[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel (34 page)

He said a few other things, most of which I’m sure he’d rather not share with the rest of the world. I didn’t say anything else, except good-bye when he was done. At the end of the day, Junior did as he was told, and went to work with Danny, and Red Cell International spent the next few days watching the head of bank security go to work every day.

If you’ve ever stood in a freshly painted room and watched the paint dry, you’ll know exactly how exciting those days were. Until Veep managed to lose track of Danny and Junior while they were tailing him.

(II)

Veep was in his New York office, yelling at various and sundry underlings for failings real and imagined. We were listening in, thanks to the vibrations on the office window. Those vibrations were being measured by a laser device aimed at said window from the roof of a condominium two blocks away, but in direct eye-line with our target’s office. The condo building was still under construction, and Danny had pulled some strings with the New York Police Department to get access. We had a team there 24/7 monitoring the system, though we could have opted for a completely automated setup.

(For the technically inclined, here’s how the laser device works. Imagine a drum: every time it’s struck, the skin vibrates and produces a sound. Drums are set up to take advantage of that vibration, turning it into something pleasing to the ear, unless of course it’s being struck by a five-year-old at six o’clock in the morning, or a member of a rap band. Windows are like that drum skin, though since they’re not set up to produce pleasing sound, the vibrations are so small they are usually unnoticed. The laser device simply measures those vibrations, and its related equipment translates them back into sound. The physics are straightforward, though extremely precise; the gear measures with great precision the amount that the window moves. In real life, things can get very complicated, however. First off, the thickness of the glass, especially on commercial buildings where the architects are trying to minimize heat loss and gain, lessens the amount of vibrations. The angle of the beam can distort the measurements. And anything that interferes with the beam—rain is a killer, and dust and dirt don’t help—adds another difficulty factor. All of these things can be compensated for, to greater or lesser degrees. Our biggest worry was that the beam would be somehow observed—hit the window at the wrong place, and an unexpected reflection could temporarily blind someone on the inside, giving away the operation. And then there was the possibility of being seen, though we disguised the unit as a piece of work equipment.)

Danny and Junior were down on the street, Danny at a coffee shop next door to the entrance to the bank building, and Junior playing tourist a little farther up the block. A little past twelve, the audio man called down and said it sounded like Veep was going for lunch.

“Just called for his limo,” Bobby Lewis told Danny.

“All right. Junior, I’ll bring up the car. You hang on the street. Get the tag ready.”

“On it.”

The tag was a GPS tracking device. The units make it easy to follow someone, but they’re also relatively easy to detect. So we followed a regular routine to minimize that: we would place one on Veep’s car just before he got in, then remove it after Veep returned to his home base. This way, by the time the car returned to its garage in New Jersey, or even gassed up on the West Side, it was clean.

We’d practiced this routine several times, and in fact had watched Veep go to lunch just the day before, so nothing seemed unusual. Junior bought a newspaper from the vendor right next to the spot on the sidewalk where the limo would drive up.

The limo arrived, Junior crossed the street, tagging the car as he went. Veep exited the building about a minute later, walked toward the waiting limo and its open door—then veered quickly right and hopped into a cab that had just stopped to discharge its passenger. The cab sped off before Junior could get across the street to put another tag on.

The first thing he did was curse. The next thing he did was go to the backup plan. As he started walking toward the end of the block, he put his hand into his pocket and took out a small Hummingbird UAV, one of the devices manufactured by our friends at Forward Research. He activated it with his thumb, then as he reached the curb let it sail.

The bird-sized UAV climbed about twenty feet and then began circling in a preprogrammed orbit above the street. Junior took out his iPhone and called up the control app. A few seconds later, the screen showed a video being sent from the bird. He tapped a truck at the top of the screen; the Hummingbird changed course and began following the truck.

His next task was to find the cab. There were three within range of the video camera. Any one of them, Junior decided, could be the right one.

Problem.

Junior started running in the direction the cabs were taking. Danny, meanwhile, was wondering what was going on. He had retrieved his car and, not having heard from Junior, was driving toward the building where the limo was still waiting.

“He got into a cab,” said Junior, finally calling him on the radio to tell him what was going on. “Crown Vic. Trying to find it.”

“He’s not in the limo?”

“Negative. I launched.”

“You got him?”

“Working on it. He’s on William Street.”

Junior could see the cabs ahead, stopped for a light. At ground level, the cabs were easier to identify, and Junior immediately ruled out the Toyota Sienna van. But the other two were Ford Crown Vics.

He ran up the street, hoping to get close enough to look into the cab and ID the passenger. But before he could get there, the light changed and the traffic started to move.

The cabs were heading north in the direction of Fulton Street. If you’re familiar with downtown Manhattan, that’s the area of the South Street Seaport. It’s also a place where you can get onto the FDR Drive or take the Brooklyn Bridge to Brooklyn; either choice would make the cab hard to follow. They’re also heading in completely different directions.

As the two vehicles neared Fulton, Junior decided they’d inevitably split up, and so he double-tapped the lead cab on the Hummingbird screen. This directed the tiny UAV to land on the cab, where it continued transmitting its signal. It was an elegant solution.

“I landed the bird on the lead cab. I’ll try to tag the other,” he told Danny, breaking into a full sprint.

Racing down the sidewalk in New York City is the sort of activity that tends to attract attention, and as he got close to Fulton, Junior passed a squad car with two police officers. The one in the driver’s seat rolled down his window and started to yell at him, but he ignored them.

The cab was several car lengths away, turning left—and then stopping as its passenger got out.

Veep.

Junior slammed on the brakes, dropping immediately to a walk and turning to avoid Veep’s gaze.

The cops, meanwhile, had thrown on their lights and were bearing down. Junior looked over his shoulder and saw Veep hurrying down the nearby subway entrance. Junior set out after him, not quite running, but not walking either.

The police followed as he bolted down the stairs into the station. They were convinced he was running from them.

Junior leapt off the bottom step and ran toward the turnstile. He saw Veep just on the other side, hurrying for the arriving train. With a hop, skip, and a jump that would have made an Olympic hurdler proud, Junior went over the turnstile and got onto the train just as the door closed. He watched through the window as one of the cops rushed up to the turnstiles, an angry look on his face.

Junior had boarded an A train heading uptown. He was fairly familiar with the subway system, having spent several years here in school and having worked out in Queens with Veep, so he knew that there were many stops in the downtown area. Veep would have a lot of chances to get away.

The bank security expert was in the car ahead of him, and while Junior didn’t want to make it too obvious that he was following him, he couldn’t afford to let him get too far out of sight. Junior watched through the door at the head of the car. He couldn’t see Veep, but he could see the door at the other end of the car. If it opened, he decided, he’d walk into the next car and risk being seen—it would be easy for Veep to work his way several cars ahead, making it harder for Junior to see him exiting.

Maybe a minute or so later, they stopped at Chambers Street. Junior got out of the car, glancing down the platform and hoping to spot Veep if he left. At the same time, he pulled off the sweatshirt he’d been wearing. He started walking up toward the next car door, staying just to the left of the passenger flow. When he didn’t see Veep, he darted toward the doors, dropping his sweatshirt as he ran. The doors squeezed in on him, but he made it.

He turned around and saw Veep staring at him from the seat across the way.

Junior smiled, mumbled something about just making it, and moved farther into the car, holding on to one of the metal poles.

While he’d tried to vary his appearance by losing the sweatshirt, he couldn’t be sure that Veep hadn’t seen him earlier. There was nothing to be done about it now, though. Junior sat in his seat, trying to decide what to do if Veep moved or got off.

Under ordinary circumstances, we would have had someone else in the car, not to mention a team on the street above. But Danny was still tracking the taxi the Hummingbird had landed on, and Junior wouldn’t be able to talk to him until he went above ground. Junior simply had to stay with Veep until someone else could get close.

Junior asked himself,
What would the counterintuitive thing be to do here?

Or, to be more precise:
What would Dad do?

He lifted his gaze toward Veep, who had already adopted the standard New York City subway stare into blank space.

“Didn’t think I was going to make it,” he told Veep. “I thought I was going to get squeezed.”

Veep didn’t respond. The train stopped at Canal. Junior waited, tense, as a flood of people moved into the car. Veep didn’t move. The seat next to him remained open as the train started from the station.

Junior got up, walked across the aisle, and slid in.

“I love New York,” he told Veep. “Been so long since I been here though.”

Veep remained silent. Junior thought of slipping a GPS sending unit into his pocket, but reasoned that it would be easily found. Searching for something to talk about, Junior hit on Occupy Wall Street, a topic surely dear to the heart of any banker.

“I was looking for those Occupy people,” he said. “I was hoping for a rally. You’re a ninety-nine percenter, right? Right? You’re part of the ninety-nine.”

Veep’s body, already stiff, tightened even more. Junior kept up the prattle through three more stops. Then he gave up his seat for a pregnant woman and stood right in front of Veep, talking to her about her child. (Girl; eight months; first child; no name yet.)

Two stops later, an old lady came on and stood in the crowded aisle. Junior nudged Veep and suggested he give up his seat.

Veep gave him a death glare. It didn’t much bother Junior—he was used to much worse from Trace.

The old lady remained standing.

As the train approached Penn Station, Veep got up and walked to the door. Junior said something to the old lady, watching Veep from the corner of his eye.

Veep left as soon as the doors opened.

Junior waited a second, then smacked his head.

“This is my stop!” he shouted, and he ducked out, hustling after his mark.

Penn Station is a nexus for Amtrak and local commuter trains to New Jersey and Long Island; there are also two subway lines that use it. Junior lost sight of Veep going up the stairs, and as he rushed to follow he worried that he had completely lost him. But he soon spotted the bank security expert heading toward the stairs that exit onto Seventh Avenue.

Junior had another GPS locator and figured that he would have to tag a taxi if Veep got into the cab line on the east side of Penn Plaza, the direction he was heading. But after reaching the street, Veep walked north past the cab line. At Thirty-sixth, he crossed the street and went into Keen Steakhouse, a venerable restaurant and bar that has specialized in red meat since 1885.

*   *   *

By now, Danny knew that he had tracked the wrong cab. Still downtown, he had started north as soon as the GPS indicator in Junior’s phone showed he was above ground. He’d been trying to get Junior both by radio and phone for several minutes.

“Where the hell are you?” asked Danny when Junior’s phone finally came back on line. The low-intercept radio was too far away to work with all the obstructions in the city.

“I’m leaning up against a building on Thirty-sixth Street,” he told Danny. “Place called Keens.”

“Yeah, all right. Gonna take me a while.”

“Take your time,” said Junior. He glanced at his watch. As he looked up, he saw a man in a dark Windbreaker and a baseball cap trot across the street.

It was Magoo.

*   *   *

Magoo went straight in, past the little reception area and its collection of clay pipes, down the single step to the dining room. Junior, trailing behind, saw him locate Veep in a banquette toward the rear of the room. He backed out before being seen.

Why was the CIA supervisory officer meeting with a bank security head in New York City? Probably not to discuss whether he could get a toaster with his new checking account. But the lunchroom was full when Danny arrived a few minutes later, and there was no way to get a bug close enough to hear what was going on. Danny settled for a few clandestine photos, then planted two small video bugs to cover the area, in case someone else decided to join them.

They dined alone, Veep on the mutton, Magoo sticking with a steak. The limo reappeared about forty-five minutes later, and Veep got in it. By then, Danny had called in reinforcements to trail him.

Rather than leaving, Magoo got up and went into the bar room. Danny called Junior and told him to get a better look. Sporting a new sweatshirt and baseball cap bought at a tourist shop around the corner, Junior spotted Magoo sitting at the far end of the bar near the small chalkboard that held the day’s trivia questions. He was working a smartphone, poking furiously at the screen.