Mark Gilleo - Sweat

At precisely nine o’clock Senator Day reached to his right, raised his hand, and lowered the gavel with an authoritative bang. ***

Minutes after the siren parade in his rearview mirror, Chow Ying took two laps around the four-lane circle in front of Union Station to be sure he wasn’t followed. On his third pass, Chow Ying slowed his car and pulled over in the pick-up lane among a mixture of taxis and similar black sedans. He reached for the envelope from beneath the seat and dumped it upside down on the passenger seat next to him. With his right hand he spread out the contents of the envelope, picking up the chauffeur license with his own picture and a phony name. The DMV-authorized license was beyond legal reproach, complete with the requisite holographic security image and magnetic strip. He read the forged company paperwork for the car he was driving, fondled a Senate-issued VIP parking permit, and glanced at the bonded-paper sign with “Senator Day” printed on it with a quality laser printer. He put the chauffeur license in his shirt pocket and picked up the lone remaining gift from C.F Chang, a piece of white office paper. He read the detailed instructions, an elaboration of the ones he had received on the phone. The instructions were neatly typed, without a single spelling error. Trust wasn’t C.F Chang’s strong suit.

Senate Special Committee Hearing on Overseas Labor. Thursday July 18th. The Russell Senate Building. Peter Winthrop is scheduled to testify. Senator Day will also be present. Avoid being seen. Peter Winthrop has a reservation with his chauffeur company, a car will be waiting for him in the parking lot. A Senate parking permit and valid chauffeur license is needed to enter the lot. The Capitol Police may sweep the car for explosives. A body search is typically not done at this time. You will be searched if you enter the building.

Chow Ying started the car and headed east. He did one lap around Stanton Park, came down Constitution and turned the for-hire sedan right on Second Street. With the appropriate trepidation, he slowed the car to a crawl as he approached the Capitol Police barricade. His gun was wedged as far under the seat as it would go, ten grand and a passport in his breast pocket. If anything went wrong, he would make the afternoon news.

Chow Ying smiled and rolled down the window. “I am here to pick up Senator Day at the conclusion of the Senate Special Committee on Overseas Labor.” He handed the officer his chauffeur license and Senate parking permit. The overweight black Capitol police officer looked at the license and the Senate-issued parking pass. The officer peered at Chow Ying over his stretched waistline, checked the face on the identification a second time, and then handed the license back to its owner. Chow Ying held his breath.

“You can park anywhere in the back lot next to Union Station Plaza. Do not keep your car running, and there is no loitering outside the vehicle. Make sure the parking permit is on display and visible on the rearview mirror.”

“Yes, sir,” Chow Ying answered.

“Please open the trunk.”

Chow Ying took another deep breath and fumbled along the inside of the driver door until he found the lever for the trunk release. The lid of the trunk rose slowly as the officer put his hand on the back fender. Another officer, and former Marine by all appearances, started moving forward from Chow Ying’s blind spot, running a mirror along the ground, checking the underside of the car for explosives. When he finished, he slapped on the passenger window. “Open the doors, please.”

Chow Ying tightened his sphincter as his mind turned toward the gun under his seat. He pushed the urge to panic aside and hit the door lock release. The officer opened the front and rear passenger doors. He looked at the spotless interior and yelled over the still open trunk to his partner. “He’s good to go.”

The black officer shut the trunk and hit the top of the roof twice, sending the most dangerous man in the city right into the Senate living room. The fact that the Capitol and D.C. Police fall under different jurisdictions, under different edicts, with different dispatch systems was a security flaw that would have heads rolling by the end of the day.

The open-air parking lot on the far side of the Russell Senate Building held a hundred cars. A handful of mid-sized sedans with outlandishly bland colors stood out in the sea of black for-hires. Chow Ying pulled into a spot in the middle row, and put the car into park.

He read the instructions from C.F. Chang one last time, the information memorized. He folded the note and put it in his breast pocket next to his passport and money. He placed the sign for Senator Day on the dashboard, and hung the parking permit from the rearview mirror. He removed the gun, and with the firearm between his thighs, he checked the cylinder and confirmed that its six occupants were all accounted for. He leaned forward and stuffed the revolver into the back of his pants. He checked the car a final time before getting out slowly and looking around.

He walked across the lot between the black stretch sedans, reading the signs displayed on the dash of identical cars. J. Storm, CEO Asian Strategies, Ltd.; Senator Grimm, Ohio; Senator Albritton, Oregon; M. Higgins, CEO Republic Outfitters. The last car in the first row read P. Winthrop, CEO. Chow Ying got chills. C.F. Chang was a man who could get his hands on very accurate information. He had led Chow Ying to the spot, given him a car, and given him a time to make the kill. Now it was up to him. The only thing clear to Chow Ying was there would be no more excuses.

Chow Ying stopped at the pedestrian entrance to the parking lot and took in his surroundings. In his head he diagramed a potential getaway map. The outline of Union Station was duly noted, three hundred yards to the north. He could see the top of the Capitol in the opposite direction down the tree-lined street. He checked out the people on their way to work, and looked down at his own red tie. He couldn’t complain about his outfit. He fit right in. Shuffling his feet with his eyes on his environment, Chow Ying bumped shoulders with a Capitol police officer who had the unenviable assignment of patrolling the sidewalk between the Russell Senate Building and Union Station.

The officer flashed a watch-what-you-are-doing glare, and the Mountain of Shanghai turned on his morning charm. “Excuse me, officer. Do you know where I can get a cup of coffee?” The officer held his stare on the well-dressed driver coming out of the VIP parking lot and answered. “Most of the drivers wait down the street at the L.O.C. Café. One block down, turn left just past the Justice Building.”

“Thank you,” Chow Ying said.

“Have a good morning,” the officer said, turning to continue his two blocks up, two blocks down foot patrol.

Chow Ying checked his watch. He was right on schedule. ***

Al pulled the seven-year-old white Dodge Caravan up the curb to an empty meter spot. Jake got out first and pulled open the sliding side door. He offered his hand to Kate, who stepped out rear end first. Al came around the front of the car and shoved a pocketful of change into the meter. All three helped Wei Ling from the van—hands on her arms, grasping her wrists, on her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, her first steps uneasy.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Jake asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, subtly shaking Jake’s arm from its position on hers. “I can walk,” she added with conviction. Jake removed his arm and raised his hands.

Al checked his watch and looked across the street at the Mall and the fountain in front of the Capitol Building. It was quiet. He looked down at his watch again and shook his wrist.

“Is everything all right?” Jake asked.