Zack chimed in, as well, saying that he had parked the Pacifica, and right now he was looking at his phone, watching the real-time video coming from Arnold’s glasses as he waited in line to buy a bottled water in the little coffee shop in the museum lobby. Ortega herself was several people ahead of him in line, and Zack thought she was stalling, or continuing her SDR by stopping here in the lobby before her clandestine meet.
Court walked on, passed another cluster of old tents, then got a new call on his phone. He told the others he’d be right back, then accepted the call.
“Yeah?”
Matt Hanley’s voice came over his earpiece, and Court knew Matt well enough to know when he was pissed. “Gumdrop tells me you havefuckingBricklayer running point on a surveillance mission against a woman looking for a tail and possibly meeting with a member of the opposition.”
Court sighed, turned right on Jefferson Drive. “Well, when you say it like that—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?”
“We’re getting live footage inside the Hirshhorn. None of us had time to dress for the Smithsonian.”
“I swear to God, if you guys put Bricklayer in any danger, I will—”
“He’s doing great.”
Court hung up, checked back with Zack, and learned that Irene Ortega had left the line at the café without buying anything, and now she was taking the escalator that led up to the art exhibits.
He ordered Arnold to continue waiting in line so as not to arouse any suspicion, and to let Ortega go up on her own.
Travers checked in that all was clear on the east side outside the museum; Court didn’t see anything out of place himself on the northwest side, but then he turned and began walking through the Mary Livingston Ripley Garden, a small park with curved walkways and, at this time of year, next to no living foliage, and here he saw another old tent erected, close to Independence Avenue and next door to the walled garden surrounding the Hirshhorn.
This tent was different from the others he’d seen on this freezing afternoon, in that here the dweller of the tent was visible, sitting inside the open flap, covered in a dirty sleeping bag.
The man wore a beard and seemed to be in his thirties, and he paid no attention to Court as he sat there.
The man appeared to be a typical transient, but Court did what he always did in the field, and he focused carefully.
The tent dweller’s hair was matted, his beard long and unkempt.
Right before he walked by the man and lost visual, Court saw a hand come out of the sleeping bag, grasp it at the top, and pull it up closer to his neck, apparently for warmth.
The man’s face had been dirty, and his hands seemed dirty, too.
But the man’s fingernails looked trimmed and healthy.
Court Gentry had been trained to evaluate fingernails, because althoughit was easy to change one’s appearance in many ways to look like a laborer or even a homeless person, and it wasn’t hard to get some dirt on the hands or under the nails, the average transient did not have trimmed nails and most people impersonating one didn’t take the time to alter them.
Court turned left on Independence, and instinctively, he flashed his eyes across the street.
Another man was bundled behind a tarp here. He was too far away to see well, but the man appeared to be in his thirties, just like this one.
Court wondered if these two men were working in a team.
He kept walking, but he softly spoke into his earpiece. “Teddy, we’ve got a problem.”
“Whatcha see?”
“Homeless tent on southwest corner of AO is occupied by a possible asset.”
“Roger that, I’ll see if I can ID others in the AO. Want to consider pulling back?”
Before Court could answer, Zack’s voice came over the net. “Bricklayer is on the second floor; he’s got Ortega in sight. She’s alone but stationary, looking into another room.”
“What’s your gut?” Court asked Zack.
“She doesn’t want to go in there for some reason.”
