Moore had gazed trancelike at the little scrap of paper for a good, long while. It bothered him that he hadn’t detected its placement; as he stood in line at the coffee shop perhaps, or on the crowded Metro platform itself. No one had bumped him, rushed by or lingered too long at his side, no clumsy pickpocket’s distraction had been attempted. After boarding the Metro, Moore had sat by himself and gotten off at his regular station with very few others. And yet, somehow the little slip of paper had come into his possession. It made him feel old and slow, as if his senses were dulling with age. Perhaps the calendar was right, perhaps it was time for retirement.
Back in the present, Moore noticed a car approaching and did his best to banish the thought. The tan vehicle slowed marginally, but rounded the curve and drove on, spitting a small wake of slush as it went.
Moore looked beyond the departing car to the white horizon. Somewhere out there Gibbs was listening. In addition, there were people watching him, at least three groups of backup. Two cars, and a third group on foot, though Moore did not know exactly who or where. It was entirely possible that the passing car contained one of Gibbs’ teams.
He tried not to think about that either. It was a distraction and his current task demanded his full attention. He was about to meet with one of the enemy, the same enemy who had attempted to kill Danielle. His job was to find out who they were. To do that he’d have to convince them that he was ready and willing to betray the NRI, not an easy task, considering his reputation. It was a trap laid for a party who must undoubtedly expect a trap; a hard sell in any book. But with Matt Blundin’s untimely death several days before, it was the only chance they had left.
Another car came down the road. A white Lexus with yellow fog lamps blazing in the grill. It pulled up next to him and stopped. An open window revealed a man seemingly in his midtwenties, with a neatly trimmed goatee.
“Arnold Moore?”
Moore nodded.
“Why don’t you get in,” the man suggested. “We can talk while we drive.”
Moore shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He pointed to the lot. “Go park down there. There’s plenty of space. Then come back here and we’ll take a walk through this glorious winter wonderland.”
The driver’s face wrinkled at the thought, but he hit the gas and did as Moore said. A moment later he returned on foot, making his way in a casual saunter.
Moore studied the man. He was young and good-looking, with blond highlights in his hair and a glowing tan in the middle of winter. He wore sharply creased slacks and a cashmere turtleneck. “Dear God,” Moore whispered, “they’ve sent me a ski instructor.”
As the man reached Moore, he said, “Which way?”
“Does it matter?” Moore asked gruffly. He took a quick look in both directions and began to walk away from the monument and out toward the bridge. He needed to stay in the open.
The blond man rolled his eyes and followed. For a minute they just walked—no words or gestures, just two men walking on the slope that led up to the bridge.
“What’s your name?” Moore asked, finally.
The blond man laughed.
“No names, then,” Moore said. “Fine. I’ll call you Sven. You look like a Sven to me.”
Sven didn’t seem to object and the two continued walking—Moore in his heavy boots, orange scarf and bulky layers of cotton and wool; Sven in his cashmere and expensive Italian shoes, now getting ruined in the snow.
“You’re the guy on the phone the other night,” Moore guessed.
“Very observant,” Sven replied.
“Are you also a dry cleaner?”
“What?”
“I’m wondering how you got that note in my pocket,” Moore said. “I never felt it placed there, so I thought it might have come back from the dry cleaners like that.”
Sven kept walking.
Moore read his face. “Not your doing.”
“I just took the call.”
“Somehow it figures,” Moore said, the tone of a disgusted veteran in his voice.
With that, he picked up the pace, heading out onto the bridge deck, out over the river, where it would be colder and Sven’s thin clothes would be less adequate than they already appeared to be.
Sven seemed aware of that fact. “Where the hell are we going?” he whined.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Moore said, looking down at the Potomac, dark and ominous against the white snowbanks. “We’re just walking. Staying out in the open, out in public, where I’m less likely to perceive you as a threat and have to kill you because of it.”
Sven laughed. “Am I supposed to take that seriously?”
“Take it however you want,” Moore said, continuing the walk. “Not like they would miss you anyway.”
Sven seemed to clench his jaw, and Moore guessed the remark had hit the target.
“I don’t think you understand the situation,” Sven told him. “You’re the one who needs us. I’m just here to find out if you’re worth the time.”
“Really?” Moore said. “Important errand they’ve sent you on. You must be so proud.”
Moore turned away from him, but Sven grabbed his shoulder to spin him back around. “Listen to me, old man—”
Moore knocked the hand away and bore into Sven with fury in his eyes. “No, you listen to me, you worthless little fuck. I don’t deal with pawns or messengers. Forty years in this business—that’s what I’ve got. So if the people who sent you have anything to say, they’d better have the balls to come see me themselves. Or at least send someone who matters.”
Sven began to say something but Moore cut him off.
“You’re a fucking nobody and you don’t know jack shit about this operation. You don’t even know how your people contacted me.”
Sven’s face was red with anger.
Moore’s eyebrows went up in mockery of his opponent. “Come on, then. Let’s hear it. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me how important you are and just what it is that you know.”
“I know enough,” Sven said finally. “I know they pulled you off an important job and you don’t like that. I know that your career is pretty much done and you don’t like that either. Forty years you’ve got. I say forty years they used you, now you’re getting kicked to the curb, and that must burn you up pretty bad or you wouldn’t be here in the first place, would you?”
Moore stared at Sven and the anger, both real and pretend, seeped away. When he spoke again his voice was like gravel. “As a matter of fact, it does,” he said truthfully. “But coming here was a mistake.”
He looked at Sven with a trace of pity in his eyes. “Go home,” he said. “Go home before you get yourself killed. You think this is going to happen? You really think so? If people switched sides every time they got pissed off, then where the hell would we be?”
Sven didn’t answer and Moore shook his head in disgust. “Go home and tell your people that I’m not interested. You tell them that money is not enough to get me. And the next time they want to offer me something, they better not send some punk kid who’s wet behind the ears and worried about his lips chafing in the cold.” Moore shook his head even more dejectedly than before. “I’ve got files older than you.”
With that he turned his back on Sven and looked out over the stone railing of the bridge. With a gloved hand, he brushed the snow from the section in front of him and rested his forearms on it, gazing out at the black water rippling gently beneath the gray-white sky. “Forty years,” he mumbled, “and this is how it ends. What a joke. What a fucking joke.”
In a heated room far from the bridge, Gibbs listened to every word, and for the first time he began to understand why Moore was held in such high regard. He’d played it masterfully. Sven was furious, angry enough to tell Moore volumes just to prove that he mattered, or to run back to his superiors and insist that Moore had balked and would need more prodding to come aboard. A sure sign that Moore was legit as opposed to being bait for a trap.