it in his carry-on. Over.”
The CIA agent running the surveillance team toggled back. “Stick with the stranger. See where he goes. If there’s a chance to grab the magazine, do so. Over.”
“Confirmed.”
Two members of the CIA surveillance team peeled away.
* * *
Daria left JFK without approaching the baggage carousel. It took her three cabs, a brisk walk, and a short subway ride before she found the perfect place to stop. The convergence of a convenience store, a small restaurant, and a construction project that had closed one of two traffic lanes, and a harried-looking police officer, bundled against the cold and trying to keep the sluggish traffic moving.
She located an ATM machine and dug through her tote for her collection of debit cards, which nestled beneath the removable cardboard bottom of the bag near the spade-shaped knife. She never traveled without them and never trusted them to her checked luggage. Each card featured a different name and different alphanumeric password, and each was linked to a different bank. She pulled a total of twelve hundred dollars out of the three accounts.
She dashed to the convenience store and found a large, cheap pair of sunglasses and a folding map of Manhattan. She headed to the restaurant and ordered French onion soup with warm corn bread and coffee latte. She chose a table where she could watch the irritable traffic cop standing between orange traffic cones, mouthing, “C’mon buddy … move it … let’s go…”
She ate without noticing the quality of the food. She studied the map. Colin Bennett-Smith had asked her to meet him at 2:00 P.M. on Forty-second Street, west of Lexington, at an entrance to Grand Central Terminal that hunkered beneath the Park Avenue overpass. She ran a trimmed, buffed fingernail over the spot, realizing she recognized it. There would be plenty of foot traffic and plenty of automobile traffic. It wasn’t a half-bad place for an impromptu meeting.
Except for the warning at the airport.
She glanced up at the traffic from time to time. The block provided virtually no parking and with construction slowing everything to a snail’s pace, it became unlikely she was being followed by a car that was circling the block. The irritated traffic cop would have noticed by now. And no customers younger than sixty had entered the restaurant since she arrived.
Adjacent to the Grand Central entrance that Bennett-Smith had indicated stood the H-shaped Grand Hyatt Hotel.
Daria paid cash for her food and carefully refolded her map. Outside the restaurant, she hailed a cab. “Fifty-first and Park, please.”
She climbed out at Saint Bart’s church and sauntered over to Lexington, pretending to talk on her cell phone, her wrist and forearm, along with the new sunglasses, in the line of sight between passing cars and her face. She took a quick right into the open-air market that led to Grand Central. The tunnel also featured a side entrance into the Hyatt. She paused over the produce bins for three minutes, watching through the smoked lenses for foot surveillance.
Satisfied, she dashed into the hotel lobby. It was packed with visitors and staff. She strode up to the concierge’s desk and, in her best midwestern accent, asked, “Hi! Can you tell me where the registration is for the convention?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Daria wore a stick-on name tag with a generically American name, plus a swag bag from an association of Midwestern insurance companies. As a translator, she had attended a dozen of these events and knew that half of the swag bags get thrown out almost unopened. And extra name tags were kept around for attendees who had not registered in advance.
Daria strode into the hotel’s mezzanine-level bar. It offered an extended view of 42nd Street. She scouted out the scene.
It looked cold outside. She hadn’t packed a coat for her trip from Los Angeles to Costa Rica—who would?
In her mind, she
The CIA agent running the surveillance team toggled back. “Stick with the stranger. See where he goes. If there’s a chance to grab the magazine, do so. Over.”
“Confirmed.”
Two members of the CIA surveillance team peeled away.
* * *
Daria left JFK without approaching the baggage carousel. It took her three cabs, a brisk walk, and a short subway ride before she found the perfect place to stop. The convergence of a convenience store, a small restaurant, and a construction project that had closed one of two traffic lanes, and a harried-looking police officer, bundled against the cold and trying to keep the sluggish traffic moving.
She located an ATM machine and dug through her tote for her collection of debit cards, which nestled beneath the removable cardboard bottom of the bag near the spade-shaped knife. She never traveled without them and never trusted them to her checked luggage. Each card featured a different name and different alphanumeric password, and each was linked to a different bank. She pulled a total of twelve hundred dollars out of the three accounts.
She dashed to the convenience store and found a large, cheap pair of sunglasses and a folding map of Manhattan. She headed to the restaurant and ordered French onion soup with warm corn bread and coffee latte. She chose a table where she could watch the irritable traffic cop standing between orange traffic cones, mouthing, “C’mon buddy … move it … let’s go…”
She ate without noticing the quality of the food. She studied the map. Colin Bennett-Smith had asked her to meet him at 2:00 P.M. on Forty-second Street, west of Lexington, at an entrance to Grand Central Terminal that hunkered beneath the Park Avenue overpass. She ran a trimmed, buffed fingernail over the spot, realizing she recognized it. There would be plenty of foot traffic and plenty of automobile traffic. It wasn’t a half-bad place for an impromptu meeting.
Except for the warning at the airport.
She glanced up at the traffic from time to time. The block provided virtually no parking and with construction slowing everything to a snail’s pace, it became unlikely she was being followed by a car that was circling the block. The irritated traffic cop would have noticed by now. And no customers younger than sixty had entered the restaurant since she arrived.
Adjacent to the Grand Central entrance that Bennett-Smith had indicated stood the H-shaped Grand Hyatt Hotel.
Daria paid cash for her food and carefully refolded her map. Outside the restaurant, she hailed a cab. “Fifty-first and Park, please.”
She climbed out at Saint Bart’s church and sauntered over to Lexington, pretending to talk on her cell phone, her wrist and forearm, along with the new sunglasses, in the line of sight between passing cars and her face. She took a quick right into the open-air market that led to Grand Central. The tunnel also featured a side entrance into the Hyatt. She paused over the produce bins for three minutes, watching through the smoked lenses for foot surveillance.
Satisfied, she dashed into the hotel lobby. It was packed with visitors and staff. She strode up to the concierge’s desk and, in her best midwestern accent, asked, “Hi! Can you tell me where the registration is for the convention?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Daria wore a stick-on name tag with a generically American name, plus a swag bag from an association of Midwestern insurance companies. As a translator, she had attended a dozen of these events and knew that half of the swag bags get thrown out almost unopened. And extra name tags were kept around for attendees who had not registered in advance.
Daria strode into the hotel’s mezzanine-level bar. It offered an extended view of 42nd Street. She scouted out the scene.
It looked cold outside. She hadn’t packed a coat for her trip from Los Angeles to Costa Rica—who would?
In her mind, she
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