The Secret Friend

53

Tim Bryson crunched a Rolaids between his teeth as traffic crawled past the Tobin Bridge tolls. Cliff Watts had the window down so he could smoke.

A battered plumber's van, complete with a ladder fixed to the top, was waiting in the left lane, two car lengths behind the Jag.

Bryson's phone rang. It was Lang, the man driving the plumbing van.

'I ran the plates. The car's registered to a man named Samuel Dingle from Saugus. I've got an address.'

Bryson felt a sick feeling crawling underneath his skin. 'Is it stolen?' he asked.

'If it is, nobody has reported it,' Lang said.

'Send someone over to the house. Call me back when you find out.'

The Jag drove fast across the new Zakim Bridge, heading for Boston's southeast expressway. So close, Bryson thought. Too close.

Fletcher merged onto Storrow Drive, heading west. A few minutes later he took the Kenmore exit.

The problems of tailing someone in a city without being spotted were numerous – the traffic lights, the maze of oneway streets and, in the case of Boston, the never-ending headaches of the Big Dig. If you didn't stick close to your mark, you could lose him.

Malcolm Fletcher wasn't acting like someone who knew he was being shadowed. No sudden turns down a narrow street, he didn't change direction – he wasn't doing any of the normal counter-surveillance manoeuvres to shake off a tail. The man stuck to the main roads and kept up with the flow of traffic.

Fenway Park was dark and deserted. Without the Red Sox playing, the place was dead. Traffic was light. Watts kept a good, safe distance.

Fletcher put on his blinker and turned left into a parking lot. Watts drove past him. Bryson turned in his seat, wondering if Fletcher had spotted the tail.

A guard rail lifted into the air. Fletcher pulled inside the parking lot.

Watts banged a U-turn at the lights and found an empty spot along the side of the street, in front of a fire hydrant. He killed the lights but not the engine. Bryson already had the binoculars in his hands.

The parking lot was well lit and, thankfully, there was no tree cover, just a chain-link fence. There. The Jag was parked in a corner on the far right.

Bryson looked past the Jag to Lansdowne Street. The dingy area – horse barns at the turn of the century that were later converted to warehouses – was now home to a string of popular bars and dance clubs set up inside brick buildings. Lines of young men and women stood behind velvet ropes in the freezing cold, waiting for the bouncers to usher them through.

'What the hell is he doing down here?' Watts asked.

Good question, Bryson thought. The Jag door opened.

Malcolm Fletcher was dressed in a dark wool overcoat. Sunglasses covered his eyes. He looked like a character from The Matrix. He didn't look around, just shut the door and jogged across the street.

The people in line stared at him, wondering if he was some sort of celebrity. He stepped up to a bouncer with a big, round head. The bouncer leaned forward to listen.

Bryson read the sign above the door: Instant Karma.

'I can't believe it,' Watts said. 'The son of a bitch is going dancing.'

Bryson's phone rang as he watched the bouncer pull back the velvet rope to let Fletcher pass.

'You think he spotted us?' Lang asked.

'If he did, the smart move would have been to try to shake us off,' Bryson said. 'He wouldn't lead us to a dance club. Have you ever been inside Instant Karma?'

'Hitting the clubs isn't my scene any more. I'm way too old.'

'We broke up an ecstasy ring about two years ago. The bottom level connects to other clubs. I'm going to head inside with Watts. I want you to coordinate the surveillance. Who else is with you?'

'Martinez and Washington,' Lang said. 'Tim, this guy attacked three federal agents.'

'He did it in the privacy of his own home, and he took his sweet time. Move your boys to the front. There's an alley around the back, near the fire exits. Park there. I'll escort Fletcher out through the alley.'

From the glove compartment Bryson pulled out a surveillance rig – an earpiece and lapel mike with encryption that allowed him to keep in constant communication with his team without the possibility of eavesdropping.

'I'll contact you once I'm inside,' Bryson said.