Thin Line (26 page)

"Sure," Brett says. "Could mistake it for a pill."

"A horse pill." Bear leaned back, arms crossed. "You can try it, but we need to be ready to follow him."

The plan was to get him somewhere we could control, some place with food. We'd add an agent to his coffee to bring on a headache. From there, the waitress
would offer him some ibuprofen. A long shot, for sure. Still a shot worth taking. It would allow us to maintain a safe distance between him and us.

First, I had to arrange the meeting.

Frank answered on the second ring. Apprehension lined his voice. "What's the update?"

"We got him."

"Where?"

"New York."

"He went home?"

"Close enough."

"Where's the body?"

"Disposed of it."

"What proof do you have? Photos?"

"Too risky. It was dark. Alley. Flash would have drawn attention. Got his phone, though."

"Come back to SIS. Bring the phone."

I said nothing.

"Jack?"

"Not inclined to walk into your office again," I said. "Not after what's happened."

Frank exhaled. "This isn't the time for this crap, man. Get down here now."

"New Jersey."

"What about it?"

"Let's meet there. Outside Cherry Hill."

"Not a chance."

"Then I'll box this phone up and ship it UPS."

"Don't be a jackass."

I waited for his counter, and knew exactly where he'd want to meet.

CLOGGED ROADS MERGED with the packed interstate. Morning rush hour added at least forty minutes to our drive. We'd built that into our planned meeting
time. The traffic dissipated after crossing the state line, and by the time we passed Newark, we had no trouble keeping the speedometer at eight-five.

We used the time for last minute planning. Solidifying the story. The little details that would make the difference between Frank believing me, or having
me detained. I knew he would spend the morning checking with any available sources. Fortunately, there wouldn't be too many he could talk to. This was
messy. A high-level operative had been framed and targeted. The fewer minds in the know, the better for all involved parties. With the charges alleged,
people would start digging for proof and answers. I figured three people knew about the op. Obviously, Frank was one. Determining the identity of the other
two would be crucial to Brett's welfare if they learned he was still alive. One failed attempt would not dampen their intent. They'd keep coming, using
every option available to them, until Brett was dead.

Bear arranged for a friend in Winchester, Virginia, to meet us thirty miles west of Langley with a pickup truck. When we arrived at the location, a
warehouse for a gravel distributor located off Highway 15, the man was nowhere to be seen.

Heavy trucks arrived with empty cargo holds. They left with their large open containers weighed down with a couple tons of broken rock. The cracked asphalt
leading away from the warehouse absorbed the pounding. Their tires spit up dust and tiny rocks into the air. A cloud of dirt seemed to constantly envelop
the parking lot.

None of the drivers paid much attention to us as we occupied a spot in the small lot near the showroom entrance. Brett remained relaxed, his eyes closed,
head back, arms crossed at the chest. Another day at the job. Bear's head remained on a swivel. He monitored the road, north and south, looking for his
associate.

"Call him again," I said.

Bear pressed the phone to his ear, held it there a dozen or so seconds. "No answer. Again."

I said nothing.

"If they bugged my line…" He scratched his beard in an effort to coax his thoughts. "What you think?"

"I think they'd be on us before him. They would have already been here, ten agents or cops or whatever, guns drawn. We'd be on our way to Langley, or
wherever they wanted to take us, by now."

"So you think I'm worrying?"

"I think that until we see those dump trucks replaced by government issued sedans, we're OK."

Brett smiled, kept his eyes shut and said nothing.

"There he is."

Bear pointed toward a red dual-wheel GMC pickup barreling down the road from the north. The truck slowed as it drove past the entrance, then made a U-turn.
A few moments later, Bear had visual confirmation of the man behind the wheel.

"Yup," Bear said. "That's Jeremy."

The big man opened his door and stepped out, one arm in the air. The pickup pulled into the exit, one rear wheel riding over the curb. Not the first time a
vehicle had done so, given the crumbling concrete.

A guy the same size as Bear hopped down from the cab. The large truck rumbled like a thunderstorm ten miles out. The two men embraced in a half-handshake,
half-hug. Words were spoken between them. Smiles exchanged.

I didn't know much about the guy, other than he was from a part of Bear's life that occurred before the military. A time the big man rarely spoke about.
They'd grown up together, at times, and kept in touch.

The man backtracked toward the warehouse. He said something to Bear, nodded at me, pointed at his truck, said, "Take care of her, or you're buying me a new
one."

Bear stepped on the chrome running board and slipped into the cab. Looked at home behind the wheel. He twirled a finger and pulled out of the lot. I
followed him down the road. We took 15 north for a few miles, then pulled off again.

Brett had moved to the front passenger seat.

"Why'd you let all those homeless stay inside your building?"

He considered the question, shrugged, said, "They acted as kind of an advanced warning system. I got to know many of them. A lot are transient, but there
are some who remain in that one area year-round. They'd tell me if someone was snooping around, which happens frequently, as I'm sure you can imagine."

In our line of work, it was not uncommon for people, friendly and not, to be checking up on us.

"So, in exchange for that kind of intelligence, what do I care if they stay warm in apartments I didn't use? I'm not sure why they scatter when I get back.
Like a bunch of mice when the cat comes home, I suppose."

"Roaches when the lights flicked on."

"There's that, too, I suppose."

Bear turned onto a road that appeared part dirt, part gravel, and part asphalt. A cloud of dust kicked up behind the four rear wheels and enveloped the
sedan.

"What about that grisly ex-SEAL?"

Brett glanced up as though he was searching a mental database of his occupants. A few seconds later, he shrugged. "Not sure who you mean?"

I gave a description of the guy I'd encountered outside the brownstone, the references to Panama, and recounted our journey through the building. The
intimate details the man knew of the place. How the ebb and flow of homeless worked within the structure.

"Sorry, Jack, but that doesn't ring any bells or tick any boxes. If I had a picture, perhaps. Maybe I just never got to know him."

A few minutes passed. Bear pulled off the road into the parking lot of what appeared to be an abandoned restaurant. A pole rose twenty feet into the air.
The sign that had once adorned it had gone missing. The building's windows were shattered. Beyond the jagged openings, the skeleton had been picked bare.

"You sure he was an ex-SEAL?" Brett asked.

"Looked the part. Said he'd been in Panama. The way he spoke about it - it was the way that only guys who lived through it can. No video or movie about the
event can capture the horror, the panic, the rage."

Bear rapped on my window, took a step back, then gestured for us to go to the truck. We met him there. Situated on the passenger seat was a box filled with
communications equipment.

"Who the hell is your friend?" Brett said.

Bear shrugged with a smile. "We go way back. He's a hobbyist, mostly. Bit of a prepper. Somewhat of a snoop." He turned to me. "Jack, no dice on the
beacon."

"That was a long shot anyway. Nearly impossible to control that situation, and it would rely on others working for us, or Frank trusting me enough to
ingest a pill I handed to him."

"Yeah, not gonna happen."

"Right."

"But we do have this." Bear fished around and pulled out a small box. Inside was a transmitter with a wire and earpiece. And what looked like a SIM card.
"Let me see Brett's phone."

I'd kept the phone in my possession. No point in leaving anything to chance. I handed it to Bear. He proceeded to dismantle the back, and then removed the
battery and pulled the SIM card, which he replaced with the one from the box.

"Here." Bear handed me the device with the wire and earpiece. "Wear that and turn it on." He walked about fifty feet away. Facing away from me, he brought
the phone to his face. "What d'ya say, Jack?"

I heard it through the earpiece. "You're kidding me."

Bear turned, smiled. "Supposedly works up to ten miles away. I know there's more advanced stuff out there, but as long as he's got the phone within a few
feet of him, and we stay close enough, we'll hear every word that comes out of his mouth."

"Can it track him?"

"That's where we're at a disadvantage."

"Except he probably won't be too concerned about a red pickup."

The three of us finalized our plan. I would continue on alone, with Bear and Brett close behind. They would pull over a mile west of the diner, at a strip
mall, and wait for me to get to the diner. Once I confirmed I'd been seated, they would move to an empty lot off a deserted road while monitoring the
conversation.

FOUR CARS. ONE van. Three by the front door. Two parked around the side. Probably belonged to one of the cooks and the waitress. Any other employees
must've been dropped off or carpooled.

I pulled into a snow-crusted parking spot near the corner of the building, away from the entrance and remained in the vehicle for a minute. Battling the
glare on the diner's windows, I made out which tables were occupied. Couldn't determine much past that, though. Whether they were old, young, Feds, male,
female, I'd have to get inside to tell.

The corner of the building spent most of the day shielded from the sun's rays, and the crunched snow had iced over. I maneuvered carefully around the back
of the vehicle, opting to walk along the dried asphalt instead of on the hazardous sidewalk.

I cast a sweeping glance around the dining room as I entered. The waitresses were in the same positions as the last time I'd been there, gathered around a
table, smoking, doing crossword puzzles, wrapping silverware in old linens. Different crew this time. Guess it didn't matter.

One rose and forced a smile. She looked like she'd been there since five a.m. and traffic through the place had been non-stop. Her smile turned genuine
when I gestured for her to stay put and told her I could seat myself.

I found my usual booth in the corner near the kitchen unoccupied. I sat with my back to the front door at first. There, I ran my hand under the table and
the seat. Then I switched sides, slid the table six inches away from me, and performed the same check. There were no obvious listening devices at the
table. No guns or other weapons fixed there. The rest of the restaurant, that was a different story.

And one that was out of my control.

Frank could lead the conversation. I would attempt to steer it where I wanted it to go, but there was only so much he'd reveal inside the place. He was as
paranoid as me, believing that the Agency had employees posing as cooks and waitstaff and hosts.

I spotted the blue Cadillac as it approached from the east. It slowed and pulled into the lot, where it parked in the closest available spot near the door.
The glare off the windshield made it impossible to identify the occupant. The kitchen door whipped open. Grease and batter and bacon followed the waitress.
She traveled in a line away from me that blocked my view of the vehicle. By the time visual was restored, the door was swinging shut. I caught a glimpse of
the man walking toward the back of the car. He had on a dark gray overcoat and a hat. I lost him as he stepped behind the van.

I pulled the phone from my pocket and set it in front of me. "I think he's here," I said softly, with my left hand covering my mouth in the guise of
combing down my stubble. "He might not be alone. Be ready to move." The device offered no response. I could only hope that Bear and Brett had heard me
clearly.

Frank entered the restaurant. One hand remained in a pocket; the other worked the buttons of his overcoat. His eyes followed the same pattern mine had,
sweeping across the room, dividing it into quadrants. He locked in on me. Waved off the waitress without looking at her. A few quick glances were cast in
his direction as he crossed the dining room. An elderly man looked up from his soup and pondered Frank's presence for a moment before once again burying
his face in the steam rising from the bowl in front of him.

"Jack." Frank stopped three feet from the table. He still had his hand in his pocket. I left one of mine on the table, lowered the other out of his line of
sight. He smiled, nodded, withdrew his hand. It was empty. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the end of the booth.

"Good to see you, Frank."

He lowered himself onto the cushioned seat and slid in a foot. The vinyl groaned. The table rose and dipped. "Yeah, sure it is." He reached for a menu,
opened it up. Staring at it, he said, "Order yet?"

"No. Just got here." I suspected he knew that. "Who's in the van?"

"What van?"

"Wrong answer."

The kitchen door opened and a young waitress stepped out. She walked over, smiled, asked, "What are we eating today?"

I ordered bacon, eggs, and coffee. Frank opted for coffee only. The woman tapped her pen against her pad and set off for the other side of the dining room
where she entered the meal into a computer.

"Back to the van," I said.

Frank fidgeted with an unlit cigarette.

"Tell them to leave."