Last night’s rain had given way to one of those pale, chilly DC days. A patchwork of clouds pressed down on the city, shading the daylight a tarnished silver. The wind was cold, but Cooper finally had a coat on. That and the half-dozen hours of sleep he’d snatched had done wonders for his mood.
12th and G, Northwest. Bland office buildings loomed on all four corners, the windows reflecting back the cold sky. Between them was a public square of concrete and stone. Escalators ran up from the open mouth of Metro Center Station, vomiting men and women in business attire, all of them checking watches and talking on cell phones. According to Bryan Vasquez, all he was supposed to do was show up and stand on the corner. His mysterious contact would do the rest.
“It’s a mess,” Quinn said. “High visibility, multiple escape options, way too many civilians.”
“And whoever is meeting Vasquez could watch from any one of these buildings.” Cooper leaned back, spun in a slow circle. “Perfect position to make sure he’s not being followed.”
“It could be a team, too. Spotters in the buildings, maybe security on the ground. An extraction crew. Decoys. Plus, we won’t know who we’re looking for until they make contact. Tactically, they have every advantage.”
“Can we do it?”
“Sure.” Quinn smiled. “We’re gas men.”
“Never liked that nickname.”
“You know where it’s from, right? Victorian era, the streetlights used to have to be extinguished by hand. The people that did it they called—”
“Yeah, I know, professor. My point is, doesn’t it seem a tad bloodthirsty?”
“Well, we terminate brilliants. We’re lifeguards at the gene pool.”
“So that’s a no.”
“That’s a no.”
“May the lord forgive you your wicked ways.” Cooper made the sign of the cross. “All right, you’re my planner. How do you want to set it up?”
“Teams there,” his partner gestured with the coffee cup, “and there. Put ’em in a FedEx truck and a phone company van. Plus a couple of agents dressed as civilians on the street. Women, preferably. If the bad guys are amateurs, they’ll be less likely to suspect women.”
“Are Luisa and Valerie back?”
“This afternoon, commercial flight. Luisa wanted to know, and I quote, ‘whose nutsack she needs to gargle’ to score a seat on the jet next time.”
“Woman has a way with words.”
“She’s a poet.” A bus pulled up to the corner, the brakes loud. Quinn gestured at it. “Check it.”
The side of the bus had been tagged with graffiti. Letters six-feet high, orange and purple. I AM JOHN SMITH.
“Are you kidding me?” Cooper shook his head.
“Been seeing that all over. Other night I was at a bar, somebody had put that on the wall above the urinal. And somebody else had added, ‘AND I AM PEEING ON MY SHOES.’”
Cooper laughed. “When do we get the teams in place?”
“We can get the phone company van here today, have the team sleep in it. The FedEx we’ll roll up half an hour before the meet. We’ll stuff it with packages, get an agent running in and out of the building. We should plant a tracker on Vasquez.”
“Two.”
“Two?”
“One on him, and one in the drive he’s supposed to hand off. Just in case. Also, I want snipers with clean firing lines.”
Quinn cocked his head. “I thought you wanted his contact alive.”
“I do. But if something goes wrong, I’d rather take them down here than let them get away. And I want an airship above. Infrared, image-recognition package, the whole works.”
“Why? Alex was the primary target, and we got her. That virus needs someone with high security clearance to activate it. What are the chances someone like that is going to come himself? It’ll be a lackey, someone disposable.” Quinn tossed his coffee cup, spread his hands. “I mean, you’re the boss. You want me to put this in play, I will. But isn’t this an awful lot of effort for one target?”
“It would be, yeah. Except that it’s not just a target. It’s a target that might lead us to John Smith.”