I went as far as I could upstairs. Double fire doors led to the roof; push the bar and they'd open. There was no sign warning that the doors were alarmed, but I had to check. I looked around the doorframe but couldn't see a circuit-break alarm. I pushed the bar and the door opened. No bells.
The roof was flat, its surface covered with lumps of gravel two inches in diameter. I picked up a handful and used it to jam the doors open.
An aircraft was landing at National; I could just see its lights through the drizzle. The satellite dish was on the far corner of the roof. There was also a green aluminum shed, which I guessed was the elevator housing. A three-foot-high wall ran around the edge of the roof, hiding me from the ground, but not from the highway.
I walked across the gravel to the side facing the river.
Looking down at the target building from this angle, I could see the flat roof and its air ducts. It was rectangular and looked quite large. Behind it were a vacant lot and fences that seemed to divide it into new building plots waiting to be sold.
I could just make out the Potomac beyond the tree line and the end of the runway.
I walked back, stepping over a series of thick electric cables. I stopped at the elevator housing. What I wanted now was a power source. I could use batteries to power the surveillance equipment I'd be using, but I couldn't guarantee their life. I tried the door of the elevator housing, but it was locked. I had a quick look at the lock: a pin tumbler. I'd be able to defeat that easily.
Back in the room, I got out the Yellow Pages and looked for addresses of pawn shops.
Then I went into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the bath, and unloaded the .45 ammunition from the magazines into my pocket, easing the springs. It's not something that you have to do every day, but it needs to be done. The majority of weapon stoppages are magazine connected. I didn't know how long it had been left loaded; I might squeeze off the first round and the second one wouldn't feed into the chamber because the magazine spring had stuck. That's why a revolver is sometimes far better, especially if you're going to have a pistol lying about for ages and don't want to service it. A revolver is just a cylinder with six rounds in it, so you could keep it loaded all year and it wouldn't matter--as soon as you pick it up you know the thing will work. I emptied the magazines into my pocket so that I then had the ammunition, magazines, and pistol all on me.
I came out of the bathroom and wrote myself a shopping list of supplies that I was going to need and checked how much money I had. There was enough for today. I could always get more out tomorrow.
I wasn't worried about Kelly. She had loads of food and was half-asleep anyway. I turned up the heat on the air conditioner.
She'd soon be drowsy.
I said, "I'm going to go and get you some coloring books and crayons and all that sort of stuff. Shall I bring back something from Mickey D's?"
"Can I have sweet and sour sauce with the fries? Can I come with you?"
"The weather's terrible. I don't want you catching a cold."
She got up and walked to the door, ready to drop the latch without me having to ask.
I went downstairs and walked to the Metro station. The Washington Metro is fast and quiet, clean and efficient, everything a subway should be. The tunnels are vast and dimly lit, somehow soothing, which is maybe why passengers seem more relaxed than in London or New York and some even exchange eye contact. It's also about the only part of the capital where you won't be asked by a seventeen or seventy-seven-year-old Vietnam vet if you can spare some change.
I got out after seven or eight stops and one transfer. The place I was looking for was just a few blocks away, but it was in a neighborhood I bet didn't feature in anybody's vacation brochure. I was used to the Washington where those who had really had. This was the part of town where those who didn't have had absolutely nothing.
The single-story building was set back from the road and looked more like a supermarket than a pawn shop, with a front that was at least fifty yards long. The whole facade was glass, with bars running vertically. The window displays were piled high with everything from drum kits to surfboards and bedding. Fluorescent-yellow posters promised everything from zero percent interest to the best gold price in town.
Three armed guards controlled the doors and watched me enter.
Looking along one of the aisles to the rear, I saw a long glass showcase that also formed the counter. Behind it were more than a dozen assistants, all wearing similar red polo shirts. It seemed to be the busiest department in the shop.
Then I saw all the handguns and rifles behind the glass. A sign announced that customers were welcome to test fire any weapon on the range out back.
I went to the camera department. In an ideal world, what I was looking for would be something like a security camera, with a long cable connecting the camera itself to a separate control box that also housed the videotape. I could put the camera in position on the roof, leave it where it was, and hide the control box elsewhere, maybe inside the elevator housing.
That way it would be easier for me to get to it to change the tape and--if I couldn't tap into the power lines--the batteries, and all without having to disturb the camera.
Unfortunately I couldn't find anything like that. But I did find something that was almost as good: a Hi-8 VHS camera, the type favored by a lot of freelance TV journalists. Certainly I'd be able to change the lens to give me more distance.
I remembered working in Bosnia and seeing guys running around with Hi-8s glued to their eyes. They all thought they were destined to strike it rich by selling the networks "bang-bang" footage.
I caught the eye of one of the assistants.
"How much for the Hi-8?" I said in my usual bad American accent.
"It's nearly new, hardly out of the packaging. Five hundred dollars."
I smirked.
"So make me an offer," he said.
"Has it got a spare battery and all the attachments for external power?"
"Of course. It's got it all. It's even got its own bag."
"Can I see it working?"
"Of course, of course."
"All right--four hundred, cash."
He did what every plumber and builder throughout the world does when discussing prices: started sucking air through his teeth.
"I'll tell you what: four-fifty."
"Done. I also want a playback machine, but it can't be a
VCR."
"I have exactly what you want. Follow me."
The machine he retrieved from the back of a shelf had a hundred-dollar price tag. It looked about a hundred years old, complete with dust. He said, "I'll tell you what--save the trouble: ninety dollars and it's yours."
I nodded.
"I also want some lenses."
"What kind are you after?"
"At least a two-hundred-millimeter zoom to go on this, preferably Nikon." I worked on the basis of one millimeter of lens for every yard of distance to target. For years I had been stuck in people's roof spaces after breaking into their house and removing one of the tiles so I could take pictures of a target, and I'd learned the hard way that it's a wasted effort unless the result is good ID-able images.
He showed me a 250mm lens.
"How much?"
"One-fifty." He was waiting for me to say it was too much.
"All right, one hundred fifty dollars. Done--if you throw in two four-hour tapes and an extension cord."
He seemed almost upset at the lack of a fight.
"What length?"
More haggling. He was dying for it.
"The longest one you've got."
"Twenty-foot?"
"Done." He was happy now. No doubt he had a forty-foot.