One Minute Out
“Wherever you go,” I say, “I’ll be watching.”
“Just don’t kill anyone.” She turns and starts walking out of the garage.
“No promises,” I mutter to myself, and I wonder if she’ll be singing a different tune before this evening is over.
Quickly I reach into my backpack, pull out a black T-shirt and a gray long-sleeved shirt, and reach for a ball cap, but decide against it. Nobody around here is wearing a ball cap, other than the occasional American tourist, so it won’t do a thing to help me blend in. Instead I grab a pair of eyeglasses with uncorrected lenses, and I put my pack over a shoulder. Before Talyssa disappears onto the street I am moving into position behind her.
* * *
• • •
She eats a leisurely dinner in an outdoor café, and then strolls the length of Stradun, the main street of the Old Town, where I almost lose her in the heavy crowd of tourists. But I have the benefit of being in comms with her, so I ask her to slow, and soon I’m back in position.
My eyes scan the scene robotically. I’m not looking for people watching her; that would be impossible in such a crowd. Instead my brain is taking in data quickly, only the information relevant to my work, and weeding out anything extraneous. As I shift my eyes to the left and right, I search for likely places for surveillance personnel to position themselves, and then I look at the clothes and hair and age and sex of the people in those places. I can narrow down ninety percent of the public in just a few seconds, and then my eyes lock onto anyone filling out a general threat profile.
The watchers, if there are any, could be either male or female, but they will probably be male, between twenty-five and fifty-five, wearing some sort of clothing a local would wear, and an overgarment or outer garment that covers their waist so they can hide communications gear and/or a weapon.
I pay special attention to those with facial hair, but also those with military-length haircuts, not because I think the Croatian military would be involved in this, but rather because those involved might be regular police, and they often have specific grooming standards that must be maintained.
Even if they are working for some mob element.
If someone fits all the criteria, then I’ll look at their attire, their shoes, their fitness level, and, if they’re wearing them, their sunglasses and their watch.
Trust me, it doesn’t matter where they are from, from Brazil to Hong Kong, there is a look to those in the game.
Not me; I’m careful. I’m not wearing anything tacti-cool and I’m not built up like a linebacker. And, unlike others who do this sort of thing, I keep my eyes moving, but my head doesn’t swivel left and right like I’m guarding the damn president.
But I’m on the lookout for those who do.
It’s exhausting work. My eyes and my brain tire, but I’ve been doing it for so many years I know I can keep it up as long as I have to.
As Talyssa turns off Stradun to head south, I don’t see a tail, but I do see two men who might be interested in her. They aren’t walking behind, but are instead leaning against the wall of the old bell tower between a pair of arched passages that lead directly to the Old Port, a marina just outside the walls of the Old Town. Both are in their thirties; they are thick, tough-looking guys with close-cropped hair, jeans, and tracksuit tops. They’re just smoking and talking, but my eyes lock onto them because of their appearance, and once Talyssa passes their position, I see them turn their heads her way and focus on her exclusively.
Got ’em, I think, but I quickly check my enthusiasm. These guys look like cops, and I’m on the lookout for dirty cops, but these could just as easily be clean cops unaligned with and unaware of the pipeline, ordered by their superiors to find Corbu in the Old Town to make certain she is, indeed, alone.
I want to tail or capture dirty cops, and I don’t know if these two are bad guys or just two dudes on the job for what they assume to be legit reasons.
The men do not follow the girl, but I see one of them speak into a mobile phone, and I imagine he’s notified someone else ahead of Talyssa so that person can pick up the surveillance.
I normally wouldn’t walk right past two guys who are either opposition assholes or else doing the bidding of opposition assholes, but I don’t have time to take this slow, because for all I know they’ve radioed ahead to a snatch team, and their aim is to roll up my agent before she even arrives at her room.
That would be ballsy on their part; it’s only nine p.m., the sky has cleared, and there’s still some light out, and the narrow passages of the Old Town are full of shoppers and diners and tourists. But they could try it, and I can’t let them succeed if they do.
I slip past the two men; they are still watching Talyssa as she disappears in a crowd up a passage leading to a long and high stairwell to the south in the direction of her hotel.
The men take no notice of me at all.
A minute later I’m heading up the stairs behind the Europol analyst, and I see a second pair of men, so identical to the first it’s almost laughable. These two are also static, and as she passes their position, I see one of them reach for his phone, then begin speaking into it.
I’d lay money on the fact that there is at least one more set of goons up closer to her flat, and this guy in front of me is in comms with them now.
Again, I can’t be certain their job isn’t to pick up the Romanian criminal analyst, but I can’t imagine why, if they were ready to detain her now, they would let her walk past four cops not far from the exits of the pedestrian and walled-in Old Town, only to be detained by more guys hundreds of stair steps higher and farther away from the exits.
It would serve no purpose, I tell myself, and then I rethink things and pick up my pace even more, because the third group could potentially be hitters. Assassins. And if this is the case, they’d have every reason to kill Talyssa Corbu far from the heavy pedestrian traffic of Stradun.
I continue up the stairs, and I check in with the girl.
“You doing okay?”
Softly she answers; I can hear the labor of her climbing the stairs in her voice. “You should know how I’m doing. You said you would be watching me.”
“I am watching you. No, don’t turn around, just trust me.”
“Trust again,” she mumbles. Then, “I don’t see anyone following me or paying me any attention. I’ve been stealing glances in windows and such.”
I roll my eyes as I move in her direction. “Leave that part to me, please. Just walk.”
“Trust you, you mean.” There is a mocking tone in her voice.
I consider telling her about the surveillance I saw, but I don’t want to scare her. Instead I just say, “Don’t go straight to your flat. Make your next right, follow that alley for a couple of minutes, give me time to get ahead of you and look at the area up there.”