the intercom, I took one final look out the window before declaring victory. And of course that’s when I saw the bloodhound leaping down the steps, taking them three at a time.
Didn’t look like a government agent—jeans, sweater, and a brown sport coat—but that was the point. The best ones were chameleons; they blended in and avoided notice. He could have been a computer programmer running to catch a train. Or a college professor scrambling to pick up his arriving fiancée. But luckily even the good ones have tells. He reached up to his naked ear at one point—mouth moving—while dodging pedestrians in the concourse, and that’s all I needed to see. Programmers and professors don’t communicate with invisible earbud microphones.
Sure enough, he maneuvered through the crowd directly to track nine. I saw him flash an ID to the conductor outside the last car at the far end of the platform, gaining entry only seconds before the train started the slow lurch out of the station. In spite of my glass-half-empty nature, I was pleased. They couldn’t know I was on the train; they only suspected . They did the logical thing and sent a runner after the next departure—there wasn’t time to check surveillance cameras or talk to witnesses. No doubt other runners were being dispatched to the next few departing trains as well.
The true dilemma would have been if he’d missed the train, or if I’d been forced to drop him on the platform. They’d have no choice but to call ahead to Madrid and have another team waiting for me, at which point I’d have to start all over again. But this turn of events . . . this was an opportunity to make sure I got away clean. I felt a little sorry for the panting bloodhound. If he knew I was on the train, he’d think I was cornered, which could not have been more wrong.
He was trapped with me .
CHAPTER 5
I figured my bloodhound would take a few minutes to calm down and rest before methodically searching the cars. His goal would be to identify me, and then report back—no contact. I, of course, was in the mood for contact, so I repositioned myself in the front car to guarantee some. I sat in the very far end, still facing the rear so I could see him coming. I grabbed a discarded newspaper from the seat next to me and punched a small hole in the middle. When seated, holding the paper just right, I could see the access door at the other end of the car through the hole. Since I was at the extreme end of the car, with nothing beyond me but the engine, the operative couldn’t walk past me to sneak a look . . . he’d have to be creative. Sure enough, he didn’t disappoint.
It took him less than five minutes to make it all the way through the train to my car. Through the peekaboo hole, I saw him work through the aisle taking care to check every row for potential hideaways or sleepers. For two passengers whose faces were obscured like mine, he stopped and spoke briefly to each one. I saw them lower their papers and produce their tickets, to which he gave a perfunctory smile and nod before moving on. His substitute-conductor bit accomplished the goal with a minimum of fuss. In moments, he made his way to the end of the car: just me and my newspaper and no other passengers within four rows.
“Die Fahrkarte, bitte,” he asked. A young voice, the words more of a challenge than request.
I snapped my paper down fast, revealing the broadest smile I couldmuster.
“Hi! How’s it going?”
The look on his face was priceless. I could actually see awareness spread over his features, starting with his eyes. As they made their transition from cups to saucers, his mouth dropped open and issued a quiet exhale loaded with “Holy shit!” His face matched his voice; young, no more than thirty. For an instant, he paused, stupefied—two feet from a rogue asset and no clue what to do. Then his instincts took over, and he immediately made poor decisions. Sliding one foot back and turning sideways
Didn’t look like a government agent—jeans, sweater, and a brown sport coat—but that was the point. The best ones were chameleons; they blended in and avoided notice. He could have been a computer programmer running to catch a train. Or a college professor scrambling to pick up his arriving fiancée. But luckily even the good ones have tells. He reached up to his naked ear at one point—mouth moving—while dodging pedestrians in the concourse, and that’s all I needed to see. Programmers and professors don’t communicate with invisible earbud microphones.
Sure enough, he maneuvered through the crowd directly to track nine. I saw him flash an ID to the conductor outside the last car at the far end of the platform, gaining entry only seconds before the train started the slow lurch out of the station. In spite of my glass-half-empty nature, I was pleased. They couldn’t know I was on the train; they only suspected . They did the logical thing and sent a runner after the next departure—there wasn’t time to check surveillance cameras or talk to witnesses. No doubt other runners were being dispatched to the next few departing trains as well.
The true dilemma would have been if he’d missed the train, or if I’d been forced to drop him on the platform. They’d have no choice but to call ahead to Madrid and have another team waiting for me, at which point I’d have to start all over again. But this turn of events . . . this was an opportunity to make sure I got away clean. I felt a little sorry for the panting bloodhound. If he knew I was on the train, he’d think I was cornered, which could not have been more wrong.
He was trapped with me .
CHAPTER 5
I figured my bloodhound would take a few minutes to calm down and rest before methodically searching the cars. His goal would be to identify me, and then report back—no contact. I, of course, was in the mood for contact, so I repositioned myself in the front car to guarantee some. I sat in the very far end, still facing the rear so I could see him coming. I grabbed a discarded newspaper from the seat next to me and punched a small hole in the middle. When seated, holding the paper just right, I could see the access door at the other end of the car through the hole. Since I was at the extreme end of the car, with nothing beyond me but the engine, the operative couldn’t walk past me to sneak a look . . . he’d have to be creative. Sure enough, he didn’t disappoint.
It took him less than five minutes to make it all the way through the train to my car. Through the peekaboo hole, I saw him work through the aisle taking care to check every row for potential hideaways or sleepers. For two passengers whose faces were obscured like mine, he stopped and spoke briefly to each one. I saw them lower their papers and produce their tickets, to which he gave a perfunctory smile and nod before moving on. His substitute-conductor bit accomplished the goal with a minimum of fuss. In moments, he made his way to the end of the car: just me and my newspaper and no other passengers within four rows.
“Die Fahrkarte, bitte,” he asked. A young voice, the words more of a challenge than request.
I snapped my paper down fast, revealing the broadest smile I couldmuster.
“Hi! How’s it going?”
The look on his face was priceless. I could actually see awareness spread over his features, starting with his eyes. As they made their transition from cups to saucers, his mouth dropped open and issued a quiet exhale loaded with “Holy shit!” His face matched his voice; young, no more than thirty. For an instant, he paused, stupefied—two feet from a rogue asset and no clue what to do. Then his instincts took over, and he immediately made poor decisions. Sliding one foot back and turning sideways
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