back something from Mickey D's?'
'Can I have sweet and sour sauce with the fries? Can I come with you?'
'The weather's terrible. I don't want you catching a cold.'
She got up and walked to the door, ready to drop the latch without me having to ask.
I went downstairs and walked to the Metro station. The Washington Metro is fast and quiet, clean and efficient, everything a subway should be. The tunnels are vast and dimly lit, somehow soothing, which is maybe why passengers seem more relaxed than in London or New York and some even exchange eye contact. It's also about the only part of the capital where you won't be asked by a seventeen or seventy-seven-year-old Vietnam vet if you can spare some change.
I got out after seven or eight stops and one transfer. The place I was looking for was just a few blocks away, but it was in a neighborhood I bet didn't feature in anybody's vacation brochure. I was used to the Washington where those who had really had. This was the part of town where those who didn't have had absolutely nothing.
The single-story building was set back from the road and looked more like a supermarket than a pawn shop, with a front that was at least fifty yards long. The whole facade was glass, with bars running vertically. The window displays were piled high with everything from drum kits to surfboards and bedding. Fluorescent-yellow posters promised everything from zero percent interest to the best gold price in town.
Three armed guards controlled the doors and watched me enter.
Looking along one of the aisles to the rear, I saw a long glass showcase that also formed the counter. Behind it were more than a dozen assistants, all wearing similar red polo shirts. It seemed to be the busiest department in the shop.
Then I saw all the handguns and rifles behind the glass. A sign announced that customers were welcome to test fire any weapon on the range out back.
I went to the camera department. In an ideal world, what I was looking for would be something like a security camera, with a long cable connecting the camera itself to a separate control box that also housed the videotape. I could put the camera in position on the roof, leave it where it was, and hide the control box elsewhere, maybe inside the elevator housing.
That way it would be easier for me to get to it to change the tape and--if I couldn't tap into the power lines-- the batteries, and all without having to disturb the camera.
Unfortunately I couldn't find anything like that. But I did find something that was almost as good: a Hi-8 VHS camera, the type favored by a lot of freelance TV journalists. Certainly I'd be able to change the lens to give me more distance.
I remembered working in Bosnia and seeing guys running around with Hi-8s glued to their eyes. They all thought they were destined to strike it rich by selling the networks 'bang-bang' footage.
I caught the eye of one of the assistants.
'How much for the Hi-8?' I said in my usual bad American accent.
'It's nearly new, hardly out of the packaging. Five hundred dollars.'
I smirked.
'So make me an offer,' he said.
'Has it got a spare battery and all the attachments for external power?'
'Of course. It's got it all. It's even got its own bag.'
'Can I see it working?'
'Of course, of course.'
'All right--four hundred, cash.'
He did what every plumber and builder throughout the world does when discussing prices: started sucking air through his teeth.
'I'll tell you what: four-fifty.'
'Done. I also want a playback machine, but it can't be a
VCR.'
'I have exactly what you want. Follow me.'
The machine he retrieved from the back of a shelf had a hundred-dollar price tag. It looked about a hundred years old, complete with dust. He said, 'I'll tell you what--save the trouble: ninety dollars and it's yours.'
I nodded.
'I also want some lenses.'
'What kind are you after?'
'At least a two-hundred-millimeter zoom to go on this, preferably Nikon.' I worked on the basis of one millimeter of lens for every yard of distance to target. For years I had been stuck in people's roof spaces after breaking into their house and removing one of the tiles so I could take pictures of a target, and I'd learned the hard way that it's a wasted effort unless the result is good ID-able images.
He showed me a 250mm lens.
'How much?'
'One-fifty.' He was waiting for me to say it was too much.
'All right, one hundred fifty dollars. Done--if you throw in two four-hour tapes and an extension cord.'
He seemed almost upset at the lack of a fight.
'What length?'
More haggling. He was dying for it.
'The longest one you've got.'
'Twenty-foot?'
'Done.' He was happy now. No doubt he had a forty-foot.
I came across a Wal-Mart a couple of blocks short of the Metro. I ducked inside and wandered around, looking for the items I'd need to set up the camera.
As I moved down the aisles, I found myself doing something I always did, no matter where in the world I was:
looking at cooking ingredients and cans of domestic cleaner and working out which would go with what to make chaos.
Mix this stuff and that stuff, then boil it up and stir in a bit of this, and I'd have an incendiary device. Or boil all that down and scrape off the scum from around the edge of the pot, then add some of this stuff from the bakery counter and boil that up some more until I got just a sediment at the bottom, and I'd have low explosive. Twenty minutes in Safeway would be enough to buy all the ingredients for a bomb powerful enough to blow a car in half, and you'd still have change from a ten-spot.
I didn't need any of that today, however. All I was after was a two-liter plastic bottle of Coke; a pair of scissors; a roll of trash bags; a mini Maglite flashlight with a range of filters; a roll of gaffer tape; and a tool kit with screwdrivers, wrenches, and pliers--twenty-one pieces for five dollars, and an absolute rip-off; they'd last about five minutes, but that was all I'd need. That done, I grabbed some coloring books, crayons, and other bits and pieces to entertain Kelly. I also put a few more dollars in Mr. Oreo's pocket.
I entered the Metro and found a bench. Lights at the edge of the platform flash when a train's approaching; until then most locals sit chatting or reading. There was nothing else to do so I started a connect-the-dots picture in one of the coloring books and waited for the lights.
The rain had stopped at Pentagon City, though it was still overcast and the ground was wet. I decided to do a quick check of the target while I didn't have Kelly.
Cutting across the supermarket parking lot, I headed for the highway tunnel and Ball Street.
I was soon on the same side of the road and even with the building. A small concrete staircase surrounded by dense shrubbery led up to the glass doors at the front. They opened into a reception area, and then another set of doors that probably led into the office complex itself. A security camera was trained on the front doors, looking down from the right-hand corner. The windows were sealed, double-glazed units.
Inside, the building on both floors seemed full of PCs and bulletin boards, the normal office environment.
I couldn't see any external alarm signs, nor any signs saying that the property was guarded. Maybe the alarm was at the rear. If not, whatever detectors there were, were probably connected to a telephone line connected directly to the police or a security firm.
