Into the Fire(48)
The large men formed a rugby scrum that moved without obvious purpose but still encapsulated the passenger in the middle car as he emerged. Evan caught only a fleeting glimpse of a man with silver hair and a dark beard before his men cocooned him and conveyed him into the café. Everyone else knew the drill as well, swinging into motion as if mechanized, the valets nodding deferentially, a hostess materializing to hold the door, the ma?tre d’ standing at attention inside, armed with a leather-bound wine list.
The scrum swept inside without a hitch. One of the men had peeled out of formation to stand at the curb, overseeing the parked Town Cars.
Evan left the used workbooks on the table. As he jogged down the stairs, he felt no residual dizziness from the concussion. As long as he took it easy, he seemed to be functional.
He crossed the street. The valets didn’t nod at him deferentially. No hostess appeared to hold the door for him. The ma?tre d’ didn’t bother to look up from his reservation ledger, which he pondered Talmudically.
All that pointed inattention gave Evan a moment to scan the bustling café. Tables spread artfully across a Moroccan tile floor. A few sleek wooden fans circled leisurely overhead. French doors let onto a small courtyard with a single table where the convoy’s sole passenger sat with two other men, sipping espresso. The bodyguards stood around the courtyard and at the French doors, on alert.
The diners didn’t seem to take notice. A mother ate with one hand on a baby stroller, rolling it gently back and forth. Her husband lolled in his chair and jabbed at a molar with a toothpick, his stomach a testament to suburban sprawl. Near the door to a unisex bathroom, a family of six rimmed a round table, their heads bowed as if in prayer, each lost to a different screen.
No one seemed bothered in the least by the bodyguards.
Which meant Unidentified Caller was well known in the community, his presence here a dash of local flavor: the neighborhood connected guy who ate where the good food was.
The patrons were unaware that they were providing him protection, allowing him to hide here in plain sight. Cops and rivals would be less willing to make a move with such a high likelihood of collateral damage. And in the event that they did? Having civilians around to distract, confuse, and catch the occasional stray bullet would provide useful protection.
At last the ma?tre d’ pried himself from the ledger, looking up through his wire frames. “Yes, sir?”
“May I sit in the courtyard?” Evan asked.
“I’m afraid that table is taken.”
“Today?”
“Always.”
“Oh. Is that the owner?” Evan flicked his head toward the silver-haired gentleman. The cut of his suit was impeccable, the fabric breaking in all the right places, as if the folds had been penciled by a sketch artist.
Evan had looked into the café’s business records but found only a snarled fishing line of parent companies, subsidiaries, and loan-outs.
The ma?tre d’ said, “I’d be happy to seat you inside, sir.”
Putting a name to Unidentified Caller would take a bit more hoop-jumping, then.
“That would be fine. I’d prefer something away from the door. Maybe there?” Evan pointed to an open table with a partial view of the courtyard.
The ma?tre d’s grin looked as if he’d read about how to smile in a textbook and was trying it on under duress. But he seated Evan where he’d asked.
Evan ordered an Armenian coffee and settled in to observe.
The bodyguards were on point, focused on movements, windows, doorways. The courtyard looked to be sheltered from the view of the surrounding buildings. The armored Town Cars out front were under constant watch.
Unidentified Caller hadn’t lied. This wasn’t some dogfighting ring Evan could walk into like a third-rate gunslinger.
For this he’d have to bring at least his second-rate game.
These men seemed to be stitched into the fabric of the community. Kids in private schools, gated houses with circular driveways, three-year leases on luxury SUVs for the missuses. Nicer suits, finer espresso, a courtyard of one’s own.
When acoustics allowed, Evan could make out the occasional snatch of conversation from the table, though only the voices of the other men.
Removing the Turing Phone, he texted Unidentified Caller: ANY HEADWAY WITH THE KAMA SUTRA?
He stared across the dining room, past the bodyguard, through the French doors.
Waiting for confirmation.
It took a few seconds for the text to skitter its way through the encryption. But at last the silver-haired man reached inside his lapel. He removed a matching rectangular slab of Liquidmorphium. Eyed the screen.
His lips pursed with amusement.
He held up a finger, and the men around him ceased talking.
He typed.
A moment later his text appeared: IF YOU STILL HAVE YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR, YOU DON’T COMPREHEND THE FATE YOU’RE FACING.
Evan: THE TERROR TRIED TO TELL ME THE SAME THING. RIGHT BEFORE I PUT A HOLLOW POINT THROUGH HIS FOREHEAD.
The man stared at the screen, the amusement fading from his face. As if he’d taken a joke too far with a child and was no longer willing to countenance any acting out.
He returned the phone to his lapel pocket, nodded at the men, and the conversation resumed.
Evan had to identify him. He needed a name. If not Unidentified Caller’s, then at least that of one of his associates or bodyguards. He could backtrack from there.