Том Клэнси - The Teeth of the Tiger

“So, what do we do about this German thing?”

Granger gave the intercept another look and thought for a second. “Nothing, not right now, but we remember that Dieter has earned a point or two with Claude, which he may cash in on in six months or so. The Euro is still too new to see how it’s going to play out. The French think that the financial leadership of Europe will slide to Paris. The Germans think it’ll go to Berlin. In fact, it’ll go to the country with the strongest economy, the most efficient workforce. That won’t be France. They have pretty good engineers, but their population isn’t as well organized as the Germans are. If I had to bet, I’d bet on Berlin.”

“The French won’t like that.”

“That’s a fact, Jack. That’s a fact,” Granger repeated. “What the hell. The French have nukes, and the Germans don’t – for now, anyway.”

“You serious?” the young Ryan demanded.

A smile. “No.”

“THEY TAUGHTus some of that at Quantico,” Dominic said. They were in a medium-sized shopping mall that catered to the college crowd due to the proximity of UVA.

“What did they say?” Brian asked.

“Don’t stay in the same place relative to your subject. Try to alter your appearance – sunglasses, like that. Wigs if they’re available. Reversible jackets. Don’t stare at him, but don’t turn away if he looks at you. It’s a lot better if it’s more than one agent on a target. One man can’t track a trained adversary for very long without being made. A trained subject is hard to tail under the best of circumstances. That’s why the big offices have the SSGs, Special Surveillance Groups. They’re FBI employees, but they’re not sworn, and they don’t carry guns. Some guys call them the Baker Street Irregulars, as in Sherlock Holmes. They look like anything except a cop, street people – bums – workers in coveralls. They can be dirty. They can be panhandlers. I met some at the New York Field Office once, they work OC and FCI – organized crime and foreign counterintelligence. They’re pros, but they’re the most unlikely-looking damn pros you ever want to meet.”

“Hardworking people like that?” Brian asked his brother. “Surveillance, I mean.”

“Never tried it myself, but from what I’ve heard, it takes a lot of manpower, like fifteen or twenty, to work one subject, plus cars, plus aircraft – and a really good bad guy can outfox us even then. The Russians especially. Those bastards are trained pretty well.”

“So, what the hell are we supposed to do?” Captain Caruso asked.

“Just learn the basics,” Alexander told them. “See the woman over there with the red sweater?”

“Long dark hair?” Brian asked.

“That’s the one,” Pete confirmed. “Determine what she buys, what sort of car she drives, and where she lives.”

“Just the two of us?” Dominic demanded. “You’re not asking much, are you?”

“Did I tell you this was easy work?” Alexander asked innocently. He handed over two radios. “The earpieces go in your ears, and the microphones clip to your collars. Range is about three kilometers. You both have your car keys.” And with that he walked away, toward an Eddie Bauer store to buy himself a pair of shorts.

“Welcome to the shit, Enzo,” Brian said.

“At least he gave us a mission brief.”

“It was brief, all right.”

Their subject had walked into an Ann Taylor store. They both headed down that way, each getting a large cup of coffee at the Starbucks as a jackleg disguise.

“Don’t throw the cup away,” Dominic told his brother.

“Why?” Brian asked.

“In case you gotta take a piss. The perversity of the world has a way of impinging on your carefully made plans in situations like this. That’s a practical lesson from a class at the Academy.”

Brian didn’t comment, but it seemed sensible enough. One at a time they donned their radios and made sure they worked properly.

“Aldo to Enzo, over,” Brian called on Channel 6.

“Enzo copies, bro. Let’s switch off on visual surveillance, but we’ll stay within sight of each other, okay?”

“Makes sense. Okay, I’ll head toward the store.”

“Ten-four. That’s roger to you, bro.” Dominic turned to see his brother draw off. Then he settled down to sipping his coffee and looking off the subject – never directly at her, but about 20 degrees to the side.

“What’s she up to?” Aldo asked.

“Picking a blouse, looks like.” The subject was thirty or so, with shoulder-length brown hair, fairly attractive, wearing a wedding band but no diamond, and a cheap gold-colored necklace probably purchased at Wal-Mart on the other side of the road. Peach-colored blouse/shirt. Pants rather than a skirt, black in color, black flat “sensible” shoes. Fairly large purse. Did not appear overly alert to her surroundings, which was good. She appeared to be alone. She finally settled on a blouse, white silk by the look of it, paid for it with a credit card, and walked out of Ann Taylor.

“Subject is moving, Aldo.”

Seventy yards away, Brian’s head perked up and turned directly toward his brother. “Talk to me, Enzo.”

Dominic raised his coffee cup as though to take a drink. “Turning left, coming your way. You can take over in a minute or so.”

“Ten-four, Enzo.”

They’d parked their cars on opposite sides of the shopping mall. That turned out to be a good thing, as their subject turned right and headed for the door out to the parking lot.

“Aldo, get close enough to make her tag,” Dominic ordered.

“What?”

“Read her tag number to me, and describe the car. I’m heading for my car.”

“Okay, roger that, bro.”

Dominic didn’t run to his car, but he walked as fast as circumstances allowed. He got in, started the engine, and lowered all his windows.

“Enzo to Aldo, over.”

“Okay, she’s driving a dark green Volvo station wagon, Virginia tag Whiskey Kilo Romeo Six One Niner. Alone in the car, starting up, turning north. I’m on the way to my wheels.”

“Roger that. Enzo is in pursuit.” He got around the Sears department store that anchored the east end of the mall as quickly as traffic allowed, and reached in his coat pocket for his cell phone. And called information to get the number of the Charlottesville FBI office, which the phone company dialed for him for an additional charge of fifty cents. “Heads up, this is Special Agent Dominic Caruso. My creed-o number is one six five eight two one. I need a tag number run, right now, Whiskey Kilo Romeo Six One Niner.”

Whoever was on the other end of the phone typed his credentials number into a computer and verified Dominic’s identity.

“What are you doing this far from Birmingham, Mr. Caruso?”

“No time for that. Please run the tag.”

“Roger, okay, it’s a Volvo, green in color, a year old, registered to Edward and Michelle Peters, at Six Riding Hood Court, Charlottesville. That’s just inside the city line on the west side of town. Anything else? Do you need backup?”

“Negative. Thank you, I can handle it from here. Caruso out.” He killed his cell phone and relayed the address to his brother over the radio. Both then did the same thing, and entered the address into their navigation computers.

“This is cheating,” Brian observed, smiling as he did so.

“Good guys don’t cheat, Aldo. They just get the job done. Okay, I have eyeballs on the subject. She’s heading west on Shady Branch Road. Where are you?”

“About five hundred yards back of you – shit! I have a red light.”

“Okay, sit it out. Looks like she’s heading home, and we know where that is.” Dominic closed his target to within a hundred yards, keeping a pickup truck between himself and the subject car. He’d rarely done this sort of thing before, and he was surprised at how tense it was.