by Brad Taylor
Knuckles saw he was right. “You think this is just a gathering spot before breaking out to various street corners?”
“Yeah. With a few groupies thrown in.”
“Well, that’s good news. I don’t want to spend any more time here than necessary.”
Initially, Knuckles had fought the insertion, saying he was on the university thread and someone else could pretend to be a new-age hippie. Nobody had listened, with Jennifer putting in the final, crushing blow.
“If I had to grind on you in the Cayman Islands to get inside, the least you can do is dress a little ragged.”
Knuckles said, “That was about the mission. This is not.” But nobody was listening. Veep said, “I think it’ll be a little cool,” and everyone had laughed. Everyone but Knuckles, that is.
Knuckles had been picked because he had a bohemian vibe already. While he was a tall man with a CrossFit-looking body, he had a mane of black hair that he refused to cut, in defiance of the military. Pike made fun of it relentlessly, saying it bordered on Fabio territory, and now that small fact had been the deciding point of who would infiltrate.
Veep was the second choice simply because he could blend in to the crowd of students. Young enough, his face would lead the way, the team hoping the hipsters would ignore the fact that he, too, was a little burlier than the average skinny drug addict. Knuckles and Veep had found a secondhand store and had dressed the part, getting input from the peanut gallery the whole way, with Veep scrupulously selecting what he thought they’d need to blend in, and Jennifer forcing Knuckles to tie his long hair into a man bun.
Knuckles was disgusted, but when they’d eventually wandered into the group of shiftless malcontents, they’d been accepted without question. While they appeared a little more scrubbed than the average person in the group, nobody looked askance at them, and a couple had actual come over to talk, one with a guitar. Initially, the fact that they were Americans generated some interest, but eventually that wore off and they’d been left alone, sitting by themselves on the outskirts of the pack.
Veep said, “Maybe I should just flat out ask someone if they have any weed for sale.”
Knuckles said, “No. Not on first cycle. We’ll let this break up, and if we have to come back, maybe tomorrow night.” He quit talking as two females came across from the other side, leaving behind the guitar player who had spoken to them earlier. Both were clothed in flowing skirts that went to their ankles. One was wearing cheap rubber flip-flops, with a nose ring; the other was barefoot, her hair tucked under a loose knit cap.
Veep turned around, following Knuckles’s gaze. Nose ring asked, “You are American?”
“Yep. I am.”
She pointed at Knuckles and said, “You too?”
“Yes. I’m going out on a limb—by your accent: You’re French?”
She smiled in a vacant way and said, “Yes. We’re here for a week. Do you know Frank McDermott? He’s American.”
Veep hid a grin, and Knuckles wondered if she’d fried her brain cells forever. He said, “Well, no. Not offhand. Should I?”
She looked disappointed in the answer. She said, “Do you have any hashish you want to sell?”
Veep took the opening. “Actually, we were looking for some ourselves, but we just got here.”
“So you don’t know Frank.” She said it as a statement, as though Knuckles’s answer had finally settled in the fog of her brain. She glanced at Veep and said, “He’s the one with the hashish. Do you know if he’s coming tonight?”
Veep glanced at Knuckles, letting a smile leak out. They knew their target was American and that he had the initial F. Knuckles made the same connection. He said, “I’m not sure, but I’d like to meet him. How often does he come?”
“Usually every night, but he hasn’t been by for a couple of days. It’s aggravating. I mean, don’t sell yourself as some great conduit, bragging about what you can do, and then leave me high and dry. Especially after I’ve fucked you.”
Veep was a little stunned at the openness. Knuckles said, “Maybe we could help. Where does he live? Maybe we could talk to him.”
The girl said, “I have no idea. He said he’d keep coming by here. It’s why we’re all waiting.”
Veep started to reply when the barefoot woman glanced behind him and breathlessly said, “There he is!”
Knuckles turned around and saw their target striding into the plaza with a backpack, the two girls running to him. He made a quick call. “Pike, Pike, this is Knuckles. Jackpot. I say again, jackpot. Peel off what you’re doing.”
Jennifer came back, saying, “You sure? We’re staking out the university site, and the folks here say he’s going to show up.”
“Well, he might be showing up there later, but I’ve got him here right now.”
Pike came on, saying, “You got the Dragontooth?”
“Of course. Veep’s ready. Get Retro working.”
“Roger all. Let me know when it’s emplaced.”
Unlike everyone else in the confab, Frank McDermott was dressed in a pair of simple jeans, Converse sneakers, and a short-sleeve button-up shirt. His hair was cropped close, and his ears were not adorned with gauges or other piercings. With the exception of a full-sleeve tattoo on his left arm, he looked like a tourist.
Knuckles let him enter the ring of people, content to simply watch, not wanting to be remembered. The women immediately fell on him, and Knuckles heard, “Yeah, yeah, I got some stuff, calm down.”
The ring-nose woman whispered a thing or two and, surprisingly, pointed at Knuckles.
McDermott walked over and said, “She tells me you’re an American.”
Shit.
Knuckles took on a deadpan expression and said, “Yeah, I am. What of it?”
“What part?”
“Here and there. Why the questions?”
McDermott nodded, sizing Knuckles up. “Not very friendly, are you?”
Knuckles said, “You got anything I can buy? Like right now?”
“Maybe. Depends on what it’s worth to you. I might want something more than money.”
Knuckles locked eyes with Veep, then returned to Frank. He said, “What’s that mean?”
Veep sidled up to the target’s left side, then brushed the outside pocket of the knapsack on his back. Frank turned, pushing Veep back, saying, “Get the fuck away from me.”
Knuckles grabbed McDermott’s arm, saying, “He’s with me. He’s okay.”
McDermott jerked his arm away, looked between them, then said, “I don’t have time for this. Either you two jerk-offs want my product, or you don’t.” He flicked his head at the girls and said, “I know they do.”
The Dragontooth beacon emplaced, Knuckles decided to get the drug dealer on the move, a little aggravated that he had been singled out. “You mean you want me to let you fuck me? Because that’s apparently the price these girls paid.”
He stood up, towering over the drug dealer. McDermottt staggered back, having never encountered hostility in the ranks of the hipsters. He said, “You just lost whatever I have to sell.”
Knuckles said, “Fine by me. You’re about to lose a lot more.”
McDermott took one look at the venom in Knuckles’s face and retreated, running back the way he’d come. The two women began berating Knuckles, demanding to know why he’d attacked Frank. He nudged one back, saying, “He started it.”
The juggler saw the exchange and stood up, saying, “Hey, man, we don’t need this shit here.”
Knuckles said, “Sorry. We’re leaving.”
Veep tensed, sensing the shift in mood, and the guitar player backed up the juggler, saying, “You fucking Americans always screw up everything.”
The nose-ring woman tried to slap Knuckles, but he grabbed her hand before it landed. She jerked it away, incensed, shouting, “You don�
�t understand what we’re about. Get out of here.”
Knuckles saw the juggler looking at him with satisfaction. The man slid forward, crowded him, backed up by four other greasers. Dropping his tennis balls, as if that was a threat, he said, “You don’t belong here.”
Knuckles said, “You got that right,” and punched him straight in the face. The juggler dropped to the pavement, mewling and holding his nose. The men around him were shocked, amazed that someone would actually use violence, even as they insinuated it. In their world, the violence never really happened.
Knuckles glared at them, but they made no move. Knuckles flicked his head to the square, and Veep started walking. Knuckles waited a beat, then followed him. When they were safely out of fighting range, the crowd began hurling invectives, but nobody made any attempt to give chase.
Moving fast across the plaza, Veep said, “I can’t believe you just did that. We’re supposed to remain covert.” But he looked at Knuckles with a little bit of admiration.
Knuckles glanced at the crowd behind them and said, “Yeah, that was probably wrong, but sometimes wrong is better than right. Bunch of assholes.”
Veep said, “What are we going to tell Pike? He’ll kill us for this.”
Knuckles laughed and said, “You have a thing or two to learn yet.”
Veep didn’t look convinced.
Knuckles said, “Pike would have punched that jerk a hell of a lot sooner than me. Don’t worry about it. You’re still on the payroll.”
Knuckles clicked his radio and said, “Pike, Pike, Dragontooth is placed and he’s on the move. Track him.”
28
Johan resumed his place on the park bench very early in the morning, wanting to start building a pattern of life on his target. He couldn’t very well break into the office during the day, so he’d decided to follow the man, hoping to learn his residence, then return to the office after nightfall.
At eight A.M. he saw the target enter the office, and he settled in to wait. His greatest fear at this point was that the same woman would return to the park, only to find him sitting in the same spot—especially if he were forced to sit here all day waiting on the target to leave.
At eight forty-five he decided to scout other possible locations, just in case he was forced to move. He entered the King’s Bastion entertainment center, finding the bottom floor was consumed by a bowling alley. He went up to the second floor, going around the perimeter, finding a movie theater, an arcade, and, finally, a restaurant/pub that wrapped around the exterior of the old fort. He went to the deli counter and ordered a Coke, then picked a table next to the east wall overlooking Line Wall Road. No sooner had he sat down than he saw his target locking up the office, a bulky backpack over his shoulders.
What the hell?
Johan looked at his watch, seeing it was only a little after nine in the morning. Too early for lunch. Maybe he was headed to the wharf for a work order. If so, it would mean that Johan could break in during daylight.
Johan waited to see which direction the man took. Sure enough, he began heading south—toward the dry docks and shipyards.
Johan grabbed his Coke and speed walked to the first floor, taking the steps three at a time. He exited back into the park and made a beeline for the portico entrance. He glanced down the street and saw the target. He reentered the park and jogged south, paralleling Line Wall Road. When he reached the end, he exited, now with the target behind him. He continued walking, finally stopping at an outdoor ATM. He messed with the machine, checking his balance, withdrawing money, and generally killing time until the target passed him.
He knew Line Wall would begin to go farther east, away from the docks, so eventually the target would drop a block to Queensway Road, the logical thoroughfare for reaching the shipyards. Only he didn’t.
Line Wall made a sharp left turn, and the target stayed on it. Johan let him get about a hundred meters ahead, then picked up the follow again. The target passed through an ancient stone gate, now widened for the passage of vehicles, and Johan let him continue by himself for a moment, not wanting to be silhouetted against the stone should the target turn around.
Johan checked his GPS, seeing nothing on this line of march that would be useful, as he was walking away from the docks. Unless he was headed home.
After counting to ten, he walked through the stone gate, seeing a gaggle of tourists but no target. He jogged forward, circling a sunken garden of some sort. He saw nothing on the street. He retraced his steps, searching more closely, and then saw his target, sitting on a bench inside a cemetery, carefully looking at the stairwell that led down to the garden.
He whipped his head away and passed by the stairwell, feeling lucky that he’d waited earlier, before going through the stone gate. If he hadn’t, he probably would have followed the target straight into the cemetery. He reached the stone gate again and read a placard proclaiming the TRAFALGAR CEMETERY, which held the remains of Lord Nelson and other British sailors. Johan ignored the history of the place, focusing on why the man was in it.
The target was looking for someone following him.
The stop wasn’t random, and the location was chosen for a reason. It was sunken into the ground, forcing visitors to descend stairs to enter, and full of paths that canalized surveillance.
Two things stood out for Johan: One, the target was up to something shifty, and, two, more important, he’d been trained.
Johan really wanted to get a look into his backpack, sure there was something in it that would prove his theory about the bank account. He sat on the bench next to the stone gate, waiting on the target to leave and wondering if his boss, Dexter Worthington, knew what was occurring. Wondering if he shouldn’t start looking left and right himself.
He knew how such things worked, and if Dexter wanted him killed, Johan had no doubt that he’d use his money to accomplish it.
That is paranoid. He didn’t believe Dexter had the balls for such an act. Maybe the man in the cemetery was simply evil, and Dexter wanted the same thing he did: to find out what he was doing.
Seven minutes later, the target exited the cemetery, now walking with a purpose. Johan took one glance around him, then followed. The target went around a traffic circle, and the tourist cable cars that traversed to the top of the Rock appeared. Inexplicably, the target entered the ticket building for the cable car system.
Johan hovered outside, hesitating. Surely he wasn’t actually taking a cable car to the top of the mountain, was he?
He went back to the parking lot servicing the tourist attraction and waited. The cable car left the enclosed dock, and he saw a middle-aged couple standing inside, and his target on the bench.
What the hell?
There was only one reason that man was visiting the top of the Rock of Gibraltar: Something was happening at that location. His earlier countersurveillance attempts made sense now: He was about to do something suspicious and needed to ensure he was clean.
Johan walked up the stairs to the ticket queue and found it empty. He ignored the winding ribbon of nylon fencing and walked straight to the ticket counter. The lady behind the glass asked which ticket he wanted, a simple trip to the top or complete access to the park.
He had no idea. He decided to throw caution to the wind.
“There was an Arab man here a minute ago, with a backpack. What did he buy?”
She looked at him curiously, and he said, “He’s a friend of a friend of mine. I was supposed to meet him here, because he doesn’t know his way around. I’m supposed to be his tour guide, but there was some miscommunication. I came here and saw him already on the way up.”
She smiled and said, “He just bought a cable car ticket. You’ll find him at the top. He can’t enter the park itself, so you should be able to find him.”
Johan nodded, and to drive his cover story home, he said, “Can we buy new tick
ets once we’re up there? If we want to explore?”
“No. Sorry. You’ll both have to come back down and buy new tickets.”
He nodded, then walked upstairs for the car itself. He waited, seeing the cable car descend toward him, asking the man working it, “How often do these run?”
“Every ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. The target would be loose for ten minutes.
Johan impatiently watched the car descend from the top, the cable rotating around the giant spindle at a snail’s pace. Eventually, the car nestled into the pocket of the terminal, empty. The attendant punched a button, and the door opened. Johan entered, all alone. Before the attendant could close the door, he asked, “Where are all the tourists?”
The Brit said, “Picks up later in the day. Watch yourself.” And closed the door.
Johan rode up, the view spectacular, seeing the ports and shipyards from the perch of an eagle. The car passed an intermediary stop but kept going, the platform providing a brief moment of parallel terrain, and then the car broke free again to fly high above the rocks. He reached the top, sliding into a building housing a restaurant and tourist shop. He remained in the car a moment, like an aircraft waiting on the jet bridge, and then was allowed to exit.
A man slid open the door and welcomed him, and Johan asked, “What was that other stop? The one we passed earlier?”
“We don’t use that now. Off-season.”
Johan nodded and said, “Where can I go from here?”
He took a look at Johan’s ticket and said, “Just a couple hundred meters up that path.” He pointed at an asphalt walkway snaking up into the foliage away from the cable station and said, “But the view is as good as you’ll get with any ticket, and there are some old World War Two buildings that are pretty cool.”
Johan nodded and exited, getting the view the man promised, the city splayed out before him as if he were looking out an aircraft window. He ignored it, working to find his target, a stiff breeze from the altitude rippling his hair.
