The fractured, p.25
The Fractured, page 25
part #12 of Jonathan Quinn Series
“Much traffic now,” the man replied. “An hour and fifteen minutes. Maybe a little more.”
Either way, they wouldn’t reach the meeting until after 6:30, which would already be thirty minutes later than planned.
“Let them know,” Sandstrom said to Johnson.
As Johnson sent the text to St. Amand’s people, Sandstrom settled back in his seat and closed his eyes.
*
Imrich Kysely had dropped off Havel Zima at the private jet terminal thirty minutes before Sandstrom’s plane touched down. Most of St. Amand’s security force was Bulgarian, but the two men were from Slovakia and always worked as a team, since they could never make heads or tails of what the others were saying.
While the plane was in the air, Havel had witnessed the arrival of three empty passenger vans. When the drivers had gone into the terminal, Havel took a jaunt into the parking area, confirmed one of the vans had the same plate number as what Drake had told him to look for, and then headed back inside.
The terminal itself was sparsely populated—a couple of groups making their way to the waiting area for flights, a pair of women at a ground transportation information desk, several others at a passenger checkin counter, the usual security guards and other terminal personnel, and the drivers of the three vans standing outside Customs and Immigration.
Having seen everything he needed to, Havel was pulling out his phone to let Imrich know it was time to pick him up when two men entered the building.
Americans.
Havel could spot their innate sense of entitlement a million miles away. But they weren’t tourists. An air of authority clung to this pair like a second skin.
The men walked directly to the checkin counter and spoke to one of the attendants. She nodded several times and picked up a phone.
Havel wandered toward the counter, staring at his phone like he was checking his messages.
“Ah, okay,” the woman said in Italian. “Thank you.” She hung up. “The plane should be on the ground in ten minutes.”
“Thank you. We appreciate your help,” one of the men said. His Italian was very good, but it had the accent of an American.
Havel’s eyes were still on his phone when the men turned. He snapped a couple of pictures, waited several seconds after they walked by, and followed.
The men headed toward the door. The moment they stepped outside, Havel increased his pace. When he reached the exit, he spotted one of the men getting into a car in the parking area. Presumably the other man had already climbed inside.
Havel waited just inside the door to see if they left, but the car stayed where it was.
The plane should be on the ground in ten minutes, the woman had said.
That was the same time Sandstrom’s plane was due.
A bit past the ten-minute mark, Havel’s phone buzzed with a text. It was from Drake and had been sent to both him and Imrich.
Sandstrom’s plane has landed.
Havel called Imrich and had his partner pick him up. They waited at a turnout area from where they could see both the parking lot and the terminal.
Seventeen minutes later, a small group of people walked out of the terminal and into the parking area. A few minutes after that, the van with the matching plate number began moving.
Havel trained his binoculars on the sedan he’d seen the two Americans enter, and started counting. When he reached thirteen, the sedan backed out of its spot and headed to the exit, where the van was waiting for a gate to rise and let it out.
He called Drake. “You were right. It looks like our friends have picked up a tail.”
*
Drake was dismayed, though not surprised, by Havel’s information. The possibility of someone following Sandstrom was the reason Havel and Imrich were there in the first place.
“You’re sure Sandstrom doesn’t know about it?” he asked.
“I think not,” Havel said. “They made sure they were out of sight when Sandstrom arrived.”
“What did they look like?”
“Hold on. I’ll send you pictures.”
A few seconds later, Drake’s phone vibrated. This was why Drake liked Havel and Imrich so much. They were thorough and efficient. He checked the pictures, but had never seen the men before. He did recognize their look, however. Law enforcement, or perhaps military. He forwarded both photos to one of his subordinates, with instructions to identify the men.
“I want you to stop that sedan as soon as an opportunity arises. It needs to be subtle, but I don’t want them getting anywhere near De Luca’s.”
“We’re on it.”
Drake hung up, thought for a moment, and made a call. “I need you to coordinate an emergency transfer. And it needs to happen in the next twenty minutes.”
*
As FBI liaison officers assigned to the US embassy in Rome, Francisco Ross and Oren Barham typically spent most of their time coordinating and consulting with Italian authorities on various issues. While this proved to be interesting at times, both men were itching to get back to the States, where they would be more visible to the higher-ups and thus increase their chances at promotion.
Occasionally they’d receive calls from American field offices, asking for their assistance on investigations that had spilled into Ross and Barham’s neck of the woods. Most of the time, this would involve tracking down witnesses no longer in the US and interviewing them. Rarer were the calls like the one they’d received earlier that day.
A tip had been received that a man on the FBI’s watch list was making a clandestine trip to Rome on a private airplane, scheduled to arrive later that afternoon. A picture of the man was sent, along with instructions to follow and observe only.
This felt like real work, and both men jumped into the task with gusto.
At the private aircraft terminal, they confirmed the plane was about to land and returned to their car, where they watched the building’s entrance for the suspect.
“That’s him,” Barham said, as the man from the picture exited the terminal thirty minutes later with three others.
“I concur,” Ross said. He texted the agent in the States that the tip had been correct.
Barham and Ross watched the group get into a van with tinted windows a couple of rows over. When it moved, Barham waited a few seconds before he started the engine and pulled out of their spot. They exited the lot, two vehicles behind the van.
As they drove out of the airport, neither man noticed the car parked off to the side. But even if they had, they would have thought nothing of it. There had been no mention, in the phone call or subsequent email, of any other parties who might have been interested in the subject.
*
“Mr. Sandstrom?”
Sandstrom slowly opened his eyes. There hadn’t been enough time for him to fall asleep, but he’d been close.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Johnson said.
Sandstrom sat up, thoughts of resting forgotten. Before he could ask what his assistant meant, Johnson held out his phone so Sandstrom could see the text. “From Mr. St. Amand’s contact person.”
You are being followed. It will be taken care of, but we
feel it would be prudent for you to switch vehicles.
Please instruct your driver to proceed to this location:
In a bubble below the text was a map with a marker denoting the new destination.
Sandstrom glanced out the back window at the crowded, two-lane divided highway. “Which one?”
“They didn’t say.”
Sandstrom turned back around. They had taken precautions to ensure their departure went unnoticed, but apparently the safeguards hadn’t been enough.
“Maybe St. Amand’s playing games with us,” Holt suggested. “Keep us on our toes.”
Sandstrom frowned. “Why the hell would he screw with us? We’re a client.”
“One he’s not happy with.”
“If he was going to do something, it would be after we meet, not before.”
If Holt hadn’t been married to Sandstrom’s daughter, Sandstrom would have fired him on the spot. Not the first time he’d had that thought.
“Should we follow the instructions or return to the airport?” Johnson asked.
God only knew how long Freedom Day would be delayed if they missed this meeting. The deal with St. Amand needed to be shored up now so that the supply lines would be in place in time. “We do as they say.”
*
While Imrich maneuvered their sedan close to the Americans’ car, he and Havel discussed several options for stopping the others. Once they had their plan, Havel studied the map and picked out the best location for the diversion. Imrich worked his way through traffic until they were directly in front of their target.
“Any time now,” Havel said.
Imrich smiled. “Hang on.”
Havel was sure that in an alternate life, Imrich would have driven Formula One race cars or stunt cars. Imrich had an instinctive feel for anything with an engine. It didn’t matter if it was his first time behind the wheel of a specific car or not. Within minutes he would master it better than anyone who’d ever driven the vehicle.
That’s why Havel was not the least bit nervous when Imrich sideswiped a delivery truck.
*
“Whoa! Whoa!” Ross yelled as his hand shot out to the dash.
The car in front of them had veered into a truck in the next lane, then ricocheted back in front of them, and begun to spin.
“Slow down!”
His words came too late.
*
Havel may not have been scared, but he wasn’t stupid. He gripped the handle above the door with both hands to avoid sliding into Imrich’s lap.
With expert precision, Imrich tapped the brakes, giving their sedan just enough momentum to smack into the front of the Americans’ sedan.
Everything became a blur of movement, dancing to a soundtrack of screeching brakes and twisting metal. When the spinning finally stopped, Imrich and Havel’s car was sitting diagonally across the highway, blocking all lanes.
Havel blinked twice, took a deep breath, and looked around for the other vehicle.
The Americans were several meters away, their car lying on its roof against the right-side guardrail. Havel could see one of the men dangling upside down in his seat. The other man wasn’t visible. People from vehicles behind the mess hurried toward the accident. The majority headed toward the flipped car, while a trio of men approached Havel and Imrich’s sedan.
One of the men peered through the broken passenger window. “Are you all right? Anyone hurt?”
Other than a few dull aches and pains, Havel felt fine. “I’m okay.” He looked over at Imrich. “You?”
Imrich nodded. “Am okay, too.”
“What about the people in the other car?” Havel asked, acting concerned.
“I’ll check. You should probably stay in your car until help arrives.”
“Good idea.”
As soon as the man was gone, Havel texted Drake.
The tail has been removed.
The Good Samaritan returned a moment later.
Apparently the men in the sedan had not fared as well as Havel and Imrich. The driver had apparently broken a couple of ribs, and done something to his left arm that didn’t look good. His passenger was unconscious. Which, the Samaritan told them, was probably a good thing given the compound fracture on his leg.
When Havel had another free moment, he texted this information to his boss as well.
*
The transfer from the van to an SUV that would serve as Sandstrom’s new ride was accomplished in an efficient manner.
Not long after they were on the road again, Johnson received a text from St. Amand’s people. The car that had been tailing them was no longer a problem. Sandstrom was relieved, though the fact there had been a tail at all was still troubling, and made him wonder if he had a leak in his organization who had passed on his travel plans to someone, probably law enforcement.
Just over an hour later, the SUV stopped in front of the restaurant where the meeting was to take place. Two men who had been standing at the curb opened the passenger-side doors.
Johnson exited the front seat, while Sandstrom and his son-in-law climbed out the back.
A third man standing nearby turned out to be someone Sandstrom had met.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Sandstrom,” Drake said, holding out a hand. “Welcome to Rome.”
“Thank you,” Sandstrom said as the two men shook.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Drake said. “De Luca’s is one of Mr. St. Amand’s favorites.”
“I am.” Sandstrom motioned toward the entrance. “Shall we?”
Drake raised a palm in front of Sandstrom. “One moment, please.”
He nodded at one of the men with him. The man removed something from his jacket that looked like a cellphone.
“This will only take a moment,” Drake said.
The man holding the device stepped in close and started to move it downward. The thing was obviously some kind of bug detector.
“Wait a minute,” Sandstrom said, taking a step back. “You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not a matter of trust, Mr. Sandstrom,” Drake said. “This is standard procedure. No scan, no meeting.”
Sandstrom grimaced, but stepped forward again. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
Scan Guy resumed where he’d left off, then knelt and checked the front of Sandstrom’s pants.
When he finished, he said, “Please turn around.”
Sandstrom turned to face the SUV. After he was determined clean, Scan Guy moved on to Johnson and Holt. Both were also cleared.
“Wonderful,” Drake said. “Please, follow me.”
*
Orlando, Jar, and Daeng had spread out across the roof to concentrate on different parts of the street—Daeng on the restaurant, Jar on the road to the right, and Orlando the road to the left. Daeng was the first to spot something of note when three of St. Amand’s men had stepped outside and taken up positions near the curb, similar to the guys who had been waiting when St. Amand arrived. Daeng reported that one was St. Amand’s driver.
Ninety seconds later, Orlando clicked on her mic. “Potential vehicle.” An SUV had turned onto the section of road she was watching, and was heading toward the restaurant. When it slowed and angled toward the curb, she said, “Looks like this is it.”
Two of the waiting men opened the SUV’s curbside doors. Orlando saw three men climb out. Two looked to be in their mid-thirties, one of whom was carrying a large, accounting-style briefcase. The third man was older, late fifties at least. She took pictures of each.
One of St. Amand’s men, the big guy, stepped forward and shook hands with the older man. Instead of leading them inside, though, he signaled one of his associates. That man pulled something out of a pocket and moved it up and down the older man’s body.
“Dammit,” she said. “They’re doing a bug check.”
In a hushed voice, Howard asked from inside the restaurant, “Do I abort or still go?”
Orlando thought for a moment. The scan meant St. Amand was very cautious. Perhaps this initial check would be it, but what if they performed a second one inside? The cameras Jar had placed in the hallways had auto shutoff capabilities. Howard’s bug did not.
But there was a way to make this work, one that would also buy them some extra insurance in case of a second check.
“Still a go,” she said. “But not any of the people who just arrived. You need to tag one of St. Amand’s men. The big one if you can. As soon as you do that, get the hell out of there.”
“Copy.”
The other two who had arrived with Sandstrom underwent the scans, then everyone headed for the restaurant door.
“Here they come.”
*
Drake led Sandstrom and the others into De Luca’s.
The front dining room was three-quarters full. A few of the customers looked over to see who had come in, but none let their gaze linger.
“This way,” Drake said. He walked toward the archway leading into the other dining areas.
He was halfway across the front room when a man sitting at one of the tables rose. The guy hadn’t been facing the door so when he turned to leave, he nearly crashed right into Drake.
The man grabbed Drake out of reflex. “Excuse me.”
Drake whirled on him and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry. Lost my balance.”
Drake looked the man up and down, and then he reached down to make sure his wallet was still in his pocket. “Be more careful,” he snarled, and started walking again.
Either way, they wouldn’t reach the meeting until after 6:30, which would already be thirty minutes later than planned.
“Let them know,” Sandstrom said to Johnson.
As Johnson sent the text to St. Amand’s people, Sandstrom settled back in his seat and closed his eyes.
*
Imrich Kysely had dropped off Havel Zima at the private jet terminal thirty minutes before Sandstrom’s plane touched down. Most of St. Amand’s security force was Bulgarian, but the two men were from Slovakia and always worked as a team, since they could never make heads or tails of what the others were saying.
While the plane was in the air, Havel had witnessed the arrival of three empty passenger vans. When the drivers had gone into the terminal, Havel took a jaunt into the parking area, confirmed one of the vans had the same plate number as what Drake had told him to look for, and then headed back inside.
The terminal itself was sparsely populated—a couple of groups making their way to the waiting area for flights, a pair of women at a ground transportation information desk, several others at a passenger checkin counter, the usual security guards and other terminal personnel, and the drivers of the three vans standing outside Customs and Immigration.
Having seen everything he needed to, Havel was pulling out his phone to let Imrich know it was time to pick him up when two men entered the building.
Americans.
Havel could spot their innate sense of entitlement a million miles away. But they weren’t tourists. An air of authority clung to this pair like a second skin.
The men walked directly to the checkin counter and spoke to one of the attendants. She nodded several times and picked up a phone.
Havel wandered toward the counter, staring at his phone like he was checking his messages.
“Ah, okay,” the woman said in Italian. “Thank you.” She hung up. “The plane should be on the ground in ten minutes.”
“Thank you. We appreciate your help,” one of the men said. His Italian was very good, but it had the accent of an American.
Havel’s eyes were still on his phone when the men turned. He snapped a couple of pictures, waited several seconds after they walked by, and followed.
The men headed toward the door. The moment they stepped outside, Havel increased his pace. When he reached the exit, he spotted one of the men getting into a car in the parking area. Presumably the other man had already climbed inside.
Havel waited just inside the door to see if they left, but the car stayed where it was.
The plane should be on the ground in ten minutes, the woman had said.
That was the same time Sandstrom’s plane was due.
A bit past the ten-minute mark, Havel’s phone buzzed with a text. It was from Drake and had been sent to both him and Imrich.
Sandstrom’s plane has landed.
Havel called Imrich and had his partner pick him up. They waited at a turnout area from where they could see both the parking lot and the terminal.
Seventeen minutes later, a small group of people walked out of the terminal and into the parking area. A few minutes after that, the van with the matching plate number began moving.
Havel trained his binoculars on the sedan he’d seen the two Americans enter, and started counting. When he reached thirteen, the sedan backed out of its spot and headed to the exit, where the van was waiting for a gate to rise and let it out.
He called Drake. “You were right. It looks like our friends have picked up a tail.”
*
Drake was dismayed, though not surprised, by Havel’s information. The possibility of someone following Sandstrom was the reason Havel and Imrich were there in the first place.
“You’re sure Sandstrom doesn’t know about it?” he asked.
“I think not,” Havel said. “They made sure they were out of sight when Sandstrom arrived.”
“What did they look like?”
“Hold on. I’ll send you pictures.”
A few seconds later, Drake’s phone vibrated. This was why Drake liked Havel and Imrich so much. They were thorough and efficient. He checked the pictures, but had never seen the men before. He did recognize their look, however. Law enforcement, or perhaps military. He forwarded both photos to one of his subordinates, with instructions to identify the men.
“I want you to stop that sedan as soon as an opportunity arises. It needs to be subtle, but I don’t want them getting anywhere near De Luca’s.”
“We’re on it.”
Drake hung up, thought for a moment, and made a call. “I need you to coordinate an emergency transfer. And it needs to happen in the next twenty minutes.”
*
As FBI liaison officers assigned to the US embassy in Rome, Francisco Ross and Oren Barham typically spent most of their time coordinating and consulting with Italian authorities on various issues. While this proved to be interesting at times, both men were itching to get back to the States, where they would be more visible to the higher-ups and thus increase their chances at promotion.
Occasionally they’d receive calls from American field offices, asking for their assistance on investigations that had spilled into Ross and Barham’s neck of the woods. Most of the time, this would involve tracking down witnesses no longer in the US and interviewing them. Rarer were the calls like the one they’d received earlier that day.
A tip had been received that a man on the FBI’s watch list was making a clandestine trip to Rome on a private airplane, scheduled to arrive later that afternoon. A picture of the man was sent, along with instructions to follow and observe only.
This felt like real work, and both men jumped into the task with gusto.
At the private aircraft terminal, they confirmed the plane was about to land and returned to their car, where they watched the building’s entrance for the suspect.
“That’s him,” Barham said, as the man from the picture exited the terminal thirty minutes later with three others.
“I concur,” Ross said. He texted the agent in the States that the tip had been correct.
Barham and Ross watched the group get into a van with tinted windows a couple of rows over. When it moved, Barham waited a few seconds before he started the engine and pulled out of their spot. They exited the lot, two vehicles behind the van.
As they drove out of the airport, neither man noticed the car parked off to the side. But even if they had, they would have thought nothing of it. There had been no mention, in the phone call or subsequent email, of any other parties who might have been interested in the subject.
*
“Mr. Sandstrom?”
Sandstrom slowly opened his eyes. There hadn’t been enough time for him to fall asleep, but he’d been close.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Johnson said.
Sandstrom sat up, thoughts of resting forgotten. Before he could ask what his assistant meant, Johnson held out his phone so Sandstrom could see the text. “From Mr. St. Amand’s contact person.”
You are being followed. It will be taken care of, but we
feel it would be prudent for you to switch vehicles.
Please instruct your driver to proceed to this location:
In a bubble below the text was a map with a marker denoting the new destination.
Sandstrom glanced out the back window at the crowded, two-lane divided highway. “Which one?”
“They didn’t say.”
Sandstrom turned back around. They had taken precautions to ensure their departure went unnoticed, but apparently the safeguards hadn’t been enough.
“Maybe St. Amand’s playing games with us,” Holt suggested. “Keep us on our toes.”
Sandstrom frowned. “Why the hell would he screw with us? We’re a client.”
“One he’s not happy with.”
“If he was going to do something, it would be after we meet, not before.”
If Holt hadn’t been married to Sandstrom’s daughter, Sandstrom would have fired him on the spot. Not the first time he’d had that thought.
“Should we follow the instructions or return to the airport?” Johnson asked.
God only knew how long Freedom Day would be delayed if they missed this meeting. The deal with St. Amand needed to be shored up now so that the supply lines would be in place in time. “We do as they say.”
*
While Imrich maneuvered their sedan close to the Americans’ car, he and Havel discussed several options for stopping the others. Once they had their plan, Havel studied the map and picked out the best location for the diversion. Imrich worked his way through traffic until they were directly in front of their target.
“Any time now,” Havel said.
Imrich smiled. “Hang on.”
Havel was sure that in an alternate life, Imrich would have driven Formula One race cars or stunt cars. Imrich had an instinctive feel for anything with an engine. It didn’t matter if it was his first time behind the wheel of a specific car or not. Within minutes he would master it better than anyone who’d ever driven the vehicle.
That’s why Havel was not the least bit nervous when Imrich sideswiped a delivery truck.
*
“Whoa! Whoa!” Ross yelled as his hand shot out to the dash.
The car in front of them had veered into a truck in the next lane, then ricocheted back in front of them, and begun to spin.
“Slow down!”
His words came too late.
*
Havel may not have been scared, but he wasn’t stupid. He gripped the handle above the door with both hands to avoid sliding into Imrich’s lap.
With expert precision, Imrich tapped the brakes, giving their sedan just enough momentum to smack into the front of the Americans’ sedan.
Everything became a blur of movement, dancing to a soundtrack of screeching brakes and twisting metal. When the spinning finally stopped, Imrich and Havel’s car was sitting diagonally across the highway, blocking all lanes.
Havel blinked twice, took a deep breath, and looked around for the other vehicle.
The Americans were several meters away, their car lying on its roof against the right-side guardrail. Havel could see one of the men dangling upside down in his seat. The other man wasn’t visible. People from vehicles behind the mess hurried toward the accident. The majority headed toward the flipped car, while a trio of men approached Havel and Imrich’s sedan.
One of the men peered through the broken passenger window. “Are you all right? Anyone hurt?”
Other than a few dull aches and pains, Havel felt fine. “I’m okay.” He looked over at Imrich. “You?”
Imrich nodded. “Am okay, too.”
“What about the people in the other car?” Havel asked, acting concerned.
“I’ll check. You should probably stay in your car until help arrives.”
“Good idea.”
As soon as the man was gone, Havel texted Drake.
The tail has been removed.
The Good Samaritan returned a moment later.
Apparently the men in the sedan had not fared as well as Havel and Imrich. The driver had apparently broken a couple of ribs, and done something to his left arm that didn’t look good. His passenger was unconscious. Which, the Samaritan told them, was probably a good thing given the compound fracture on his leg.
When Havel had another free moment, he texted this information to his boss as well.
*
The transfer from the van to an SUV that would serve as Sandstrom’s new ride was accomplished in an efficient manner.
Not long after they were on the road again, Johnson received a text from St. Amand’s people. The car that had been tailing them was no longer a problem. Sandstrom was relieved, though the fact there had been a tail at all was still troubling, and made him wonder if he had a leak in his organization who had passed on his travel plans to someone, probably law enforcement.
Just over an hour later, the SUV stopped in front of the restaurant where the meeting was to take place. Two men who had been standing at the curb opened the passenger-side doors.
Johnson exited the front seat, while Sandstrom and his son-in-law climbed out the back.
A third man standing nearby turned out to be someone Sandstrom had met.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Sandstrom,” Drake said, holding out a hand. “Welcome to Rome.”
“Thank you,” Sandstrom said as the two men shook.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Drake said. “De Luca’s is one of Mr. St. Amand’s favorites.”
“I am.” Sandstrom motioned toward the entrance. “Shall we?”
Drake raised a palm in front of Sandstrom. “One moment, please.”
He nodded at one of the men with him. The man removed something from his jacket that looked like a cellphone.
“This will only take a moment,” Drake said.
The man holding the device stepped in close and started to move it downward. The thing was obviously some kind of bug detector.
“Wait a minute,” Sandstrom said, taking a step back. “You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not a matter of trust, Mr. Sandstrom,” Drake said. “This is standard procedure. No scan, no meeting.”
Sandstrom grimaced, but stepped forward again. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
Scan Guy resumed where he’d left off, then knelt and checked the front of Sandstrom’s pants.
When he finished, he said, “Please turn around.”
Sandstrom turned to face the SUV. After he was determined clean, Scan Guy moved on to Johnson and Holt. Both were also cleared.
“Wonderful,” Drake said. “Please, follow me.”
*
Orlando, Jar, and Daeng had spread out across the roof to concentrate on different parts of the street—Daeng on the restaurant, Jar on the road to the right, and Orlando the road to the left. Daeng was the first to spot something of note when three of St. Amand’s men had stepped outside and taken up positions near the curb, similar to the guys who had been waiting when St. Amand arrived. Daeng reported that one was St. Amand’s driver.
Ninety seconds later, Orlando clicked on her mic. “Potential vehicle.” An SUV had turned onto the section of road she was watching, and was heading toward the restaurant. When it slowed and angled toward the curb, she said, “Looks like this is it.”
Two of the waiting men opened the SUV’s curbside doors. Orlando saw three men climb out. Two looked to be in their mid-thirties, one of whom was carrying a large, accounting-style briefcase. The third man was older, late fifties at least. She took pictures of each.
One of St. Amand’s men, the big guy, stepped forward and shook hands with the older man. Instead of leading them inside, though, he signaled one of his associates. That man pulled something out of a pocket and moved it up and down the older man’s body.
“Dammit,” she said. “They’re doing a bug check.”
In a hushed voice, Howard asked from inside the restaurant, “Do I abort or still go?”
Orlando thought for a moment. The scan meant St. Amand was very cautious. Perhaps this initial check would be it, but what if they performed a second one inside? The cameras Jar had placed in the hallways had auto shutoff capabilities. Howard’s bug did not.
But there was a way to make this work, one that would also buy them some extra insurance in case of a second check.
“Still a go,” she said. “But not any of the people who just arrived. You need to tag one of St. Amand’s men. The big one if you can. As soon as you do that, get the hell out of there.”
“Copy.”
The other two who had arrived with Sandstrom underwent the scans, then everyone headed for the restaurant door.
“Here they come.”
*
Drake led Sandstrom and the others into De Luca’s.
The front dining room was three-quarters full. A few of the customers looked over to see who had come in, but none let their gaze linger.
“This way,” Drake said. He walked toward the archway leading into the other dining areas.
He was halfway across the front room when a man sitting at one of the tables rose. The guy hadn’t been facing the door so when he turned to leave, he nearly crashed right into Drake.
The man grabbed Drake out of reflex. “Excuse me.”
Drake whirled on him and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry. Lost my balance.”
Drake looked the man up and down, and then he reached down to make sure his wallet was still in his pocket. “Be more careful,” he snarled, and started walking again.
