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 hopin
g 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.
Junior ordered a Guinness and settled in. He considered slipping an audio bug under the counter along the wall behind Magoo, but the place was so noisy it was unlikely it would pick up much. He decided it wasn’t worth the risk of calling attention to himself.
Magoo drank slowly—Scotch neat. He swirled the glass between every sip, as if he were trying to blend various ingredients. A half hour later, he still had half the drink left. He swirled one more time, took the tiniest taste, then got up to leave. Junior threw a twenty on the bar for his half-finished beer, and ran out in time to see Magoo getting into a cab.
One thing you have to know about New York: there is never, ever a cab when you want it. And yet Murphy had so far arranged for two at precisely the worst times for my boy.
But this time, Murph was generous—a truck pulled out ahead of the cab down the street. As the cabbie blasted his horn, Junior snuck up behind it, slipped the spare GPS broadcaster unit on the back fender, and continued walking.
Naturally, there were no cabs nearby. Junior stood at the intersection of Thirty-sixth and Sixth with his hand up, until a black livery car pulled over.
“Where you goin’?” asked the man at the wheel. He was a white guy with a Bronx accent so thick you could roll spaghetti around it.
“Downtown,” said Junior, simply guessing. The iPhone locator app showed Magoo’s cab was stuck in traffic only two blocks away, still on Thirty-sixth.
“Forty bucks,” said the driver. By that point, Junior had already opened the back door. He reached forward and dropped three twenties on the passenger side of the Lincoln’s split bench at the front.
“Where downtown, bub?” said the driver.
“Jeez, you know. I forget.” Junior glanced at the iPhone. Traffic was moving again; the cab was headed for the FDR Drive. “Head over to the FDR.”
“Where is it we’re going?” asked the driver. He had a definite edge in his voice.
Junior dropped three more twenties on the seat. “I’ll tell you when I’m sure. I’m getting some new texts here. We’re not doing anything illegal.”
“You got that right.”
Thirty minutes and six more twenties later, the limo driver pulled up in front of Terminal Building One at John F. Kennedy Airport.
“You shoulda tol’ me ya was goin’ to da airport in da first place, ’stead of makin’ a game out of it,” said the driver. “Woulda saved ya some dough.”
“I like to play games,” said Junior, hopping out of the car.
Magoo had a ten-minute head start. The security line was long, but not quite long enough: he was nowhere to be found.
Junior took out his sat phone and called Shunt.
“I need a reservation on a plane that leaves from Terminal One at Kennedy soon,” he told him. “I need to get past security and check the gates out.”
“Terminal One?”
Junior started reading off the names of the airlines that used the terminal. “Aer Lingus, Alitalia, Delta…”
“Man, I hate Delta. They always lose my luggage.”
“I just need to get past security and check out the gates.”
“I’m on it.”
Five minutes later, Junior flashed his iPhone for the TSA people, who blinked at it then walked him through a machine to examine his privates. Not finding anything beyond the normal equipment, they released him and his shoes into the bowels of the terminal.
He checked every gate, and finally succeeded in spotting Magoo as he boarded an Alitalia flight for Milan. Judging from the line, he was toward the back of the plane, in coach. Good to see our government employees economizing.
“He’s not listed on the passenger manifest,” Shunt reported as Junior watched them check through the last passenger.
“Get me a ticket,” Junior told him.
“Plane’s booked. Even first class.”
“Get me something that I can use to get on board,” Junior said. “Then I’ll find out what seat he’s in, and we can get his ID.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just get me past the attendant. I know you can do it.”
“You’re going to fly to Milan? Dick’ll have a fit.”
“Just get me a ticket. Dupe somebody’s. Upload it now.”
Junior ran to the gate, waving his phon
e at the attendant who was just about to shut the door to the boarding tunnel.
“I just made it,” he said, trying to push past.
“Wait, sir. I have to scan your phone.”
“Here, here,” said Junior, shoving it toward her face. Then he started away.
“I need to scan it.”
“I can’t miss this plane.”
“You’re not going to miss it,” she insisted. “It won’t leave the gate for another ten minutes, at least.”
Junior held the phone steady just long enough for her to position her scanner, then he turned and raced down the tunnel. The woman yelled after him that the machine hadn’t accepted the scan, but he already had a good enough lead that he reached the cabin door before she could alert the attendants. He hustled in, moving quickly through first class—no Magoo—then into the back, moving all the way to row forty before spotting Magoo in a middle seat.
Obviously the CIA operative hadn’t pulled any strings for that seat.
“Excuse me, sir,” said one of the stewardesses. She had an Italian accent and very shapely legs that were highlighted by a tight miniskirt.
“Yes?” answered Junior, having trouble putting his tongue back into his mouth.
“Where is your seat? The captain needs you to sit so we can back from the terminal.”
“Uh—”
He glanced at the phone. “Seat, uh, 12B.”
“Sir, you’re up in business class.” She gave him a smile Mona Lisa would have killed for.
“Is that where you are?” Junior asked.
“We service the entire airplane.”
“I’m looking forward to that.”
Of course, there was someone already in seat 12B. By now the gate clerk had come aboard, and a discussion on how the computer could possibly have made this mix-up had begun.
[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel Page 27
