Now Saleh had to decide if they should shoot the old man while he sat in the restaurant and then try to race away through the crowded and touristy part of Old Town, or else wait till he headed back home, and do him on his quiet residential street.
Thinking again of what had happened in North Carolina the evening before, he found his choice easy to make. “We wait till he goes back home. If he walks around awhile, it’s okay. But if he looks like he’s going to get on public transportation, we kill him immediately.”
Saleh had been told directly by Omar, the leader of the Detroit cell, that Mohammed had precluded any of them from setting foot in D.C. because of the high police presence and what he assumed would be heavy racial profiling.
The four men in the Pathfinder continued watching their target, some hundred yards distant through the glass of the restaurant.
A few minutes later John Clark and Eddie Laird shook hands again at the front door of La Madeleine.
Eddie said, “If we wrap up around lunchtime, what do you think about the four of us heading over to Murphy’s for a celebratory beer and some wings?”
Clark said, “How ’bout this? You and I go for the beer and lunch. If my trainees pass muster, they can tag along. If not, I’m sending their asses back to the office to reread the manuals on foot-follow surveillance. They can eat crow for lunch.”
Clark didn’t mention that Adara Sherman had proven herself capable in the field on Campus ops more than once, and Midas Jankowski was already an incredibly well-trained operative from Delta Force. He imagined they would pass today, but he wouldn’t commit to rewarding them until they did.
“Well, now, aren’t you a hard-charging bastard?” Eddie joked. “All right, buddy. I’m your mouse, bring on your two little kitty cats.” Laird walked across the street to a CVS pharmacy, where he took his time buying a bottle of water, a pack of chewing gum, and a copy of The Washington Post, giving the trainees time to get into the area.
Adara Sherman and Midas Jankowski had been reading books on surveillance for the past hour and a half. Adara had read the books twice before, back when she was on the aircraft shuttling Campus operatives around the world and dreaming about the opportunity to join their ranks to make a larger contribution to the cause.
Midas had read different books on the subject, back when he was new in G Squadron at Delta. This was the recce group, reconnaissance, and they often worked in small groups and in plainclothes on surveillance missions around the world. He fully expected to do a good job today, and maybe even have some fun while doing it. His first week as part of this tiny group of brilliant and dedicated Americans had been nothing short of a blast. Moreover, just the knowledge that the three-man operational force had spent the previous weekend involved in some sort of direct-action mission overseas made his blood pump faster.
Mr. C. clearly hadn’t been jerking Midas’s chain back when he told him The Campus got into the action with regularity.
Shortly after the two of them closed their books, they received a group text from Clark instructing them to begin double-timing it toward King Street.
Adara had a Smith & Wesson Shield she carried for personal protection here in Virginia, and she started to reach for it. But she stopped herself and turned to Midas. “Are you carrying today?”
“We can’t carry in the District. It’s a felony. I have no idea where this target we’re tailing is going to go. I’ll just take my knife.”
Jankowski carried a small hawkbill-bladed karambit knife in a sheath inside his waistband. He was well trained on the device, even though the one on his person now was a thirty-dollar off-brand. The blade was only two and a half inches long, meaning it was small enough to carry legally in D.C., but he’d never get it through a metal detector if their subject went into any federal buildings, art galleries, or other public places. He went cheap with the blade today because he knew there was a chance he’d have to drop it in a garbage can to keep on mission.
Adara had an even smaller two-inch folding blade and a small can of Sabre Red pepper gel, which could shoot a thick stream of goo twenty feet that was capable of burning mucous membranes with roughly the same heat used in bear-attack sprays.
Pepper gel wasn’t nearly as effective as a weapon that fired lead, but like the little knife, it could also be safely discarded in a garbage can if she needed to dump her weapons to get into a restrictive location.
A minute after getting Clark’s text they were in Midas’s Chevy Silverado heading to King Street, and they found parking a block over and walked the rest of the way.
Clark met with the pair in the middle of Market Square, a large open space in front of the 150-year-old city hall. A farmers’ market was under way, bringing hundreds out on this summer morning.
Clark brought Midas and Adara to the side of the action, stood them by the large fountain in the middle of the square, and said, “Okay, today’s subject is within three hundred yards of you right now. He’s seventy years young, five-ten, one hundred sixty pounds. He’s wearing a white polo and khaki slacks, and he might or might not have a hat on.”
Midas and Adara exchanged a look. This wouldn’t be easy.
Clark added, “He’ll be walking with a copy of The Washington Post.”
Midas asked, “Our orders?”
“Tail, surveil, and prevail. When I call time on the op, I want pictures of anyone he talks to, and good notes of where he went and what he did. Any questions?”
Adara asked, “Does he know who we are?”
“No, and it’s your job to keep it that way. You fail if he describes you to me at the end of the run.”
Both Adara and Midas were clear on their task.
“Good luck.” Clark walked off, heading back to La Madeleine now, eager to eat a real breakfast.
The two trainees put earpieces in their ears and then Adara called Midas. Once they established a constant connection between the two of them, they split up to find their target. Midas headed east toward the Potomac River, and Adara moved west up King Street.
Eddie Laird left the CVS after twenty minutes and headed off to the west, staying with the flow of traffic on the sidewalk running up the northern side of King Street.
A block behind him, Badr pulled the Pathfinder into the weekend morning traffic and said, “He isn’t going home. Home is the other way.”
In the back, Chakir said, “Did he see us? Does he know we are following him?”
Saleh shook his head. “He knows nothing. Calm down, everyone. He can go for a walk if he wants.”
Badr said, “What do I do?”
Saleh was the right man to lead this quartet from Detroit, because he was by far the most calm of the group. “Drive on ahead of him, then stop and drop the three of us off. We’ll let him pass and then stay behind him. If there is a good opportunity to do it and escape, we will proceed. Otherwise, we wait for him to go home.”
After a second Saleh began taking off his shirt. “Everyone but Badr needs to remove their body armor. It will show under our clothes if we walk around on the street for long.”
Badr said, “But Mohammed told us to—”
Saleh snapped back, “The vests are too big! We can’t wear jackets to cover them on a day this warm without being detected!”
All three men removed their vests, passed them to the back of the Pathfinder, and donned their shirts again.
Adara found her target checking his bank balance at an ATM on King Street, then he turned and headed to the west. Even if the white-haired man hadn’t had the Post under his arm, he just had a look about him that told her he was a contemporary — and likely a friend — of John Clark’s.