Exiting the museum, he spotted a man positioned across the street. The guy looked out of place, like he'd forced himself to dress like a tourist, but was uncomfortable without fatigues and shoulder and thigh holsters. The guy glanced in Jack's direction. Wasn't much, but it lasted a hair too long. Jack merged into the steady stream of pedestrian traffic, headed west on 77th, away from the guy, then north on Columbus. Twice he glanced back at the man. The first time, the guy remained perched on the stairs leading into a clothing shop. Jack tried to convince himself that the man was waiting outside while his wife shopped. A bead of sweat streamed down Jack's cheek.

  Who waits outside on a day like this?

  His second glance revealed that the man had started moving west as well. And it also yielded a flash of recognition. He'd seen him in the Park. Thought nothing of it at the time. He saw lots of people in the park. Why hadn't the guy stood out then? He recalled the countless faces he'd passed since then. Impossible to store them all in accessible memory. For all Jack knew, the guy'd been tailing him since he left the apartment. Maybe even before that. Maybe since the odd meeting yesterday morning.

  Columbus was one-way and ran south. A cab would take him right past the guy. On the one hand, he'd get a better look. On the other, it'd do the same for the man tailing him.

  If he still followed along.

  Jack ignored the incessant itch to look back.

  At 81st, he turned right, headed east, quickening his pace. Traffic stood still in the middle of the street. Jack cut across mid-block, weaving past front and rear bumpers. Once on the other side, he darted under the dark blue awning of The Excelsior Hotel. The circular rotating front door offered no resistance. As the pane of glass behind him cut him off from the outside world, he glanced back, searching through the maze of vehicles and pedestrians, looking for the guy who'd watched him.

  Had Jack lost him? Or had he given up after being made?

  In the mirror, the reflection of two employees dressed in khaki slacks and white shirts hovered around ten or so feet behind Jack. Both covered their mouths with their outer hands as they spoke. Their words were indecipherable, but the mirror images of the men were clear enough that he saw their eyes focused on him.

  One of them stepped forward.

  "Help you, sir?" Shy. Timid. His voice cracked. Had he even hit puberty yet?

  Jack looked back and made eye contact with the young Hispanic guy and said nothing. Didn't need to. These two were bellhops. Maybe the concierge had sent them over to check Jack out. Perhaps they did it on their own volition. Whatever the reason, they weren't in a position to do anything, and they posed no threat.

  So he turned back toward the street and performed a quick scan of the sidewalk, road, opposite sidewalk and the Teddy Roosevelt Park. Nothing. He turned his attention to the multitude of vehicles in front of him. Quickly, one-by-one, he looked past the clear and tinted windows. Half-way through, someone broke his concentration.

  "Sir, do you need some assistance?" Deep. Smokey. Spoken with authority. Like he had a set and could tip a table with them.

  Jack turned and faced a third man. Six-three and three hundred pounds, at least. How had he not spotted him on the approach?

  Tunnel vision.

  The big guy took a few steps forward. Jack held steady. Grease stained the guy's denim coveralls. His face and hands, too. He added to the mess when he wiped his cheek while asking Jack once again if he needed assistance.

  "Maybe you should turn around and go wash up," Jack said. "This place has a reputation to uphold."

  The two men in khakis looked at each other. Shock on their faces. No one spoke to Grease Stain like that. His presence alone was supposed to whip Jack into answering them. The tower of a man approached. Jack still held steady. He choked a bit as a wave of body odor washed past. The big man reached out and placed his hand on Jack's shoulder.

  "Get your dirty paw off me," Jack said.

  The guy squeezed, said nothing.

  "You see my right hand?"

  The guy glanced down, glanced up, said nothing.

  "That's right, you don't. Know why? Because it's wrapped around the grip of my Beretta."

  The guy eased up, but didn't let go. His eyes wavered, like he was unsure what to do now. He'd always been the muscle, but not the brain. On the street, he'd smash Jack in the face, the gut, the groin. But in the hotel lobby? What was he supposed to do?

  Jack said, "You don't know me, where I've been, what I've done, or where I live. But I know where you work. Won't take much effort to get the rest. Now get your hand off me before I show back up here when your shift ends and jam my pistol up your ass."

  The guy's eyes widened, pupils dilated. Presumably, he wasn't used to being talked to like that. He was the enforcer for Christ's sake. Grease Stain released Jack's shoulder from his grip and took a step back. For a moment, it seemed he contemplated lashing out after having been embarrassed by a guy close in height, but nowhere near as large overall. In the end, the big guy turned and gestured toward the other two. They looked at each other, then walked away.

  Jack shifted back to the window, splitting his focus between the street beyond, and the image of the big man waiting behind. A city bus blocked the view of the opposite sidewalk and the park. A minute later, the bus inched forward, gaining speed along with the rest of the vehicles as they made their forty-foot shuffle.

  And the man who'd been following Jack stood across the street.

  Jack took a couple steps back, then called out, "Hey, Grease Stain."

  The big man stopped near the elevators and looked back.

  Jack jogged toward him. The few people seated in the lobby looked away as he approached. They'd been watching. Might've even overheard what Jack said to the big guy. Whatever had happened, they apparently didn't want Jack to know they'd been eavesdropping.

  The smell of stale coffee hung thick in the air, leaving a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Someone needed to change out the pot before a guest poured a cup and complained to management. An upscale place like this might fire someone over such an offense.

  Grease Stain continued to wait for Jack by the elevators. No sign that the guy planned to bolt. He'd turned into a broken-in bronco. When Jack arrived, the guy said, "Follow me."

  He led Jack to the right, down the hallway, then pulled out a set of keys that jingled and clanked and bounced off one another. He fumbled through them. Opened the door to a maintenance room. Smelled like anti-freeze and oil. Fluorescents dangled from the ceiling and lit the room the majority of the room. The corners remained encased in shadow. A cluttered old wooden desk occupied a space along the wall mid-way between the front and back. Racks of servers hummed to the left. Past them, four telephone panels were mounted on the wall. Copper-wire spaghetti twisted and looped upward into a conduit. Tools hung from a pegboard. A hammer and a mallet, both with grease-covered handles, were positioned next to each other. Easy access, should Jack need them.

  Grease Stain pointed at the door at the far end. "Go through there. You're gonna be in an alley behind the hotel. Go left, you get to Columbus. Go right, all the way to the dead end, then left and you'll come out on 82nd. If that ain't good enough, cross the street and you'll hit an alley. That leads to a big opening between the buildings. There's another alley across the way takes you to 83rd. From there, the park is less than a hundred feet to your right. Put you right next to Summit Rock."

  Jack nodded, crossed the room. Looking back at the guy, he said, "No hard feelings?"

  The guy sniffed and looked up from his desk. "Just hope you never encounter me outside this building. I'll end you if I see you again. All right?"

  Tough talk from a guy who'd been verbally defeated already. He'd all of a sudden regained his manhood with Jack well out of reach.

  Jack turned his back on the guy and headed toward the door. Fans inside the server equipment buzzed like a hive of excited bees. When he reached the back of the room, he half-expected the door to be locked, and when he turned, he would see Grease Stain coming at him with a grease-stained hammer in hand.

  But it didn't come to that.

  The latch gave, and the door opened. Light temporarily blinded him. Warm air rushed into the chilled room. After his eyes adjusted, Jack stuck his head out and scanned the alley. Didn't see the man who'd been following him. Only the backs of buildings, overflowing dumpsters, wind-blown trash strewn across the asphalt. Perhaps the guy had spotted Jack through the window, and now stood in the hotel lobby, minutes from tracking Jack to the maintenance room. Of course, the guy could have continued on 81st, either taking the 79th Street transverse to the Upper East Side, or heading north or south on Central Park. Didn't matter. Forward was the only option for Jack regardless of the actions of the other man.

  He stepped into the man-made valley. The surrounding buildings trapped the heat, not allowing the breeze to penetrate the urban canyon. The only change in the air came when a door opened and the stifling air rushed through the gap, allowing a new wave to take its place from above.

  Jack looked left, headed right. When he reached the end of the alley, he turned left. Moments later, he cut across 82nd and found the narrow passage the mechanic had mentioned. On the other side of it, he spotted the next alley, across the opening and to the right. He checked behind. No one followed. The guy had to be close. But in this city, he thought, that meant nothing.

  On 83rd, he contemplated whether to head to the Park or Columbus. An approaching taxi gave him a third option.

  And he took it.

  13

  New York City.

  CLARISSA AND BECK left before dawn. They hit Philly before traffic. Trenton afterward. Didn't matter once they entered Manhattan, though. The last leg of the journey took twenty minutes longer than it should have. She doubted it mattered to the guy they were going to meet.

  Because he didn't know they were coming.

  Detective Harris was a name she dug up late the previous night. The guy had a long history with Charles. What information the men shared had remained unknown, though.

  Harris had a clean record. On paper, he appeared to be a good cop. Model citizen, too. Wife, two kids, two dogs. A lot to live for.

  They encountered no trouble at the precinct's front desk. Secret Service credentials had that effect, Clarissa had learned. The young female cop pointed them in the direction of Harris's office.

  After that, they were on their own. Cops had a way of sniffing other cops. The looks they gave the duo indicated they could tell Clarissa and Beck were in some form of law enforcement, but not one of their own. She supposed they figured Beck and her for FBI.

  Turning toward her, Beck said, "It's always like this. They'll cooperate, though there will be plenty of resistance at first."

  Clarissa nodded in response. Then she aimed a finger into the glass walled room in front of them.

  "That's him," she said.

  "You sure?"

  "His photo was recent."

  Beck reached out for the door, opened it, and waited for her to go through.

  "Detective Harris?"

  The guy turned toward them. His eyes narrowed and she could almost see him concocting a story that would pass as cover for almost any question.

  "Who the hell are you guys?" Harris said.

  "I'm Agent Beck. This is Agent Abbot. We'd like to have a word with you. Have someplace private we can talk for about fifteen minutes?"

  "Agents? For who?" He glanced at each in turn, holding their attention like a blackjack dealer waiting for a call of hit or stand.

  "We'll explain that in a moment," Beck said.

  "Hell you will," Harris said. "Let me see some creds. Now. Or you can take a hike."

  Smiling, Clarissa said, "We just need a few minutes to ask you about someone."

  "Then you can tell me who you are."

  Beck showed the man his ID.

  Harris's eyebrows went up. "Secret Service? What's this have to do with me?"

  "We'll explain all, Detective," Beck said. "In private."

  Harris hiked his thumb over his shoulder. "Let's go to interrogation."

  Clarissa and Beck followed the guy out of the room and down the hall. They entered a room labeled six, which contained a table and four chairs. Nothing else. Harris seated himself with his back to the tinted glass. His normal seat, Clarissa presumed.

  Beck grabbed the empty chair next to Harris. It scratched and created a high-pitched whine as he dragged it around the table and placed it next to the seat Clarissa was lowering herself into.

  Harris fidgeted with his cuffs while Clarissa stared at him. Beck had told her they'd start off this way. Let the guy sweat a bit. Get into his mind and let him ponder what they were there for. If he'd done something wrong, it would play on his psyche. If he hadn't, he'd try to figure out what could be misconstrued.

  He who talks first, loses.

  "Never realized how cold it is in here," Harris said. "Detainees, they always mention it. Rub their arms and whine about the temperature. I mean, yeah, it's a bit chilly, but nothing to bitch about."

  "You enjoy interrogations?" Beck said.

  Harris shrugged and glanced down at the table. "Never really thought about it. Part of the job, I guess. Pretty good at getting confessions. But it sucks when half of them don't hold up because of some slime-ball lawyer finding a technical glitch."

  Beck nodded. Clarissa didn't. She'd been on the receiving end of questioning in the past. The techniques used were meant to wear a person down until they were willing to confess to escape the pressure being applied to them. She'd been too strong willed for that to happen. But not all were.

  "Anyway, you didn't come up here to ask me about my interrogation techniques." He paused as though he expected an answer. "So what gives? What do you want to know?"

  "Charles DeCosta." Clarissa had learned to control the tensing that occurred every time she said the name. It occurred, but was not visible. "You have met with him regularly in the past. Even now, when he's assumed a high-level position in a known criminal organization, you still have meetings with him. What's it all about?"

  She watched for Harris's position to change. For the man to give something away. But the guy remained in the exact same position. His forearms on the table, right hand over left. Shoulders firm and back an inch. Head level. Eyes locked on hers.

  Harris took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. "I guess we'd have to go back a dozen or so years. Before then, DeCosta was a mechanic for a crime boss who went by the moniker of the Old Man. Name was Feng, but few knew that. From working in the garage, DeCosta went to being Feng's chauffeur. Interesting jump, right? Anyway, back then I was working robbery and we pinched DeCosta for something stupid. I think he stole a case of purses and hawked them out of a trunk. Something like that."

  "Did he do jail time?" Beck asked.

  Harris said, "No, no he didn't. He passed on a little information to me, something he had gathered about a rival organization, and for that, I let him walk. No one on his side of the tracks knew. But I had him with that. You gotta remember, this is not the DeCosta we know today. I doubt it would go down the same way."

  "So go back to then," Beck said.

  "OK. I put a regular tail on him. Caught him doing some other stuff. Kept a list of it. Then I'd find him on the street, or at home alone, and tell him what I had on him. In turn, he'd give me more information. Went on like that for more than a few years."

  "Then what happened?"

  "He started rising through the ranks. Became the equivalant of a mafia capo. It was harder to pin things on him, and the shit I had from the past, DeCosta didn't sweat that anymore. He had the full backing of Feng. Which also meant if I tried to strong arm him by saying I'd out his relationship with me, we'd both be fitted for concrete boots."

  "So why do you still meet? We've got a source that puts you two together recently."

  Harris leaned back. First time he'd moved other than to speak. "He stills gives me information. But it's more of a one for one thing these days."

  "So you warn him of impending action?"

  Harris held up his hand and shook his head. "No, nothing like that."

  "Then what is it like?" Beck said.

  Harris leaned forward, one arm on the edge of the table, chest resting against it. "The people I report to know about my relationship with DeCosta. Everything we talk about is in those files. You want to read up on it, be my guest. But I doubt they'll humor you as much as I have."

  "We'll do that, Detective," Beck said, rising.

  Clarissa joined him. They met at the door. Harris remained seated and didn't look back.

  "One more thing," Beck said.

  Harris said nothing.

  "What do you know about a counterfeit ring being run by DeCosta?"

  Harris's chair scratched the floor as he scooted back. He took his time standing, and then turning. He looked at Beck. Laughed.

  "That guy pockets probably ten thousand a day. At least. He's already printing his own money through all his enterprises. Why the hell would he need to do so illegally?"

  "Thank you, Detective," Beck said. "We'll see ourselves out."

  Five minutes later, they stood outside in the summer heat. Clarissa waited until they were out of earshot of a group of cops talking and drinking coffee.

  "Do you think mentioning the counterfeit operation was a good idea? What if he goes right to Charles with it?"

  "We've got a dozen eyes on that operation," Beck said. "And now we're going to have someone watching Harris. If something changes, then we'll know he went to DeCosta and warned him. And you know what that means?" He didn't allow her time to respond. "We'll know that DeCosta is behind it."

  14

  Near Langley, Virginia.

  THE GUY LEANING against the blue Malibu lifted his chin as Brett Taylor pulled into the diner's parking lot. Over the past three months, Brett had been given three contacts. Each had information about specific Black Ops groups. One of the contacts had Brett take out an entire team, a mission that would require months of planning for some. Brett completed the job in four weeks. The next contact only had three names for Brett, along with a request that each death had to look like an accident. The agency these men were involved with wasn't as clandestine as some of the others. There were people, the kind who were too high up the political food chain to know about the operation, who would notice if the three men were all slaughtered. Accidental deaths, while occurring close to one another, could be written off as coincidental. So long as no evidence was left behind.