The passenger was a tall, lanky man with a near-smile seemingly fixed to his gaunt face. Called simply Max, he had large, deep-set eyes that gave him a hollow look, appropriately close enough to pass for the Grim Reaper himself. Hardly an imposing physical specimen, he avoided close combat and would hardly have frightened anyone but old women or small boys, who could instinctively detect the sinister aspects of that fixed grin. His specialty was the remote dispatch of his victims. Every new job was a challenge, but the subject's background gave this one some special qualities. He had worked feverishly since morning to track down his quarry. He would soon know how successful he had been. After that would come the really interesting part. A man who took great pride in doing his job efficiently and effectively, he utilized every available resource. The old sailor, Sparky Pitts, was a recent acquisition, a rough-edged character with a natural bent for electronics and explosives. His major shortcoming was that he didn't know when to shut up.
"See if you can't get this old bus in high gear," Max chided. "I'd like to eyeball him before he hits the river."
Pitts shrugged. "Ain't no problem. I was just lollygagging along so we wouldn't attract no attention from the fuzz." He pushed on the accelerator and swung into the passing lane. The signal kept shifting to the right until he turned south on Washington Boulevard, then it was dead ahead and getting louder. As they approached I-395, he followed the tone left onto the ramp.
"That must be him up ahead of that Honda," Max said as he got a clear view near the Pentagon. "Where's your field glasses?"
"In the pocket. They're kinda smudged. Hope you can see through 'em."
Max opened the glove compartment, pulled out a heavy pair of binoculars and scanned ahead. They were one lane to the left of the Buick. When he spotted the license plate, he knew he had his man. "That's him. Don't let him get away."
They followed the brown car across the Rochambeau Bridge, where it jogged right at East Potomac Park and took the Southwest Freeway. When it swung onto the South Capitol Street exit, Max frowned. "Looks like he's got company. The Honda's on his tail."
After a couple of blocks, the car slowed, then pulled to a stop in front of a low building bearing a "Vintage Realty" sign. The Honda parked next door and Pitts slowed as they drove past. When the driver stepped out of the Buick, Max recognized Burke Hill from the photograph Adam Stern had left for him at the gun shop.
"Turn around at the end of the block," Max instructed. "We'll come back this way and park in front of that vacant store. I want to get a look at his watchers."
Sparky Pitts did as instructed, backing in at the front of the store to provide Max a clear view of the cars across the street. He accompanied his maneuvering with a steady stream of adverse opinions about drivers in general and the deplorable habits of Washington drivers in particular. The sun was dropping toward the horizon directly in back of the truck, leaving it in the store's shadow. The other side of the street caught the full force of the slanting rays, making it a virtual cinch that no one over there could get a decent look at the pair in the rust-colored vehicle.
Max poked the binoculars’ lenses into the hollow sockets of his eyes and checked out the Honda. "They don't look like cops," he said. "Bodyguards maybe?"
"Pretty stupid if they are. They don't look too interested in what's going on around here."
Hill came back out of the real estate office in barely more than five minutes. He walked over to the Honda and spoke to the driver.
Max looked around with a twisted grin. "Maybe I'll give the Parson a bargain. Three for the price of one."
"Follow me," Burke told Roddy. "We'll go in the alley and park behind the building. I've got a key to the back entrance."
The location was not far away. They soon filed into the narrow alley, then turned beside a dilapidated wooden garage to which a "Brabson Building" sign and an arrow had been nailed. Most of the former backyard had been graveled for parking. There were a few trees, mostly along the side lot line. The lack of any other vehicles told Burke the place was probably empty. On the eve of a major holiday, no one was likely interested in burning any midnight oil. He lifted an olive green sport bag off the seat beside him and stepped out. As he did, he noticed he had swept out his copy of the office lease and Latrisha Grammer's business card, which had fallen onto the gravel. He tossed them back onto the seat and locked the door.
Inside the building, a lighted hallway ran from back to front. Burke walked toward the front stairway past walls of a dull, industrial gray. Closed doors bearing plastic numbers and nameplates identified the offices and their occupants. He led the way upstairs and stopped at "Suite 200," a designation that appeared somewhat ostentatious, he thought.
He unlocked the door and looked inside to find a darkened, empty room about fifteen feet square with two windows covered by miniblinds. The only illumination came from slivers of sunlight that filtered through the nearly closed blinds, sparkling on dust particles stirred by the draft from when he had come in. Another door on the back wall led into a smaller room.
"Let's leave the lights off," Burke said as he walked over to partially open one of the blinds. He looked out. "Couldn't ask for a better view."
Shumakov stood beside him and gazed across at the storage yard. Their second floor vantage point offered clear sight lines to most of the Advanced Security Systems compound. "So now it is a game of sit and wait," Yuri said.
Rodman shrugged. "Or hide and seek." He had brought along a sack with three bottled soft drinks, since coffee wouldn't be available. He set it on the floor near the wall, then frowned. "We forgot one thing."
Burke's head snapped around. "What?"
"Chairs."
"Oh. Yeah. Would be handy, wouldn't they?"
Yuri plopped onto the floor beside the window. It was tall, with a bottom sash that came within twenty-four inches of the floor. "I can see fine from here."
"Okay," said Burke, "we'll take turns keeping an eye on the place. You might as well go first, Yuri, since you're already in the catbird seat."
He opened his sport bag and emptied out the contents. There was a pair of binoculars, which he handed across to Shumakov. Next was a small emergency light, a battery-operated device that would put out only a soft glow when turned on. He plugged it into a nearby wall outlet. The other equipment included the portable cellular phone, a battery charger, two small transceivers, a flashlight and a 9mm SIG-Sauer P228 loaded with a thirteen-round magazine. The gun was in a holster which he hooked to his belt in back.
Sparky Pitts had parked the panel truck at the back of the driveway to the small appliance repair shop, which ran between the two buildings. Though sheltered by trees and partially hidden by the old garage, they still had a good view of the two cars parked near the rear entrance to the Brabson Building. While Max watched silently, as intense as a hungry hawk on the lookout for his next meal, his bearded sidekick appeared oblivious to the grim business they were about. Sparky chattered like the town gossip holding forth in a barbershop. What his seagoing recollections lacked in authenticity, he made up for in graphic detail. He had a tale for every occasion. With the windows partially lowered because of the heat, Max continually cautioned him to keep his voice down.
"Know what this reminds me of?" Pitts asked, obviously finding it difficult to manage subdued tones. "Reminds me of a time over in the Philippines when we was tied up at Subic for repairs. Had a bos'n's mate named Switzer, huge hulk of a man, was in love with this little whore called 'Estrellita.' That means `little star.' She had one of them Coke bottle figures."
Max shook his head as Sparky rattled on and on. At least it would keep him from dozing off. He wouldn't make his move until the sun went down.