They were still smoking like fiends. I sat in the lounge and picked up a paper from the seat. McGear started scrabbling about for change in his pocket as they talked to each other, standing at the bar. He was suddenly looking purposeful; he was either going to go to the slot machines or the telephone.
He got a note out and leaned over to the bartender; I could see him asking for change. I was sitting more or less directly behind them and about twenty feet back, so even if they turned their heads forty-five degrees to either side, I still wouldn't be in even their peripheral vision.
McGear walked toward the slot machines but continued on past. It must be the telephone.
I got up and wandered over to the newsstand, pretending to check the spinning rack of newspapers outside.
He picked up the phone, put a couple of pound coins in, and dialed. He got the number from a piece of paper, so it wasn't one that was well known to him. I looked at my G Shock; it was 4:16 p.m. The display was still on dual time; if there were any Iraqis in the lounge needing to know the time in Baghdad, I was their man.
I checked my pockets for coins; I had about two and a half quid; I would need more for what I was going to do, so I went in and bought a newspaper with a twenty-pound note.
McGear finished his call and went back to the bar. Those boys weren't going anywhere; they ordered more beer, opened their papers, lit another cigarette.
I gave it a couple of minutes, then strolled over to the phone McGear had been using. I picked up the receiver, threw in a couple of pound coins, and looked for a number on the set. I couldn't find one; not to worry, it would just take a bit longer.
I dialed a London number and a woman's voice said, "Good afternoon, your PIN number, please?"
"Two-four-two-two." The digits were etched into my memory; they were the first half of the army number that I'd had since I was sixteen.
She said, "Do you have a number?"
"No. This line please."
"Wait."
I heard a click, then nothing. I kept my eyes on the players and fed the phone. Within a minute she was back.
"What times are you interested in?"
"I'd like to book it from four-thirteen up till now."
"That's fine. Do you want me to call you, or will you call back?"
"I'll call back. Ten minutes?"
"Fine. Goodbye."
And that was it. No matter where you are in the world, you can dial in and the Firm will run a trace.
I phoned back ten minutes later. We went through the same PIN number routine, then she said, "Nothing until four-ten. A Washington, D.C." number. Washington Flyer Taxis, USA."
As she recited the number, I jotted it down, hung up, and immediately dialed.
"Good morning, Washington Flyer Taxis, Gerry speaking.
How may I be of assistance today?"
"Yes, I wonder if a Mr. Ashdown or a Mr. Lindsay has booked a taxi. I just want to make sure they're going to get to a meeting on time."
"Oh yes, sir, we've just had the booking. Collect from Dulles, arriving on flight number--" I cut in.
"Are you going to drop them off at the hotel or are they coming straight to me at Tyson's Corner?"
"Let me see, sir ... They're booked for the Westin on M Street, Northwest."
"All right, that's fine. Thank you."
Now all I had to do was try to get to the Westin before them. Things were looking OK.. Either that, or the fuckers had spotted me and were playing a deception.
The flight to London Heathrow was getting ready to board. I watched them get up, find their tickets, and walk. I followed.
On something like this you always travel club class so you're at the front of the aircraft. You can then choose either to sit down and watch people boarding or let them through ahead of you and come in later on. At the destination, you can wait for the target to come off the aircraft and naturally file in behind--or get out of the way beforehand so that you're ready to make the pickup once you're out of arrivals.
I thought about a drink but decided against it; I might have to start performing as soon as we got to the other side. These guys seemed very professional, so chances were they weren't going to be doing any work after all the Bud they'd been putting away. But still, no drink for me.
I settled into my seat and started to think about Kev and his family. I'd been there when he first met Marsha; I was best man at their wedding and was even godfather to Aida, their second child. I took the job seriously, though I didn't really know what I was supposed to do on the God front.
I knew I'd never have any of my own kids; I'd be too busy running around doing shit jobs like this one. Kev and Marsha knew that, and really tried to make me feel part of their setup.
I'd grown up with this fantasy of the perfect family, and as far as I was concerned Kev had it. The first marriage fell apart, but this one seemed absolutely right. His job with the DEA was now mostly deskbound in D.C. He loved it.
"More time with the kids, mate," he'd say.
"Yeah, so you can be one!" I'd reply. Lucidly Marsha was the mature and sensible one; when it came to the family, they complemented each other really well. Their home at Tyson's Corner was a healthy, loving environment, but after three or four days it would get too much for me and I'd have to move on. They'd make a joke of it; they knew I loved them but somehow couldn't handle people showing so much affection. I guessed that was why I'd always felt more comfortable with Euan. We were both made from the same mold.
As for Slack Pat, he was completely off the scale. Half the world seemed to be his best friend, and he was still working on the others. Even when he opened the fridge door and the light came on he'd have to launch into some sort of chat-up routine. When he started the bodyguard job in Washington, a real estate agent took him to look at an apartment in Georgetown, by the university. The way he told the story, he saw a building with people coming in and out.
"What's that then?" he asked.
"One of the best restaurants in Washington," she said.
"Half of Congress seems to go there."
"Right, I'll take it," he said. The moon was in a new quarter or some shit like that and I thought for a while he reckoned he'd turned into Donald Trump. He told me he used to eat there every day and knew every waitress by name. He'd even started going out with one of them. Maybe it was her who got him into drugs. I hadn't seen it myself, but I'd heard he had a problem. It made me sad. We'd all seen the results of addiction during our time in Colombia. Pat had called them losers.
Now it seemed he was one himself. Hopefully it was just one of his phases. The transfer at Heathrow had been easy. The boys didn't get stopped at the security checks probably because Special Branch had been informed and the flight to Dulles had taken off on time.
I hoped McGear and Kerr were going straight to the hotel.
I hoped they'd be playing the good tourists and wouldn't blow it by not checking in. If I ever lost a target, I'd look in all the places where he might be his place of work, the pub, where the kids go to school, where he lived, or even the bookie's. I needed to know as much as I could about them, because once you're inside your target's mind you can second-guess every movement, even understand why they do what they do. Un fortunately, all I knew so far about McGear and Kerr was that they liked drinking Budweiser and must be dying for a smoke. So I had to start with the hotel.
I needed to get in front of them. That shouldn't be a problem, since club class had its own shuttle to get us to the terminal ahead of the herd. However, since they'd pre booked a transfer, I'd need to grab a cab PDQ if I was going to beat them to M Street. I could have booked one of my own when I spoke to Washington Flyer, but I'd tried to do that in Warsaw once in similar circumstances, only to come out and find the two drivers fighting over who to take first, me or the target. It was the taxi stand for me from then on.