Kill Shot

Chapter 27

WASHINGTON, D.C.

JIM Talmage chose the four-year-old metallic gray Toyota Camry because it was the most common make in the District and also the most common color. He had three dogs to choose from, and the choice was easy. The German shepherd would stand out too much and the white Scottish terrier only slightly less, so it would be his trusted mutt, Bert. Talmage had picked him up from a pound three years ago. Bert was only four months old at the time. The pound had no papers on him but a lot of opinions as to who his parents were. As Bert grew it became obvious to Talmage that he was a mix of border collie and Labrador. Of his three dogs, Bert was the smartest by a long shot. He had a black coat with a fist-sized patch of white at the chest, and the only reason he needed a leash was so as to not alarm one of the many fascists that walked the streets of the District looking to scream at anyone who didn't have his dog on a leash.

Bert sat near the trunk of the car while the sixty-one-year-old Talmage surveyed his equipment. He looked older today because he had put some powder in his hair giving it more of a gray look. All of his equipment was contained in four black cases that could easily be moved from one trunk to another. One case contained a variety of cameras, from big SLRs that could handle thick, long lenses to tiny cameras not much bigger than a man's thumb. Talmage chose the camera he would use, but didn't pick it up. Instead he opened a medium-sized square duffel bag with two zippers along the top. A piece of nylon fabric connected both zippers so they could be opened at the same time. Talmage pulled them back and the top of the duffel bag opened like a tongue. Neatly folded jackets were arranged inside along with a variety of hats. Talmage chose a houndstooth driving cap to start with and then he put on a trench coat that reversed from black to khaki. He chose the khaki side and moved on to another black case.

Inside were a variety of transmitters as big as a box of playing cards and as small as a ladybug. He considered his subject before deciding and then pulled on a thin pair of brown leather gloves and grabbed two options as well as a receiver. He didn't bother checking them, as he had done so back in his basement shop earlier in the day. The receiver was placed in the left pocket of the trench coat and the two transmitters in the right. Next he chose a medium-sized SLR. It was a Canon, the kind of camera carried by tourists who were serious about their photos, but not the kind of monster carried by a pro. He twisted a 135mm lens onto the end and hung the camera around his neck. He closed both cases and then his hand hovered over the third for a second. It was full of directional listening devices, and he wouldn't need any of them for the next hour. His hand stopped over the fourth case and he seemed hesitant to open it. He knew what was inside, he just wasn't sure he needed to be packing heat.

There had been a time in his career when he wouldn't have even considered not carrying, especially in the District. He had all the proper paperwork should the police stop him, but that wasn't why he carried. He carried because many of his subjects were under extreme pressure, the kind of pressure that could cause certain men to do stupid things if they discovered they were being followed. The other reason he carried in the District was the criminal element. D.C. had been in the top five in the nation for murders for more than a decade and running. It was the thugs that made him decide to punch in the code and pop the case. Inside were a Browning 1911 .45 caliber pistol, a Beretta 9mm pistol, and a customized Colt .45 caliber machine pistol with a collapsible butt stock and threads for a suppressor. Talmage grabbed the Browning. He was in a nice part of town, the part of town that the city's criminal element liked to visit to commit violent crimes.

The last things he grabbed were a copy of the New York Times, Bert's dog leash, and a plastic shopping bag. Talmage closed the trunk and activated his customized alarm with a key fob. Bert sat perfectly still while Talmage attached the leash. He even stopped slapping his tail against the pavement. The man and beast then started across the parking lot toward the trees, the walking and biking paths, and the dark brown Potomac River. Bert kept pace with his owner, never pulling on the leash or tripping him up by walking underfoot. When they made it to the first path, both dog and owner stopped. In unison they looked left and then right and then stepped off.

They continued to the next path and then onto the threadbare grass just beyond. Talmage surveyed the river. Twenty-five yards away a young couple in a kayak zigzagged their way upstream, laughing at their own inexperience. Out in the middle of the river a six-man crew slapped the water in unison as they flew back downstream. Closer to the far shore and a little to the north, two more kayaks were navigating the rocks. This time of year it wasn't too difficult, but come spring it would not be for the faint of heart. To his left a single scull worked its way against the current. Talmage looked down at his camera and flipped a couple of the dials before bringing the viewfinder up to his right eye. He swung casually to the left, zoomed in on the lone rower, and snapped three photos.

And then he and Bert started south on the walking path. As Talmage and his subject drew parallel Talmage kept his eyes front and center. Only an amateur would try to steal a look and risk exposing himself. For nine minutes, they walked the path, minding their own business and smiling back at the occasional dog owner who wanted to share their common association with a smile and a nod. They eventually reached their objective, a dumpy little place called Jack's Boathouse. The business model was fairly simple. Rowing, crewing, and sculling were popular on the East Coast, especially with those who went to certain upper-crust schools and even a few where drinking was more important than academics. A fair number of those graduates matriculated to D.C. after graduation, and rather than act like a gerbil on a wheel at their local health club, they came to the Potomac during the warmer months and got one of the best workouts known to man. Jack's catered to these people by renting various boats, sculls, and kayaks and also providing storage for those who didn't have the room at home for their equipment, or didn't want to bother lugging it back and forth.

Talmage had already learned two things about his subject: He owned his own single scull and he was too cheap to rent a spot for it, so he drove it back and forth, tying it to the roof of his eight-year-old sky blue Volvo station wagon. Talmage could now see the station wagon to his left parked among the various vehicles in Jack's packed parking lot. He checked upriver first to see the location of the subject. Talmage judged he was too far away to notice what he was about to do. And if he could see he'd be too out of breath and focused to notice what was going on nearly a mile downriver.

Talmage started talking to Bert, for no other reason than to buy some time. Surveillance was a tricky business, especially in this town. You never knew who else might be lurking about with eyes on your target. After a minute of looking crazy talking to his dog, Talmage thought he was clear. He started for the cars, not directly for the Volvo, but in its general direction. He casually nudged Bert where he wanted him to go, and when he had him in near-perfect position he gave a one-word command.

Bert stopped right on his mark and squatted down, his left rear leg tapping the ground as if he was priming a pump. A few seconds later, Bert was finished with his business and Talmage slid him a treat and said, "Good boy."

Bert took the treat and wagged his tail while his owner got down on one knee and pulled out the shopping bag. With the bag turned inside out, Talmage scooped up the pile and tied the bag in a knot. He transferred the bag to his left hand and then before standing he reached out and steadied himself on the front bumper of the Volvo. Even a trained professional would have had a hard time seeing what he'd done. Talmage then walked over to the nearest garbage can and deposited Bert's droppings. They started back up the path to the north. Up ahead through the trees Talmage could see the man in the lone scull turning around. He was just a speck at this distance. Talmage knew it was him only because he'd catalogued every person on the river and the walking and biking paths as well. He was as certain as he could be that he was the only person surveilling the deputy director of the CIA. It wasn't something that he'd been thrilled about at first. If the Gestapo at Langley or the FBI busted him, he would likely spend several long months behind bars being denied his legal right to counsel.

As to why he was following Cooke, Talmage had no idea, but he trusted the man who had given him the job. Talmage owed Thomas Stansfield his life, and he'd decided a long time ago that he would probably never be able to repay him, but showing him a little gratitude was at least a good start.