Helen stared at him for a few moments, not sure if she was savoring the moment or regretting it. Probably a bit of both. Finally standing in front of him, face-to-face, embodied a surreal experience. She’d spent the past twenty years contemplating nearly every aspect of the man’s existence but had never met him before today—by design. She couldn’t risk the possibility that he might recognize her. That he’d somehow been warned.
She knew him only through the lens of a surveillance camera, a pair of binoculars, or the comprehensive dossier she’d assembled, which meant she really didn’t know him at all.
Donald Wilson. A man shrouded in mystery. She’d often wondered what his real name had been before. Not that it mattered. The name had been extinct for more than a half century, and probably meant nothing to him at this point. It certainly meant nothing to her beyond a curiosity. Helen was far more interested in his connection to the extensive conspiracy she’d uncovered.
CHAPTER 2
The cocktail was a lie. Water with a generous pour of olive juice to cloud the mixture, and two plump, blue cheese–stuffed olives held together by a stainless-steel cocktail pick. The bartender had even shaken it like a real martini, without him asking—seemingly all too familiar with the ruse. He took a long sip, casually scanning the crowded rooftop bar over the rim of his drink. The night’s endgame loomed. Devin Gray tipped the glass back and emptied it.
“Any minute now.”
He spoke loudly enough to be heard through the microphone, but softly enough to avoid drawing a glance from either of the politicos flanking him. Devin barely heard the team’s acknowledgment over the ever-rising din of brash words and forced laughter. He resisted the impulse to fiddle with his earpiece. It may or may not help him, but it would most certainly give him away to a reasonably competent countersurveillance team.
Devin hadn’t detected one, but his target gave no indication of being surveillance conscious. He’d been doing this long enough to read even the most subtle body language—and she wasn’t concerned with anything but seducing her mark. Her mannerisms broadcast the kind of genuine calm and confidence that came only with trusted security in her line of work. She had backup close by.
He set the glass on the black polished-granite bar top and caught the bartender’s attention, signaling for another. While waiting for his fourth drink of the night, Devin finished the seared salmon he’d ordered to nurture his cover—tasting nothing. He was singularly focused on the job at hand, his senses diverted accordingly.
A few minutes passed before his drink arrived, each second stretching into the next as he casually watched the scene come to its seemingly inevitable conclusion. The honey trap, a petite woman with straight jet-black hair, was a smooth, seasoned operator. Unhurried but moving things along just fast enough to seal the deal. She’d already managed to separate her mark from his three colleagues and isolate him at the bar, where they’d each downed two real manhattans. He’d watched the bartender closely. As their hushed conversation progressed, her hand spent more and more time petting his arm. Definitely a professional. Any second now.
He took a generous sip of the briny water, which would probably play havoc with his stomach later tonight, before taking out his wallet and removing nine twenty-dollar bills. The bartender took notice while hurrying past with two cocktails, and gave him a quick nod. Devin didn’t have to time this perfectly. Just close enough to be in place for the next phase. The honey trap leaned in close and whispered something in her mark’s ear, prompting him to rather hurriedly take out his wallet. She waved it off and produced cash from her purse, making sure the bartender saw the small wad of bills before she ushered the mark toward the exit.
“Honey trap is leaving with Mr. Chase,” said Devin.
“Copy. Let us know if she has friends.”
“Will do,” said Devin before picking up his drink.
He needed to finish it in a timely but unsuspicious manner. Two minutes seemed right, and the countersurveillance dance continued. The bill arrived halfway through the drink, and he tucked the crisp twenties inside. The tidy sum well exceeded the total, but it wasn’t his money, and the honey trap’s employer was bound to make an inquiry or two later. The tip might work in Devin’s favor. That and the fact that he’d insisted on paying regular price for the faux drinks. Fuzzy bartender memory and no hard proof he was part of the setup.
A minute and a half after Chase’s departure, two men he hadn’t given a second thought to until now made their way toward the exit, moving with a purpose. He didn’t get a really good look at either of them, but it was enough. Devin reported the development as soon as they stepped out of the bar.