obvious. He was, after all, setting a trap of his own. The last thing he wanted to do was to scare them off. He needed them to believe that they had the upper hand and were outsmarting him.
He also needed to make sure that Banks understood the message. As it turned out, he had nothing to worry about. Banks remembered the Budapest operation like it was yesterday.
Carlton found the two men near a homeless shelter in Baltimore. Both men were interested in making a couple hundred bucks, especially such easy money. After getting them cleaned up, Carlton bought them a meal, a new set of clothes, and drove them into D.C. to run them through what they were expected to do.
He then used them to load a dead drop for Banks with final instructions. After that, Carlton took them for coffee, controlling the amount of “flavoring” each would be allowed from a bottle of whiskey they had picked up on the way in from Baltimore. He wanted them to eat once more before the operation, but neither man was interested. Carlton figured he was lucky enough to have made it this far and worked on keeping the men sober enough to function.
At the appointed hour, wearing a false beard, a hat, glasses, and clothing that made him appear much heavier than he was, Reed Carlton entered Union Station, took up his perch, and waited.
The two homeless men proved to be more reliable than he had hoped and followed shortly after. No doubt, the men were eager for the rest of their money, and the only way they’d get it was to finish the job properly.
From where he sat, Carlton had a commanding view of what was about to go down. The thing he worried about the most was the cameras. If the two homeless men didn’t walk exactly as he had shown them, and someone panned in and got a good enough look at one of their faces, it would be over before any of it got started. So far, though, the men seemed to be doing everything exactly as they’d rehearsed. All they were waiting for now was for their star to arrive.
Banks would have spent most of the afternoon conducting elaborate SDRs. If he hadn’t lost his touch, which Carlton had every reason to believe he hadn’t, he might have even lost his surveillance team once or twice. If he did, the plan was to allow them to reacquire his trail, but to do so in a manner that appeared as if it was entirely of their doing. When Banks did make for Union Station, it was to be at the very last minute. They couldn’t afford to give the other side any time to set up a trap. The only way the con worked was to keep it moving and never give the other guys a chance to catch their breath. It would be a physically and mentally grueling day for everyone involved but especially for a man Banks’ age.
The station was teaming with commuters when the old spymaster entered wearing a wide-brimmed Orvis hat, his old Barbour Beaufort jacket, and carrying a battered leather satchel. According to plan, he purchased a ticket on the high-speed Acela line to New York City and then milled with the crowds and made his way toward the restrooms.
Carlton was able to pick up two men tailing him. They wore dark suits and tan raincoats. Their hair was cut short, military-style. They were broad-chested and fit. They wore shoes that laced up and had comfortable soles. These were men who spent a majority of each day standing. Each was right-handed and he could tell they carried a concealed weapon somewhere at or behind their right hip. They moved deliberately; their heads on a swivel, alternately taking turns focusing on their prey as well as their surroundings. These were dangerous men, and Carlton had no illusions as to what they were capable of. All this he was able to discern in a matter of seconds. He’d been at the game long enough to assimilate and analyze data in an instant. It was the only way he had lived as long as he had.
Satisfied with his assessment, Carlton scanned the crowds for additional operatives. If there were two, there had to be more. What he didn’t know was how many. Was there another team waiting in a car outside? Were there more men combing the station? Were they using women? Had they enlisted local law enforcement? The list of unknowns was a mile long. It was time to start getting some answers.
Checking his watch, Carlton stood and began moving toward the exit. Twenty seconds later, he spotted Banks’ hat and green Barbour coat coming out of the men’s room. Another man, also in a Barbour jacket and now carrying Banks’ leather satchel, joined him. The two broad-chested men in trench coats were right on their tail. Carlton had yet to see anyone else following.
Outside, the men made a beeline for the cab stand while Carlton hung back. They were the third party in line. When the trench coated men emerged from the station, they didn’t seem to know what to do. Carlton noted one of them raising his shirt cuff to his mouth and speaking into a concealed microphone. He hadn’t thought they were working alone, but now he had confirmation. What he needed to know was who was on the other end of their radio.
He watched as the trench coats stood together on the sidewalk and pretended to make small talk, keeping their eyes glued to the two men working their way forward in the cab stand. Finally, a blue-and-white D.C. cab drove forward and the two men in Barbour jackets climbed in.
As the cab pulled away, the trench coats ran for the street and a black Chevy Suburban screeched to a stop. It stopped only long enough for them to hop in, but as the dome light came on, he saw there were two additional men inside, one with very gray, nearly white hair and very pale skin. No sooner had the men jumped in than the Suburban took off after the cab.
Carlton, who now had a much better grasp of how many players were on the other side of the net, stepped out into the street and watched as the Suburban rocketed into traffic. There didn’t appear to be any other cars along with it. This was a four-man team driving a single vehicle. Carlton liked those odds and set off walking.
Two blocks away, at F and 2nd Streets, he entered Ebenezers Coffeehouse. There was an old man in a gray windbreaker and a USS
“So far, so good.”
“Good,” Tommy Banks replied as he placed a heat band around his cup and patted the weapon hidden beneath his own jacket. “Now we get to the fun part.”
CHAPTER 57
Finding parking anywhere near Washington’s major parks or monuments could be an absolute nightmare. For that reason, it was decided that Banks would stay with the car and Carlton would go on foot into West Potomac Park, near the Reflecting Pool and the National World War II Memorial.
The two homeless men had been given a sheet with specific instructions to hand to their driver. It was a circuitous route that made it appear the vehicle’s occupants were running SDRs before arriving at their ultimate destination. If Carlton and Banks had really been in the cab, they would have gotten out and changed cabs and/or modes of transport several more times, but Carlton wanted the assignment to be as idiot-proof as possible for their stand-ins. Besides, Banks had spent all afternoon running them around. They knew something big was in the works and that’s all they’d be focused on at this point.
By the time the two men arrived in the park, Carlton had already taped the last half of their money in an envelope beneath one of the many benches and around the arm of which he had tied a white plastic convenience store bag. All he had to do now was wait.
The homeless men climbed out of the taxi and talked quietly to each other as they walked along the footpath. Night was quickly falling, and Carlton, who had lost the beard and changed his hat and jacket, watched from a safe distance. His challenge at this point was deciding who and what to handle first. As fate would have it, the surveillance team helped make up his mind for him.
This time, instead of sending two men, they had sent three. All were middle-aged men in trench coats. The white-haired man was nowhere to be seen and Carlton assumed he was somewhere nearby, double-parked with their vehicle. He would have to move fast.
Removing one of his clean cell phones, he flipped it open, called Tommy Banks, and rattled off a list of instructions before hanging up and returning the phone to his pocket. For this to work, it was going to have to be executed perfectly. His only concern was whether or not Tommy could handle his end.
Carlton had already written off the three men in trench coats. They were going to die. There was no other way. He hadn’t asked for this war, but someone had chosen to bring it right to his doorstep. They had killed his people. They had tried to kill him. Tonight he would begin to take his revenge.
