Court regarded the new woman, and something about her seemed off. He couldn’t quite get a read on her at this distance, but it was in the way she had moved after encountering Ortega. It felt to Court like she’d hesitated a moment when she got on the train and saw Ortega right there by the door, before quickly lowering her head and then passing her by.
It wasn’t an obvious tell, but to a guy who had been doing this as long as Court had, it was enough to draw some suspicion.
The new arrival wore business clothes, a nice camel coat, and she held gloves in her hand. A large leather bag hung off her right shoulder, an umbrella jutting out of it, and her leather boots were low-heel and comfortable-looking, but in keeping with something a woman here in D.C. might wear when there was a forecast for snow, like today.
Once the woman sat down across from Ortega, she pulled out her phone.
Quickly, just before the doors closed, Court tapped out a text and sent it to the team of three men and two vehicles somewhere up at street level.
Leaving Fed Tri
The entire way to the next stop, Court split his time between looking at the new woman who seemed to have reacted when she saw Ortega, and looking in his own car, even the car beyond his, trying to spot any other countersurveillance.
Just as the conductor announced they were approaching the Smithsonian station, Irene rose, held on to a handrail, then shifted towards the door. The woman sitting across from her glanced her way quickly, but she did not look for long before turning her attention back to her phone.
The door opened at Smithsonian station and Irene Ortega quickly disembarked. Court left the train himself and headed for the stairs, ignoring the escalator that most passengers took. Once he was far enough away from the crowd, he spoke for the benefit of those connected to his call. “We’re off at Smithsonian. Heading up. Both vehicles converge there.”
After Teddy and Arnold confirmed, he rushed faster up the stairs, made it to the mezzanine level, then saw that Ortega was already exiting through the turnstiles. He followed the crowd, well behind her, then communicated again with Hightower.
“Night Train, you receiving?”
“Affirm. We’re on 14th Street passing the mall, we’re about one mike from that station. Bricklayer is in the work van behind us.”
“Roger,” Court said. “I’ll take the eye at street level and inform.”
—
Court stepped out into the frigid gray afternoon and onto Independence Avenue. He followed the woman to the left; she was twenty-five yards ahead when she crossed 12th Street, and here she passed the National Museum of Asian Art.
An icy wind blew in his face; he leaned into it, pulled his knit cap down lower, and walked on, and in moments he saw Travers pass him on his right in the burgundy Pacifica, with Zack in the front passenger seat. They continued east, and Court spoke into his earpiece to let them know where the woman was on the sidewalk.
Arnold passed Court a moment later in the big GMC van; Court told him to turn right on L’Enfant Plaza, drive down half a block, and stop.
Travers and Zack had the eye now. Though they had driven pastOrtega, they found a place to pull over in front of the General Services Administration Building, and they could monitor her movements from their vehicle.
—
Court had just climbed into the Savana with Arnold when Travers’s voice came over the AirPod.
“Be advised, she just turned left. She’s going into the Hirshhorn Museum.”
Court cocked his head as Arnold pulled back out onto the street, still heading south.
The Hirshhorn was a famous windowless building on Independence Avenue, part of the Smithsonian Institution and full of American modern art. It was donut-shaped, with a courtyard in the middle.
Zack said, “This lady’s taking the afternoon off to enjoy an art exhibit?”
“Not buying it,” Court said. “She’s looking over her shoulder for a tail. She’s not well trained, but she’s definitely up to something.”
“A meet?” Travers asked.
“That would be my guess,” Court replied, and then he told Arnold to head back to the north to drop him off at the museum.
As Arnold drove, however, Court looked down at his clothing. Blue coveralls, work boots, a heavy brown coat that might fit in in a meatpacking plant but not an art museum. He knew Travers looked almost the same, and Zack wasn’t even operational, wearing his typical roper boots and a leather bomber jacket.
He said, “Every one of us is going to stick out like a sore thumb in a Smithsonian museum at three fifteen on a weekday.”
Zack replied, “Doesn’t matter. She won’t pick us up.”
