Travers sat down behind the wheel of the burgundy minivan. Court opened a map on the dashboard screen, and Travers began looking to pull out into the heavy afternoon traffic.
Over their earpieces, Zack said, “She’s going for the eastbound platform. That’s going to put her on the Blue line or the Orange line.”
Court had no idea where either of those Metro lines would lead. He knew cities in Russia, in Pakistan, in Mexico, even in rural Brazil or Guatemala, way better than he knew his own nation’s capital. He turned to Travers. “You used to live here, right?”
Travers answered, “Heading east, Blue and Orange both go to Farragut West, then…uhh…” He thought a moment.
“Where?” Court demanded as he began pulling up the info on his phone.
“It’s been a minute. There’s another station, then Metro Center, then Smithsonian, and L’Enfant, there might be another before Smithsonian.”
Court had it up on his screen now. “Federal Triangle is after Metro Center.”
“That’s right,” Travers confirmed.
They pulled out of the parking space now. “Got it. We just keep heading east. Night Train, you’re on her platform?”
“Affirmative. There’s a Blue line coming in one minute. The Downtown Largo train.”
Travers said, “We’re going to lose signal down there when you’re in the tunnel, but we’ll pick you up again at the next station.”
“Roger that.”
Court and Chris had only gone half a block in the gridlock a half mile north of the White House when Zack spoke again. “We’re on the Blue line. Say again, Blue line.”
“Copy.” Court looked to Travers from the passenger seat. “Where can we intercept them?”
“All depends on parking,” Travers said.
“What if we don’t park? What if I jump out and you keep going?”
“Forget about the Farragut stations. We won’t make it. If she gets out there, Night Train can stay with her. Ditto McPherson Square, we won’t get there in time. Let’s try for Metro Center.”
“Do it.”
The minivan raced forward during a break in traffic.
—
Zack Hightower stood in the train car just forward of his target’s car, and he watched while Irene Ortega sat near a doorway near the rear.
The car was half full. Zack was glad it wasn’t yet rush hour; he had a good view of her out of the corner of his eye, well enough to see that she seemed alert.
Her eyes flitted left and right, and he got the impression she was checking to see if she was being followed, and she wasn’t terribly subtle about it.
If shewasa spy, Zack decided, then she wasn’t a very good one.
He wondered who she suspected was following her right now. Feds? Other people in her agency?
Zack had decades of training in countersurveillance, so he scanned360, nonchalantly, and saw no one who fit the obvious mold for a countersurveillance agent, but he knew he could not be sure. The FBI used a unit called the Special Surveillance Group, a force of trained operatives, from their late teens to well into their seventies, who worked exclusively on surveillance missions. These weren’t feds, spooks, soldiers, or cops, just regular people who worked for the FBI, people who fit in wherever they were tasked to work, so that all the people the Bureau used to tail suspects around the world didn’t look anything like central-casting G-men.
But the SSG had been gutted in the last year and replaced mostly by Gauntlet Group contractors. The Gauntlet crew were mostly military-aged males, and even though there were some females, most of the women had military or law enforcement backgrounds and didn’t blend in as well as the SSG had.
The train stopped at the Farragut West station; a few people got on and a few got off, and then Irene herself stood, went to the door.
Zack headed to the nearest door of his car, stepped halfway out, and then realized Ortega had not gotten off.
He backed inside, and the door closed.
