Brothers In Arms (46 page)

“How fast can we get there?” Charley asked the driver.

“The traffic now? Half hour, forty minutes.”

“Can you run the light bar?”

“That’s not going to get the cars off the road.”

“We’ve got people on it,” Ray said. “You’re just going to have to trust them to do the right thing.”

“I should have been down there,” Charley said.

“Let them do their job,” Ray said. He turned up the volume on the radio crackling with traffic from the streetwalkers. “Let’s go.”

In the back of the panel truck that served as the observation post, Sanders and Williams looked at each other, then exchanged high-fives.

“Now it’s down to the streetwalkers and the gunfighters,” Williams said.

“I’d like to be out there,” Sanders said. He wiped his hands on his pants and picked up his bottle of water. “Wouldn’t you?”

Williams adjusted his fan slightly. “I did my time running and gunning. I like this just fine. Let the young men run.”

Sanders snorted and wiped a lank lock of hair off his forehead. “You’re letting your age dictate what you do.”

“See what you think when you’re in your forties, young blood.”

The monitor chimed and both men looked over at it. The image of a young woman in a denim sundress, a wide straw hat, and large sunglasses she had just taken off to wipe with a bandanna plucked from her shoulder bag filled the screen along with the message:
POSITIVE MATCH
. Another image, of the same woman straddling a moped, with a machine pistol in her hand, popped up within the larger image.

“Jesus Christ, it’s Target-Two,” Williams said. He picked up the microphone and said, “Zero, all stations, Target-Two is at Location Alpha, positive identification of Target-Two at Location Alpha.”

Sanders zoomed the camera in on the woman. “It’s her,” he said. “Isabelle.”

In the back of the Chevy Suburban, Charley picked up his radio handset and said, “Gun-Actual, this is Zero.”

The cool, laconic voice of the gunfighter leader on the ground said, “Go ahead, Zero.”

“Move on Target-Two. Pick her up.”

“Let me be clear on this, Zero. I’ll have to pull units from Target-One.”

Charley hunched over the radio, thinking it through. If he pulled a team off the One, he might lose him; on the other hand, Isabelle obviously had a line on the One and the information she carried might bring the operation to a close that much faster.

“Do it,” he said, ignoring the look he got from Ray. “Take her.”

“Roger, Zero. Understand and will comply. Gun-Actual out.”

Isabelle stood before a wrought-iron fence surrounding a particularly handsomely restored row house. She’d seen Youssef do his clumsy marking, and watched the sudden appearance of two men, obviously watchers of some kind. Taking her time, she took off her sunglasses and wiped them carefully with a scarf she plucked from her bag. She turned casually, looking in all directions for the surveillance vehicles that would be there. A black Chevy Suburban turned the corner sharply, its wheels squealing, the truck shifting ponderously on its springs. Isabelle tucked her scarf back into her bag and replaced her sunglasses, then lowered her hands, careful to keep them in plain sight.

The Suburban screeched to a halt. The rear doors flung open and three men burst out, all of them holding MP-5 submachine guns.

“Don’t move!” one shouted as they ran at her.

Isabelle stood calmly and waited.

Gun-One and Gun-Two were the team to get behind the bus first. They were in a tan four-door Ford Taurus five blocks behind the bus. Gun-One pulled a pair of binoculars from the gear bag at his feet and tried to focus on the bus ahead. His view was blocked by the gentle curve of the road and long lines of traffic.

“I can’t see,” he said. “I can’t tell if he’s gotten off or not.”

His partner called in the location of the bus and alerted the other responding vehicles that the One might be on foot again.

“Can you see?” he said.

“Just hurry. Get another team in front of the bus.”

Youssef remained sideways in his seat and kept a cautious eye to his rear. The traffic was so heavy that the bus inched along, and then burst into a sudden rush when there was a gap between cars. The driver bullied his way to the curb, forcing cars out of the way, and so made good time from stop to stop. Passengers crowded on, leaving standing-room only and forcing Youssef to face front. An obese
black woman in a pink taffeta dress squeezed onto the bench seat beside him.

“Oh my,” she said. “It’s so hot.”

Youssef nodded and turned away to avoid conversation. The big woman sensed that and settled into her seat, her hands folded primly in her lap, quiet as a child. Youssef took a deep breath to calm himself, and the thick scent of the woman beside him filled his nostrils.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I have to get out.”

She shifted over so he could stand. He pushed his way forward to the exit door. After five stops, he saw a sign for a Metro stop. He took his hat off and held it to his chest, and got off behind several other passengers and blended into the stream of people going down the escalator into the depths of the subway station. It was cool in the station, a welcome respite from the heat above. He replaced his hat and went to the fare machine, where he inserted a five-dollar bill for an all-day excursion card. Then he went through the electronic gates and down to the platform.

The morning rush hour was almost over, so there was a longer interval between trains. Youssef stood away from the other passengers waiting on the platform. There were ventilation ducts on the walls at the end of the platform, beside the dark and gaping maw of the tunnel the train ran through. He walked slowly toward them, then looked up and saw the video cameras covering the track and platform. Careful to appear as though he was ignoring the cameras, he walked to the edge of the platform and spit out onto the track, then went back, working his way into the crowd of passengers waiting. It would be difficult to plant a dispersion device here with the cameras. He felt a sudden rush of air coming through the tunnel, pushed ahead by the oncoming train. The air brushed hard against his face, and he turned away, as did the man beside him.

“Feels like it would blow you away, doesn’t it?” said the man, dressed in the tourist uniform of shorts, T-shirt, hat, and camera.

Youssef nodded and thought of how far the contents of a single spray from his atomizer would carry if he stood on the upwind side of the track.

That would work.

The white train eased into the station and stopped. The doors hissed open and a handful of passengers got out, the passengers on the platform patiently waiting to one side till the doors were clear, then boarding. Youssef got on and sat near the door beside a window. Mounted on the bulkhead beside the door was a map of the Metro system. He was only two stops from the Smithsonian. The train lurched into motion, and the train operator announced over the loudspeaker the next station. It took only moments before he reached the Smithsonian stop. He got off the train and let the flow of people carry him up the stairs and through the turnstile to the escalator that rose up out of the underground station. For a moment, as he rose smoothly into the light, he was reminded of the nightmare he’d had in Britta’s bed.

In the bright heat of the day, he put thoughts of Britta out of his mind. He was sure no one had followed him. He looked over at the green expanse of the National Mall. A sudden lassitude came over him, and he longed for the comfort of her bed. His bed, he corrected himself, a sour look on his face. He turned away from the Mall to the busy street, and flagged down a passing taxi.

“Youth hostel, please,” he said to the driver.

He had time to rest. All the time in the world. Or at least till tomorrow.

Isabelle sat in a wooden chair with no armrests, her hands held together by a plastic flexi-cuff in her lap, her long legs crossed and relaxed. Her gaze was cool and faintly challenging as she looked at Charley. They were in a secure room in a Georgetown safe house where the command and control group had relocated, at Charley’s insistence, after the morning’s fiasco. Surveillance and apprehension teams prowled and crisscrossed the streets around the Egyptian embassy, sniffing at the sign the One had left behind. They traced him as far as the Metro, where an examination of the video-surveillance tapes showed him on the platform and boarding a train. A small army of federal agents fanned out to Metro stations to look at videotape of passengers leaving the station, but it was as if the One had disappeared into thin air.