Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [173]
“Camera,” Clark said sharply, hoping that Jack knew how to flash a photo covertly.
Actually, he did it pretty well, with the lens telescoped out to 2- or 3X zoom. It was a new-model black Ford Crown Victoria, of the sort used by a low-end car service. Everything was nominal to profile, Clark thought, as they started to close the gap.
Here’s your ticket from Chicago west,” the driver said, handing the ticket folder back over the bench seat.
Hadi opened the folder and studied the ticket. He was surprised to see the destination. He checked his watch. The timing was almost perfect. It had helped that first-class passengers were quicker to get to immigration.
“How long to the other terminal?”
“Just a couple of minutes,” the driver answered.
“Good.” And Hadi lit a cigarette.
The car pulled out. Clark noted this but kept walking. Until the car was a hundred yards away, then he doubled back to the arrival traffic and hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Jack: Eyeballs?”
“Got it,” Jack assured him. The Crown Vic had pulled into a line to pay the parking toll. He took two more shots to catch the tag number, which he already had memorized. Just to be sure, he scribbled it down on the notepad he always kept in his coat pocket.
“Okay,” Clark told the driver. “See that black Ford up there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow it.”
“Is this a movie?” the driver asked lightheartedly.
“Yeah, and I’m the star.”
“I’ve done that, you know? Real movies. They pay pretty well for driving a car.”
Clark took the hint, fished out his wallet, and handed the driver a pair of twenties. “Fair enough?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll bet he’s going to Terminal Three.”
“Let’s see,” Clark responded. Now he had eyes on the Crown Vic, which did the usual rigmarole common to airports, whose roadways were doubtless designed by the same soulless idiot who did the architecture for the terminals. Clark had been in enough airports to be fairly certain all the architects went to the same school.
The taxi driver was right. The Crown Vic pulled to a stop at the UNITED AIRLINES sign and angled right to the curb. The driver’s door opened, and the driver climbed out and moved to the passenger door.
“Good call—what’s your name?” Clark asked.
“Tony.”
“Thank you, Tony. You have a good one.” Clark and Jack hopped out. In Jack’s hand was the camera, well concealed but ready for action.
“He smokes,” Clark observed. More to the point, he also posed pretty well. Sometimes luck worked in your favor. “Okay, shoot me,” Clark said, posing. This Jack duly did, and afterward Clark came over to say something innocuous, followed by, “Got him?”
“Dead on. Now what?”
“Now I try to get a ticket to Chicago. You follow him to the gate and call me when you ID the flight.”
“Think you can get a ticket fast enough?”
“Well, if I fail, we’re no worse off than we are now.”
“Gotcha,” Jack agreed. “I got your number.” And he hopped to it, taking position fifty yards from their friend Hadi, who enjoyed every possible puff from his smoke before turning to walk into the terminal. He had a good photo of the mutt, Jack realized, checking the preview screen.
Clark walked toward the United desk, pleased that there wasn’t much of a line to fight through.
Hadi finished his smoke and flipped the butt onto the curb, took one deep breath of non-airliner air, and walked inside. Dominic followed at a discreet distance, holding his secure cell phone in his left hand. Hadi walked directly toward the proper concourse and checked a monitor for the right jetway. He walked out just like any normal person trying to catch a flight. It took under ten minutes, and then he took his seat at D-28. Brian made his call.
“Clark,” the voice said on the other end.