Travel Thursday: It’s Not Stalkerish, It’s Training part 2

Almost an hour later Tigre exited the club. Seeing me still on my perch, and being suspicious by nature, he stopped to see what what I was doing. Getting a sufficiently realistic growl in my voice, I muttered, “My little bitch seems to have stood me up. If she ever gets here, she’s gonna pay.”
Tigre grinned. “If you need some help. . . or if you’re not man enough to handle her, I’d be glad to take her off your hands, even though I haven’t seen her.” The grin was predatory, matching his nickname.
I managed to smile back. “I’m sure that gal who hugged you would love to hear all about it and have a good cry in the arms of a real man.”
Tigre’s grin grew wider. Though we were strangers, it was not uncommon for men to spar in this fashion around here. “You don’t see me having troubles. She would never leave me.”
She’s not yours to leave, I almost said, knowing all the time that tipping my hand for the sake of one-upsmanship was stupid. So I got up and picked up my bag. “Well, you’re welcome to her, if you think you can do a better job. In the meantime, I’m on my way to a sure thing.”
As I jumped into the first taxi, I saw the familiar face across the street, hoping he wouldn’t be so obvious when he tailed Tigre. Still, I got a bad feeling about it.
Incredibly tired–otherwise I would have walked the relatively short distance–I lurched out the taxi and through the door that had been opened by the man in the funny suit outside the Maria Isabel Sheraton. Assuring the man I was not drunk and passing on a tip, I wearily climbed the ramp and went into the hotel, where I made my way to the front desk and asked if I had any messages. The desk clerk knew me and had obviously never seen me like this. “Would you like me to call a masseuse for you?”
Just the thought of that almost put me to sleep on my feet. . .
The next day came with all the grace and speed of a man dragging himself across the desert. Ten AM found me sitting on a stone bench with a local agent-in-training named Lily on Paseo de la Reforma, somewhere between the statue of Diana and the Anthro museum. There was a huge crowd of people walking around the streets, most of them going to Chapultepec Park across the street, but more importantly there was a large number of couples sitting and walking in our vicinity, so we did not look out of place at all.
“Check in. No contact yet. Next check in half an hour.”
“Copy that, Tony. Over and out.”
Lily found herself giggling, making me give her a look of reproach. “It’s funny,” she insisted. “You guys are talking like they do in every spy movie I’ve seen.”
I didn’t answer, not wanting any such conversation to be overheard. Instead I kissed her, not very passionately according to most standards but much more steamy than any of the other couples around us. As a matter of fact, we were attracting stares, so I had to tone it down a bit; no need to get her horny, I grinned to myself.
Lily knew she was only there for camouflage, but that did not mean she couldn’t enjoy herself in the meantime. Like any woman, she fancied herself a good actress, and she didn’t mind playing the lover role at all. She also knew I would not be in town much longer, and she was sure when the target was spotted I would leave in a hurry; she giggled at the thought that some man would try to comfort her on seeing her lover abandon her in such a matter, thinking that wasn’t a bad way at all to snare a guy.
She giggled again. Here she was, kissing one man and thinking of the next. . .
I knew this would probably be the last shot at nailing the suspect, so I was torn between letting Lily come with me when the blonde mounted the bus, to provide further camouflage, or leave her here so she could be out of danger. Having no idea where the bus would take us, there might not be a chance to let her get out of harm’s way. There was no doubt she would make excellent hostage bait as well.
My thoughts were silenced when my earwig activated. I was pretty sure it wasn’t a half-hour yet, so this was probably it.
“Target spotted, wearing a bright yellow windbreaker and tight jeans. Very very tight jeans. . .”
“Keep it businesslike, Tony.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got the best duty in town, sitting there and kissing that luscious–”
“That luscious can hear your every word, and knows English better than you do. I’m also taping this for your sister.”
I could almost hear the blush on the other side of the transmission, could definitely hear Lily’s ever-present giggle in my other ear. But whatever worked. . .
“Target proceeding south on Mariano Escobedo, almost to Paseo. You should be able to see her at any moment.”
“Copy. Keep up a running commentary, and keep it low.”
Lily was already ahead of me, taking my camera and long-range telephoto out. I set up quickly as she moved about ten yards down the street to pose. Keeping up a running dialogue, I told her how to pose as I clicked away, though my lens was actually focused down the street. A passerby might have found it suspicious for me to be using such a huge lens to shoot a gal so close, but obviously would come to the conclusion that I wanted an extreme close-up of her extraordinarily beautiful face. Besides, not that many people around here would be photography experts, even the tourists.
“I have her in my sights,” I told Tony, chuckling as I realized I would have said exactly the same thing if I were holding a rifle instead of the very similar-looking lens barrel. “She’s hopping into a bus. Get to your car and be ready for my next signal. Follow discreetly.”
While I said this I was already packing things as Lily hailed the minibus. There was no question of her going now, so we climbed in and found two seats together. I made sure not to look at the target as we passed her, but I was free to stare at her back all I wanted, telling Lily to be ready to get out quickly before returning to our previous roles of kissy-kissy.
It was obvious that Lily was attracting a lot of attention, so I made the decision to have her get off as if it were her stop, then join Tony in the car. Neither of them would be involved in the action; Tony was no expert in this stuff either. It would be a one-on-one.
Hopefully. . .
Much to my surprise, I found myself across the street from Sullivan Park.
If it were not for the fact that these buses ran on a strict route, I would have found it too good to be true. I knew some parts of the city well, and the rest not at all. The area from Sullivan Park down to Chapultepec and in the opposite direction to downtown I knew like the back of my hand, as the old saying went; I hadn’t studied that part of my anatomy in quite a while. No one had read the front of my hand lately either, but that wasn’t important right now.
This was apparently the end of the line for the bus, since everyone got off. I waited for everyone else to leave, wondering if the target had come here to see the art exhibitions only held on Sundays. It was the same line she’d taken on Friday, but it was possible that she usually got off at another stop. No way of knowing, other than to play it out, now.
Any doubt was erased as I saw her walk parallel to the park and make no attempt to enter it. She was heading east, past the park and toward the Monument to the Mother, so she might be going to Insurgentes, one block later, to catch another bus; I sent Tony and Lily to the gas station to tank up and wait for instructions.
But the target did not go that way. As I watched, musing how lucky it was that she liked wearing bright clothes, she turned north on Sadi Carnot. I followed her a bit further behind and across the street. Being so close to Insurgentes street, this area might be said to have middle-income housing, at least as American standards go, but it was pretty high class for Mexico City, excepting the areas like the Zona Rosa, Pedregal, and Bosques de Chapultepec, where mostly narco-rich lived.
The target went only halfway down the first block before entering one of the buildings. I was sure I couldn’t follow her so soon, and had no idea which room she would be going to anyway, so I found a good place to hide across the street and watched as she climbed the front stairs, barely catching glimpses of her through the windows in the staircase.
At the second floor from the top–I still got confused with the bottom floor is ground floor and second floor is first floor and all that stuff–I saw her pause at the window and look out. If she intended to see if she had been followed, she did her job poorly. As a matter of fact, as I saw her take out a key ring and search for one, she was giving her position away. That became even more apparent when she opened the door to the right of the window, in plain sight. It made me think: was she just innocent of the techniques, or was she leading her follower into a trap?
I continued watching the windows of the apartment she had entered, seeing glimpses of two figures outlined from a light on the inside, which was very quickly turned off. Unless I could get up on this building behind me and use the telephoto, and unless they put the lights back on, I would have no idea what was going on inside, and I was certainly not going to risk being caught acting like the infamous Peeping Tom, or the local version of it. People inside dark rooms could see out much better than anyone could see in anyway, so I waited where I was, dying for a 7-up which would only be half a block away and signaling for my troops to be ready for the next order. “And leave Lily alone, Tony. You know how jealous I can get.”
One million years later, or maybe forty-five minutes, the target came out again, now clad in a flower-print dress that she was attempting to smooth down repeatedly. The timing was right for a quickie, considering that the gal wasn’t all that bad-looking, and bad guys like this one. . .
Never mind.
I informed my backup that the woman was leaving, but send only one person–in case this was a ruse–to follow her; it was still more likely my target was right here. Then I said I was going in. . .
“Be careful, darling,” I heard Lily say.
“What a great idea,” I muttered as I used a large truck to cover my crossing, then made my way into the building and took the stairs quickly but silently. Hardly pausing once I saw the cheap lock, I kicked the door open, gun held ready, and immediately saw movement in front of me. Without waiting for an invitation, I dove behind an upholstered chair and held my gun in the direction of the movement. Quickly glancing around, I saw it was a small apartment; that, added to what I thought had been going on the last hour, led me to the opinion that there was no one else in the place, though of course that was by no means positive.
Peering by the left side of the chair–most would expect me to be right-handed and look out the other way–I could not see any more movement, but my sharp eyes were able to pick out the barrel of a gun in the murky darkness of the other room. Aiming carefully, I set off one shot at the gun, then followed it with another lower and to the right, where the person would be hiding behind that dresser. I was rewarded by the whine of metal being struck, but was disappointed to hear the other bullet smack wood. The next second I heard the ricochet of the first bullet hit a wall, followed by the clunk of a gun hitting the floor.
The next sound I heard was that of a window being opened; having seen no fire escape outside, it was still not impossible for my prey to have a plan, as he was justified in his paranoia. Having to be cautious, not taking a chance that the man didn’t have another gun, I carefully walked into the other room, my own weapon at ready. A quick glance around told me I was alone, so I dashed to the open window and looked down, seeing the top of a dark head climbing down a rope. Immediately I thought about pulling the rope up, but knew there was little chance of bringing the guy in, so I settled for the next best thing: I whipped my knife out and cut the rope.
Unfortunately Adams–the bad guy in this scenario–was already far enough down to fall the rest of the way safely; I watched him get to his feet and sprint in the direction of Sullivan Park. Half-cursing for letting him get away, but pleased that he had taken that direction, I dashed down the stairs, trying to save enough breath to call in. “Inform Duke to put his plan into effect immediately. Tell him he’s the luckiest Scotsman in the world!”
There was no response, but then I didn’t expect any; Tony had obviously switched channels to call Duke. I hit the floor running and burst into the street, hot in pursuit, just in time to see the suspect turn right on Avenue James Sullivan.
Duke–my MI6 counterpart for this training session–and I had come up with a back-up plan in case I could not apprehend Adams cleanly, but never had we expected it to work out so well. Of course we’d known the route of the bus line, so we’d drawn up several contingencies, but it was a stunner to realize we couldn’t have possibly planned it better.
Never one for running, I took it easy, just keeping the man in sight as he dashed between the paintings throughout the park. I did not want to pursue too closely, for fear of loose gunplay, and I only hoped Adams didn’t get the idea of hostages in mind. Still, the guy had to be shaken, not having expected me to be on to him so soon; he was rattled and only thinking of escape.
I could only give the painters a pitying look as I followed the swath of destruction Adams left in his wake; obviously not being much for art, the man had gone through the park without a care as to the articles on sale. I followed at a discreet distance, though not getting close enough to knock else over. As I went along, I saw one beautiful rendition of the Caracol observatory at Chichen Itza; not bothering to stop, I told the painter, a rather young man, to save it for me, I‘d be back real soon.
Adams finally came out of the park and crossed Villalongin at the movie theater, then hit River Marie; apparently he’d realized he had made a mistake earlier and should have made for the big crowds along Insurgentes, and was attempting to correct that now. When he reached Rio Lerma he crossed the street so he could get to the correct side of the next street, Rio Neva. One block away was Paseo de la Reforma, which would be even better than Insurgentes in the amount of people he could lose himself in.
A few steps before Adams hit Rio Neva, I shouted into the mic for #3 to start his run; when Adams turned the corner, he saw a man with a gun running toward him. A quick glance behind showed me still on his heels, and in the other direction of Rio Neva, another agent was coming. His only recourse was to continue on Rio Lerma.
The next cross street was Rio Guidiana, I knew, which was named after a place I was very familiar with up north. More importantly, it closed before reaching Paseo de la Reforma, so there was no need to put a man there. Adams saw this and continued on, hoping that his pursuers were not fast enough to close down either Rio Amazonas or the larger Rio Rhine {by now you should have figured out the streets in this colony were named after rivers, if you bothered to think about it.}
Both proved inaccessible to him, having more men running at him. There were even cars that burned rubber as soon as they saw him on the four-lane Rio Rhine, so he knew he had to continue on, braving the red light and barely avoiding a few other screeching cars.
Commencing to feel fatigued, but not about to give up, Adams searched for alternatives. This area of Mexico City was populated with large old mansions, which probably had guards that would help in the chase. However, if he could get into one without being spotted by either pursuers or guards, he was sure he could find a place to hide, thinking we wouldn’t have the jurisdiction or clout to force rich landowners to open their houses for a search.
To his amazement, he saw one of large mansions with the gate open, and no guards anywhere in the vicinity. As if to help him make his decision, he saw another man running toward him now, this one from the direction he was heading, pretty much cutting off his last route of escape.
It was not a hard decision to make; scooping up a fallen branch, which probably would shatter without much damage if bopped on someone’s head, he figured he could always pretend it was a gun in someone’s back.
He felt as if it was taking him forever to reach the front doors of the mansion as he now stumbled along the tree-lined cement path. Seeing that the door was made of cheap wood, he switched to overdrive and lunged his body at the door, fully expecting to go crashing in and disrupt someone’s elegant lunch.
Instead he was very surprised when the door opened and he flew through the air to land hard on the tiled floor.
“So nice o’ ye ta drop in,” he heard a Scottish burr say. “We’ve bin waitin’ for ye to stop by.” He found himself lying on the floor with a knee in his back, handcuffs quickly applied to his wrists as his arms were shoved behind his back. Then he was lifted up and turned around to face a man he knew very well: Alexander Southwood, known to some as Duke, newest graduate to the British Secret Service.
The door had been left open, and in came. . . lil’ ol’ me. Adams bared his teeth and struggled to get free, finally realizing he’d been snookered. Duke and I exchanged a high-five, though Scots weren’t all that coordinated for that kind of stuff. Then, ignoring the captive, I said, “Like taking candy from a baby.”
Adams sneered, he wasn’t about to go down without a fight. “You know you can’t hold me. You have no jurisdiction here.”
It was not often one heard the dour Scotsman laugh, but that just made this time all the more special as Duke purred, “Ya were apparently runnin’ so fast ya neglected to see the sign out front. This is the British Embassy ya were herded into. . .”
Adams collapsed like a balloon freshly punctured; it was a beautiful sight. . .
I was back in Sullivan Park, buying that painting, when I heard a voice behind me. “I think I deserve leniency. After all, I led you right to him.”
I didn’t have to turn around to realize it was the actress playing Adams’ gal. “I did think it was a bit too easy. But I don’t see why you have to be dragged into this. Go on with your life and maybe you’ll become a good lawyer, if there is such a thing.”
She didn’t question as to how I knew about her studies. “I hope you didn’t shoot up my apartment too much.”
Trying to look sheepish, but grinning too hard, I admitted there was a good possibility there was a bullet hole in her wall. “But we can look for something here that’ll cover it up. . . and then I can help you hang it. . .”

;o)

Advertisements

2 thoughts on “Travel Thursday: It’s Not Stalkerish, It’s Training part 2

Tell me what you think I need to know. . .

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s