The Watchman

Thirteen

Picking up on a tail is never easy. Forget what they tell you in books or films. The shop window trick is only good in a deserted street with few pedestrians. Too much vehicle or pedestrian movement is unhelpful clutter. And in the area around 31st and Fifth Avenue in New York, clutter is the name of the game.

The other problem is, serious tails rarely work alone; they operate using a box or leap-frog formation with up to four or more people, some on foot, others mobile, constantly swapping over, their movements steered by a controller. That makes the job of counter-surveillance pretty tough; you just don’t know where the next watcher is coming from.

Unless the person following you actually wants you to know he’s there.

The man behind me made himself known on at least three occasions before I got the message. But just in case I’d picked up a genuine head case with time to spare, I made him work at it a bit longer before I gave up on the game. I was intrigued.

He was dressed smart, in a sports jacket and pants, good walking shoes. English, at a guess, which was more than interesting. I put him somewhere in his late fifties, maybe older, but fit, with combed-back greying hair and a slightly jowly face. In spite of his age he had no trouble staying with me, even when I upped the rate a little and jigged across a couple of intersections to string him out. He seemed to be at home in the area, knowing when to stay on one side and when to cross to take advantage of the traffic flow.

I finally stepped into a Starbucks on Fifth and E34th, and watched him through the steamed-up windows as he paused to study the front of a Korean electronics store on the corner. Then he turned and strolled across the street on the lights. By the way he was moving, he knew there was no need to hurry.

It told me he knew where to find me if I managed to lose him.

He caught my eye as he walked by, and I smiled to show him I knew. Then I went to the counter and ordered two daily brews.

He was sitting at a corner table when I turned round, checking out the other customers. He’d chosen a seat away from the crowd and looked very relaxed.

Even more interesting.

I got sugar and paper napkins and walked over, putting the coffees down and drawing up a chair.

‘I’m not sure what I should call you,’ he said, inspecting the coffee. ‘Is Portman your real name?’ He smiled at me and I got the impression of someone who meant me no ill will. Maybe it was the cultured English accent, firm but non-aggressive.

‘Portman’s fine,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’

‘Tom Vale.’ He stirred sugar into his mug. ‘Nate Sweetman told me about you.’

It took a second to recall where I’d heard the name. Sweetman. Engineer. Bogotá. Nearly kidnapped. Nice guy, if over-chatty.

‘Do I know him?’

‘You should — you saved his life. He nearly got FARC’d.’ He smiled to show he had a sense of humour.

‘Just like that? He told you?’

‘We have a family connection. He needed to talk to somebody about what happened.’

‘Why you? You know about stuff like that?’

‘A little.’ He sipped his coffee and looked pleasantly surprised, then sipped again. I let him do his thing and waited. While we’d been going through the preliminaries, I’d been watching the street and the door, checking out passers-by and customers. None that looked like they were with this Mr Vale, though.

‘You also know about stuff like that,’ he said eventually.

‘You think?’

‘Well, starting with Nate, who’s a very good judge of character, let’s look at the facts: you walked into a kidnap attempt and calmly disarmed one kidnapper, shot two with the first man’s gun and put down a fourth outside and took his vehicle.’ He looked at me with a lifted eyebrow. ‘You don’t mess about, do you?’

‘No point,’ I replied. ‘Have you seen what they do to people they don’t like? They use chainsaws.’

He grunted. ‘I admit I thought Nate was hallucinating when he said you paid his hotel bill on the way out. But the hotel confirmed it. Neat. Cool under fire. Which makes me think you’re more than just a good Samaritan or a bystander who got lucky.’

‘You said “starting with”.’

‘Pardon?’

‘A few seconds ago, when I asked who told you, you said “starting with Nate”. It implies you spoke to others.’

‘Oh.’ He raised a hand in apology. ‘Well, I know you don’t work for us, so I ran a quick check on other agencies. The only official Portman I found is a senior admin supervisor with the NSA — but she’s a busty fifty-year-old with two children and a sick Chihuahua. If it hadn’t been for a stroke of luck my people wouldn’t have found you so easily. They’re very good, but there are limits.’

‘Your people?’

‘I’ll come to that. My main question is, what does this mystery man, this Mr Portman, who pops out of nowhere and disrupts a kidnapping so effortlessly, what does he do, exactly?’

I shook my head. ‘You tell me.’

He nodded. ‘Fair point. I just wanted to gauge your reaction, that’s all. The fact that you haven’t run screaming into the street is a good sign.’ He leaned forward and said, ‘I’m with SIS, otherwise known as MI6, London.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t tell you how rarely I ever get to say that to strangers. It’s almost a confessional moment.’

‘Bless you.’

‘Thank you. I’ve spent my life working in intelligence gathering — mostly as a field controller, running operations. Now I’ve shown you mine, it’s your turn.’

He was either the best fantasist I’d ever met, and a hell of a good liar, or he was telling the truth. It presented me with a dilemma. I could stand up and walk out of here and probably never see him again. Or I could find out more.

I hate mysteries.

‘You’ve got my name, my address. The rest is simple: I’m a shadow. I run security, evaluate risks and where needed, provide hard cover in potentially hostile situations.’

‘Hard cover. Like Bogotá.’

‘That was unplanned. But like that.’

‘Up close?’

‘Not always. Some situations don’t allow it. I prefer to work at a distance.’ His expression told me he knew what I was saying. Staying back, I get to see more of what’s going on around a target. It’s easier to intervene that way. Sneaky, too.

‘Anywhere?’

‘I travel wherever a client needs me and I rarely stay anywhere for long, unless it’s to recover from a hot situation, which happens from time to time. Actors call it “resting”.’

‘So you’re a kind of watchman. With attitude.’

‘Yes.’

He gave a hint of a smile. ‘Was that what you were doing down in Tijuana?’