Whoever had her equipment still had an interest in their client, the one named Ives. Otherwise why go diving in the trash bin behind their office? If she had any doubts concerning this, they were cured when she saw them disappear onto the Marine Corps Air Station at Miramar. Sooner or later, Ana knew she would get lucky. And like bees to honey, they would come back.
She watched the lawyers long enough to see them settle down to dinner with a third man, an older guy, European from the cut of his clothes. Then she peeled off from the lawyers and keyed instead on the two men watching them from the roof across the river.
Ana carried a large quilted shoulder bag. It looked handmade because it was. She had fashioned it herself-one of her hobbies, sewing. It had little pockets stitched inside. One of them contained a small 4X mini-monocular infrared night scope. With this, from three hundred meters away, in the shadows on the other side of the river, she was able to light up the two men on the roof as if she shot them with a flare.
She watched as one of the men left the roof. Ana thought about going after him but instead sat tight. She needed only one of them. If she could take him alive and had enough time, she could squeeze him for everything he knew. Find out who hired him, a name and a location. With that she could go get her stuff.
Three minutes later she saw movement on the other side of the river. The man from the roof emerged from one of the darkened little lanes between the buildings across the way. She watched him through the night scope as he hunkered against one of the vendor stalls near the far end of the wooden footbridge.
He remained there for a while. It was obvious they were stalking someone. She figured it had to be one of the lawyers. Perhaps both of them. Ana didn’t care. What she wanted was information. She kept flashing the night scope between the one on the roof and his partner near the end of the bridge.
Finally the guy on the ground moved. She watched as he went past the entrance to the bridge. Suddenly the night scope flared. A blinding orange flash from the bright lights on the bridge caught her directly in the eye. The man had moved to where the scope was useless. There was too much light. She blinked, then closed her eyes until the glowing orange spot on her retina receded. She closed her eye, rubbed the lid, and blinked a few more times. Finally she brought the scope back up to her eye. She trained it up toward the rooftop, away from the lights. This time the man, the one on the edge of the roof, was gone.
“Damn.” She quickly capped off the ends of the scope, slipped it back into the pocket of her large shoulder bag, and began to move. There was another footbridge, a wrought-iron one that crossed the river about eighty meters downstream, to the west. She moved as fast as she could toward the bridge and the other side of the river. If she could circle around behind them fast enough she might catch one of them before they disappeared.
As the old man made his way across the bridge it seemed to the Libyan who was waiting for him that his footfalls became less lumbering, more regular and steady. He seemed to pick up his pace.
The Libyan began to wonder if he might have a fight on his hands by the time the old man reached this side. Either way it had to be done. There was no time to waste. He pulled out the coil of four-hundred-pound monofilament fishing line from his pocket and looped one end of it around the post next to the steps leading onto the bridge. He tied it off.
Then he scurried across and did the same on the other side, pulling the line taut about eight inches above the second step. In the bright light from the bridge the white line shimmered like a spider’s web in the morning dew. There was nothing to be done about it. Who could have expected this much light?
He pressed the button on the side of the knife and the six-inch blade snapped open. He cut the line with a single stroke from the razor-sharp blade. Then he unwound another four feet of line and cut it.
He put the unused coil back in his pocket and at the same time fished out two small wooden handles. The handles, each about four inches long, were cut from the branches of an acacia tree. They were harder than oak. He doubled the line and wrapped one end around the center of one of the handles, then took the other end of the line and did the same with the other handle. He crossed his hands, one over the other, then gripped the handles tight in his palms so that the doubled-up line passed between the second and third fingers of each hand.
As he uncrossed his closed fists, the line of monofilament formed a loop about the size of a man’s head. As he pulled the handles farther apart the loop closed until the garrote narrowed to the diameter of a man’s neck. Pulled tight with the full force and leverage of a man’s arms, it would slice through flesh like a cheese cutter, and almost as fast.
The Libyan could hear the shuffling of shoes on the wooden planks of the bridge as the old man drew near. Every once in a while he peeked over the steps leading up to the bridge to see if he could see him coming. But the angled elbow at the tower cut off his view.
Finally the old man cleared the turn. When the Libyan saw him he realized he was moving faster and with more coordination than before. He seemed to have sobered up. And now that he was close, he looked much larger.
The man may have been old but was big and barrel-chested, with shoulders and arms like a blacksmith. The Libyan weighed a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet. The man coming at him looked as if he might tip the scales at three hundred pounds.
He began to wonder if he could hold him down long enough for the garrote to do the job, and if not, whether the blade on his knife was long enough to penetrate something vital. The Libyan began to have doubts. If only his friend had come to help him. The two of them would have no problem. Alone, he wasn’t sure.
Ana made her way as quickly as she could across the metal bridge. It was a straight shot perpendicular across the water. But she was afraid to run for fear that the rattling footfalls on the bridge would draw attention.
At the far side where the wrought-iron bridge met the quay, the distance between it and the end of the wooden bridge where the man was lurking was only about forty meters. This was the result of the diagonal line taken by the old wooden bridge as it crossed the river.
As she came off the bridge Ana had only two options. In front of her was a building blocking her way. She didn’t dare turn left along the quay. If she did, within seconds she would run right into the man waiting at the end of the wooden bridge, assuming he was still there. Instead she went right and walked as fast as she could away from him.
The second she cleared the large building on her left and saw the cross street, she turned the corner and started running.
She ran a little, then walked briskly, then ran again. She had to work her way east back to the wooden bridge. It was no more than a large city block away but from where she was, she couldn’t see it. Behind the buildings along the waterfront was a labyrinth of small lanes, arcades, and narrow streets. None of them seemed to run in a straight line.
She stopped, reached into her bag, and placed her hand firmly around the composite grip. The streets were deserted. Everything was dark. Ana glanced about to make sure no one was looking before she lifted it from the bag. She pulled it out, then felt around in the bottom of the bag for the small cranking device until she found it. She kept walking, one eye ahead of her into the distance, as she lined up the crank and wound it with the small stem handle, turning it like a coffee grinder.
FORTY-TWO
The Libyan watched from the shadows off to the side of the bridge as the old man reached the steps. When Korff got there, he steadied himself with one hand on the heavy beam that formed the handrail on one side of the stairs and began to step down.