folks ask for a joint near the Metro station or the monuments or museums. You just wanted someplace close, clean, and inexpensive. Means you were here on a job. But most guys I ride, if they’re on a job, someone else is paying the freight. So this is something personal for you… and the way you moved, way you kept quiet, don’t think you were applying to the State Department or something like that.”
I settled back into the seat. “Good observations.”
“Spent many years in this man’s Air Force, looking at radar screens. I was trained to look at things, m’man. And when you got out of my cab a few minutes ago, I told myself that you were going into harm’s way, and I’d better be around to scoop you up if you come out of a building at a fast pace.”
I looked at his license, caught his name. “Thanks, Frank. I really appreciate that.”
He pulled up at a stoplight. “So how did the job go?”
“Managed to apparently piss off some people.”
“Means you’re doing something right.”
“Thanks for the compliment.” I wiped at my forehead. It was cool and dry. First real big surprise of the day.
“What kind of job are you up to, anyway?”
“Trying to make things right for a friend.”
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
The light changed. We moved ahead. “Hah, I think I know what you’re saying.”
“And you’d be wrong. She’s not my wife or my girlfriend. Just… best friend I’ve ever had.”
“She in trouble?”
“She may be dying. And I’m looking for the guy who did that to her.”
The back of his neck tensed up. “Then go get the fucker. Where do you want to go next?”
“Nearest Metro station will do.”
“You sure? I don’t mind driving you to your next place, if it’s part of your job.”
“I appreciate that. But those bad guys… they might be waiting for me at the next stop. You were lucky once, Frank. I don’t want you to be unlucky the next time.”