strained my neck to see if I could see Kev's place. I couldn't. But, as Euan would have said, executive housing all looks the same.
We crossed the Potomac and entered the city of monuments.
The Westin on M Street was a typical upscale hotel, slick and clean, totally devoid of character. Walking into the lobby, I got my bearings and headed left and up a few stairs to a coffee lounge on a landing that overlooked the reception area; it was the only way in and out. I ordered a double espresso.
A couple of refills later, Kerr and McGear came through the revolving door. Looking very relaxed, they went straight to the desk. I put down my coffee, left a five-dollar bill under the saucer, and wandered down.
It was just a matter of getting the timing right; there was a bit of a line at the desk, but the hotel was as efficient as it was soulless and now had more people behind the reception desk than were waiting to be served.
I couldn't hear what McGear and Kerr were saying, but it was obvious they were checking in. The woman looking after them was tapping a keyboard below desk level. Kerr handed over a credit card; now was the time to make my approach. It makes life far easier if you can get the required information this way rather than trying to follow them, and there was no way I was going to risk a compromise by getting in the elevator with them. I only hoped they were sharing a room.
To the right of them at the reception desk was a rack of postcards advertising everything from restaurants to bus tours. I stood about two yards away, with my back to them.
There was no big deal about this; it was a big, busy hotel-they weren't looking at me, they were doing their own stuff. I made it obvious I was flicking through the postcards and didn't need help.
The woman said, 'There you are, gentlemen, you're in room four-oh-three. If you turn left just past the pillars, you'll see the elevator. Have a nice day!'
All I had to do now was listen to their conversations while they were in their room, and to make that happen I went to the bank of pay phones in the lobby and dialed the Firm.
A woman's voice asked me for my PIN number.
'Two-four two-two.'
'Go ahead.'
'I'd like a room, please. The Westin on M Street, Washington, D.C.--four-oh-one or four-oh-five, or three-oh- three or five-oh-three.'
'Have you a contact number?' 'No, I'll call back in half an hour.'
They would now telephone the hotel using the name of a front company and request one of the rooms I'd specified. It didn't really matter whether the room was above, beside, or below the targets', as long as we could get in and plant surveillance devices.
I went back to the raised lounge area and read a few of the leaflets and postcards I'd picked up, all the time watching the exit onto M Street.
I ran through a mental checklist of surveillance equipment to ask for. I'd fit the first wave of gear myself: wall-mounted listening devices, phone-line devices, both voice and modem, and cables that fed into the TV in my room to relay pictures.
They'd take me only about three hours to rig up once the Firm had dropped them off.
The second wave, once McGear and Kerr had vacated their room for the day, would be fitted by technicians from the Firm. In their expert hands, a hotel-room TV could become a camera, and the telephone a microphone.
Half an hour later I called the contact number and again gave my PIN number. There was a bit of clicking, then the strains of a string quartet. About five seconds later the woman came back again.
'You are to lift off and return today. Please acknowledge.'
I thought I'd misheard her. There was a conference at the hotel given by the Norwegian board of trade, and all the dele gates were exiting for coffee.
'Can you repeat, please?'
'You are to lift off. Please acknowledge.'
'Yes, I understand, I am to lift off and return today.'
The phone went dead.
I put the phone down. Strange. There had even been a memo in green ink from the head of the service about this the fastball job that had now come to a sudden halt. It wasn't unusual to get lifted off, but not so quickly. Maybe Simmonds had decided these people weren't that important after all.
Then I thought, So what, who gives a fuck? They wanted me to do the job; I've done it. I called the travel agency and tried to get a flight out of Dulles The only one I could get on was the British Airways at nine-thirty-five, which was hours away. Kev and Marsha were only an hour down the road toward the airport, so why not?
I dialed another number, and Kev answered. His voice was wary, until he recognized mine.
'Nick! How's it going?' He sounded really happy to hear me.
'Not too bad. I'm in Washington.'
'What are you doing? Nah, I don't want to know! You coming to see us?'
'If you're not busy. I'm leaving tonight, back to the UK.
It'll be a quick stop and hello, OK?'
'Any chance of you getting your ass up here right away?
I've just got the ball rolling on something, but I'd be interested to know what you think. You'll really like this one!'
'No problem, mate. I'll hire a car at the hotel and head straight over.'
'Marsha will want to go into cordon bleu overdrive. I'll tell her when she gets back with the kids. Have a meal with us, then you can go on to the airport. You won't believe the stuff I've got here. Your friends over the water are busy.'
'I can't wait.'
'Nick, there's one other thing.'
'What's that, mate?'
'You owe your goddaughter a birthday present--you forgot again, dickhead.'
Driving west along the freeway, I kept wondering what Kev could want to talk to me about. Friends over the water? Kev had no connection with PIRA that I knew of. He was in the DEA, not the CIA or any antiterrorist department. Besides, I knew that his job was far more administrative than fieldwork now. I guessed he probably just needed some background information.
I thought again about Slack Pat and made a mental note to ask Kev if he had a contact address for the ass less one.
I got on the interstate. Tyson's Corner was the junction I had to get off at--well, not really; I wanted the one before but I could never remember it. The moment I left the freeway I was in leafy suburbia. Large houses lined the road, and just about every one seemed to have a seven-seat minivan in the drive and a basketball hoop fixed over the garage.
I followed my nose to Kev's subdivision and turned into their road. Hunting Bear Path. I continued on for about a quarter of a mile until I reached a small parade of shops arranged in an open square with parking spaces, mainly little delis and boutiques specializing in candles and soap. I bought candy for Aida and Kelly that I knew Marsha wouldn't let them have, and a couple of other presents.
Facing the shops was a stretch of vacant ground that looked as if it had been earmarked as the next phase of the development.
On and around the churned-up ground were trailers, big stockpiles of girders and other building materials, and two or three bulldozers.
Far up on the right-hand side among the sprawling houses I could just about make out the rear of Kev and Marsha's 'deluxe colonial.' As I drove closer I could see their Ford Windstar, the thing she threw the kids into to go screaming to school. It had a big furry Garfield stuck to the rear window.
I couldn't see Kev's company car, a Caprice Classic that bristled with antennae. They were so ugly only government agents used them. Kev normally kept his in the garage, safely out of sight of predators.
I was looking forward to seeing the Browns again even though I knew that by the end of the day I'd be more exhausted than the kids. I got to the driveway and turned in.
