48
Dirty Work
Beltway insiders referred to the Washington Hilton as the “Hinckley Hilton,” a macabre nod to the failed songwriter who, in a Taxi Driver—inspired act of obsessive love for Jodie Foster, put a bullet into the lung of Ronald Reagan at the hotel’s T Street exit.
The room Candy had rented, perhaps by design, was high on the northwest corner, looking down at that fateful stretch of sidewalk, which shimmered now in the moonlight, wet with night dew. Evan paused by the cold pane, gazing below, taking it in.
Tomorrow was going to be a very big day.
As neither the Secret Service nor Orphan A’s band of misfits were on alert for a single woman, Candy had procured the room.
This morning Evan had collected the shipments Tommy had arranged for him. As promised, Tommy had left them in the trunk of a beater car in a salvage yard on the city outskirts. Evan had simply climbed in and driven off.
Between Evan and Candy now on the floor were all three of Tommy’s weatherproof Hardigg Storm Cases, lids raised to show off the gear nestled into the foam lining.
In the bluish flicker of the TV, Evan knelt to remove the two-foot weapon, taking a moment to admire Tommy’s superb craftsmanship before tucking it inside the skateboard backpack he’d purchased this afternoon. Earlier today he’d dragged the backpack behind the car for a few blocks; the more well-loved something was, the less it stood out.
Adhered to the rear of the pack by buckle carry straps was a road-worn Santa Cruz Slasher board that Evan had bought used at a skate shop. It nicely hid the bulk beneath.
CNN flickered in the background, clean-cut pundits running pregame commentary on the president’s congressional appearance. Their discussion of the security measures had taken on a fetishistic air, the familiar phrases trotted out with breathless delight. Taking every precaution. No stone unturned. Intense scrutiny of the event zone.
As they delved into often-incorrect specifics, Evan wondered how much of it was ignorance and how much disinformation. After all, Bennett was a master of counterintelligence.
Through the lens of a new laser range finder, Candy watched with amusement as Evan tested the heft of the backpack. He finally glanced up at her. She looked ridiculous, the tag from the golf-pro shop dangling down over her nose.
She tossed the range finder onto the bed. Then she peeled off her shirt.
For a moment she stood brazenly, hands on her hips, physical assets on full display. From the front none of her mottled flesh was visible.
“This routine?” he said. “You don’t have to do it. I know it’s your training talking.”
“Like you didn’t have the same training. Fun, wasn’t it?”
He was silent.
“Oh,” she said. “Right. You want it to be special.”
He had a hard time holding his focus on her face.
The pope would have, too.
“One condition,” Candy said. “I have to be on top.”
He cleared his throat. “Because of your scars?”
She smirked, bit her lip. “No.”
She kicked off one shoe and then the other.
“This doesn’t interest me,” he said. “We have a job to do.”
She shifted her weight, crossing her arms self-consciously. “Don’t be so literal.” Slowly she turned, bringing the ruined flesh of her back into view. “I just need some help … dressing this before the mission. I can’t always reach, and…” She gave him her profile over a shoulder, her face downturned. “I’m ashamed.”
He walked over to her. “I have gauze in my pack.” He rested a hand gently on her shoulder, just beneath her chin. “We’re all scarred one way or another.”
She took his hand in hers and turned to look up at him, her eyes huge and fragile, her fingers clutching his. She put a hand on his cheek and started to pull his face to hers.
Then she laughed and pushed him away. “You liked that?” Her eyes shone with predaceous pleasure. “Le Wounded Bird routine? God, men are so easy. If one lever doesn’t work, just move to the next and give a little tug.”
She walked past him, bumping his hip with hers, making him stumble to keep his balance. “Remember, some of us have more work to do tonight. I have to change. That doesn’t mean I want to fuck you. But when I saw you pretending not to look at me, the picture of strained virtue … well, I couldn’t resist.”
As she wriggled out of her pants, his RoamZone rang. He noted the caller ID, forwarded on from his rarely used home line. Grimacing, he moved back to the window before answering.
Mia got right to it. “What the hell, Evan?”
He said, “Sorry?”
“You should be. Wanna tell me what went down with Oscar Esposito?”
He paused a beat. “Who?”
“You know exactly who. Oscar Esposito, case number PA338724. You said it to me when you were bragging about your forensic noticing skills.”
He thought, Fuck.
He shot a glance at Candy, lowering his voice even more. “I can’t get into this right now.”
Over the silence he could hear Mia breathing.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “No need.”
And she hung up.
Evan pursed his lips, stared at the phone as if it could tell him something he wanted to hear.
“Marital problems?” Candy said from across the room.
He turned to find her dressed in dark jeans and a black sweatshirt, the better to disguise her upcoming night maneuvers. Even so she looked working-class competent, her rose-gold hair twisted up in a bun beneath a stylish army cap, her makeup wiped off, her boots replaced with sensible sneakers. A Hardigg case rested at either side of her. They could have held concert equipment, tools, computer hardware.
“Nothing like that,” Evan said.
“Good. That shit doesn’t work with us. You should know better.”
He said, “I do.”
He thought he sensed a flicker of longing move across her face, but he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, casting his own doubts across the shadowed room so she could wear them instead of him.
They stood in perfect stillness, mirror images facing off over a stretch of patterned carpet.
“You did good work,” he said. “The survey of site. With what’s coming tomorrow…” The words did not come easily. “I’m glad you got my six.”
“That’s what I’m good for.” She bent at the knees and with some effort lifted the Storm Cases. “The dirty work.”
49
Kill Zone
Evan lay flat on his back, staring up at the unbroken D.C. sky. To his right, a barred metal overhang shaded the extended open terrace cupping the southern edge of the Newseum’s top floor. Six stories below that, eight lanes of Pennsylvania Avenue swept by, stretching less than a mile to Capitol Hill. Flanking the traffic, leafy crowns of trees swayed in a faint wind, green wads of cotton. This precise thoroughfare was the site of countless processions, parades, and — especially under Bennett’s administration — protests.
To Evan’s left, the backpack rested on the rooftop. Five hours earlier he’d skated up the sidewalk to the museum, slinging the Santa Cruz Slasher board through the backpack’s carry straps before entering so it would shield the bulky cargo. Disguised in a youthful hoodie and mirrored surfer shades, Evan sported a pair of high-top Vans to complete the look.
He remained still, only tilting his head slightly now and then to check the sight lines. Next door the Canadian embassy rose, the red maple leaf fluttering at high mast. Under the Vienna Convention, its premises were immune from requisition by the host country, which meant the Secret Service couldn’t station countersnipers on its roof. This offered Evan a key swath of invisibility.