Operator - 01 (26 page)

I suddenly realized that I know where I am – I’ve read about this place. It is Manhattan’s newest park, the High Line, and it only recently opened. The park was created by a concerted private effort to prevent the demolition of the abandoned railway lines that had been overgrown with beds of weeds and flowers – a sea of wild tranquility above the planned chaos of the streets below.

Even on a cool autumn evening, the park is busy. A good smattering of couples walk arm in arm alongside groups of friends and solo travelers. There are benches and chairs dotting the landscape and couples sit, watching the long grasses sway in the evening breeze and admiring elevated views of the city. New Yorkers are a legendarily industrious and commercial people – even the creation of Central Park involved the no-nonsense leveling of a teeming shantytown – and they normally move through their city at a frenetic pace that the rest of us would call a slow jog. The High Line, however, has a sense of serenity about it. Tourists and New Yorkers alike are strolling. It is an odd sensation to see the dramatic tapering of pedestrian velocity even as the raucous sounds of traffic moving on the streets underneath the park intrude.

As I enter the park, I adjust my pace and attitude to fit the crowd around me and consider my options. I don’t see Drubich, but he could only have proceeded in two directions: north or south. I choose north, because the terminus of the park is just a couple of blocks in that direction. At the end of The Caledonia, a dozen people sit in comfortable fabric chairs on an elevated lounge connected to the residential building, sipping drinks as they chat and idly watch sightseers. The concrete path briefly gives way to a hundred foot section of cedar planks, like an enormous backyard deck. An outdoor amphitheater has been built into the trestle, stepping down from the main level of the park, penetrating the track bed halfway down to the street. Viewing windows at the bottom of the amphitheater allow rows of benches to observe the street below in an odd, voyeuristic inversion. At this time of the evening, half a dozen pairs of young couples sit quietly on the benches, straining for a moment of privacy.

The path narrows north of 17
^th
Street, and I spot the Chelsea Piers sports complex straddling the Hudson River across from the futuristic, weirdly curved IAC building. The park consists of just a single path here, eight feet wide and flanked by beds of vegetation on both sides. There is another staircase leading down to the street at 18
^th
, and I lean over to take a look at the street on both sides, but I don’t spot Drubich. He could have popped up into the park as a way to shake a tail, but he wasn’t so far ahead of me that he’d have been able to get back down out of the park this quickly without attracting attention.

The park ends abruptly two blocks further on with a high mesh fence standing between the completed section and new construction. I realize I’ve guessed wrong and that Constantine must have headed south. I turn around smartly, retracing my steps as fast as I dare. As I pass back over the wide, cedar-planked section of the park I spot the Statue of Liberty in the distance. I stop for a moment, frozen in my tracks by the unexpected view. The statue is illuminated in the darkness of the harbor, her arm extended, the copper flame of the torch bathed in golden light.

The park plunges directly through the enormous Chelsea Market building just south of the stairway where I entered. Inside the building, the walkway is set up as a cafe. A long countertop stretches along one side of the pathway and tables dot the other side. Even on a cool evening, the bar is doing brisk business. As I emerge from the shelter of the Market, I spot my man. The trestle makes a sweeping curve to the left on this stretch, and the park is at its broadest point, divided into two levels. The lower level has a long section of the original train track grown over with vegetation beside a narrow footpath. The upper section is much wider and flanked by a series of wooden benches shaped to resemble beach chairs. They are spacious enough for two and largely occupied by teenagers. This section of the park has an unobstructed view, and the beach chairs look due west over the Hudson River.

A hundred yards down the trestle, the two paths merge, and it is here that I see Constantine. He is standing against the riveted black iron trestle railing, leaning on the slanted aluminum rail that joins the rounded iron bar on the top of the railing at an angle. He has one elbow on the railing and his dark curly hair flaps in the breeze rising off 14
^th
Street. He is casually reading a newspaper, which is folded over several times, in the manner that New Yorkers have adopted to avoid offending each other in the confined space of the subway system. In his elegant cashmere overcoat and sheepskin-lined driving gloves, Drubich looks out of place on the High Line. He reminds me of a character from a Magritte painting, with his unusually erect bearing in this city that seems to perpetually lean forward. I notice that the back of the newspaper Drubich is reading neatly frames an advertisement. We’ve gotten lucky. Constantine’s pose is classic fieldcraft: this is almost certainly a meet.

I stop about twenty yards short of Drubich on the lower section of the walkway and lean over the railing, looking out at the Hudson as a small container ship drifts by. There’s a small, flesh-colored communication device in my ear, one that is a lot less noticeable than the jobs Secret Service guys wear, and I casually speak into it, keeping my voice low enough to fade into the blare of the traffic below.

“Are you guys with me?”

“This is Holland, we’re still where you left us,” he says.

“Drive south and drop Brennan at 14
^th
Street. He should enter the High Line Park and proceed north. Our target is standing right on top of 15
^th
Street. Tell Brennan that when he spots Drubich, he should stay at least twenty yards away. I think our man is waiting for a meet. If I spot his contact, I’ll try to get in close and get a picture. Constantine could be here on unrelated business, but there’s a chance we’ll get what we came for.”

“Okay, I read you – is there anything else?” Special Agent Holland asks.

“Better call for reinforcements. If this doesn’t happen quickly and we can get someone into one of the buildings overlooking the park, I’d love to get audio on this.” I again get annoyed that we don’t have a real surveillance unit on Drubich. Unless we catch Constantine in a face-to-face meeting with the mysterious redheaded diplomat, overhearing any conversation he has is vital. Drubich might be untouchable because of his diplomatic immunity, but anyone he meets is fair game for the FBI.

“Gotcha, I’ll see what I can do,” Holland says, his voice betraying some excitement. I wonder how long he’s been in the field.

I turn south, making a show of watching a blonde in a clinging sweater who is approaching me, and start people watching. If at all possible, I want to spot Constantine’s contact as he makes his approach so I can move in while the two are first exchanging countersigns and less likely to notice me.

I reach inside the lining of my raincoat. I’ve clipped a small remote control to an inside pocket meant for business cards that is sewn in near the waist. I slide a toggle switch on the small remote and a viewfinder appears inside the right lens of the clear Persol glasses. The lenses themselves are flat, as I do not need vision correction, but they make an excellent screen for the tiny camera hidden in the black frame. They also transform my persona, theoretically changing me from a bedraggled slacker into an urban hipster. Or so I guess. I don’t trust government-issued wardrobe in a place like New York because “the look” is so specific and changes so quickly. I’ve never believed the folks in Virginia have a perfect eye for details. In any city in the world I can do better by walking around until I find someone who looks the way I want to and asking him where he shops. I do like the raincoat, though.

After ten minutes of watching, someone catches my eye: a man approaching from the north. He’s very conventional-looking, which makes him stand out in the lower Manhattan crowd. He’s a six-footer of medium build in a dark raincoat not too different from mine, with a dark suit underneath. His shoes are what catch my eye. They remind me of Dmitriev’s – they look like dress shoes on top but as he lifts his feet I can see a sturdy Vibram sole underneath. It’s the kind of thing a professional puts on when he needs to wear a suit but must be able to move quickly if necessary. I can also tell from the way he holds himself that he’s a military guy. It’s one of our weaknesses – those of us who spend most of our lives in the service. We get a certain upright bearing drilled into us and it becomes very hard to slouch like the rest of the world. That’s why most of us don’t do well at undercover work unless we hide ourselves under a shemagh and a thick wool coat.

The man is less than a dozen feet from me when the Blackberry in my pocket vibrates. I pull it out, which serves as a good way to avoid making eye contact with the stranger. There’s sometimes an instinct that operators get about one another, a recognition that occurs when we lock eyes, and I don’t want that to happen here. I focus for a second on the Blackberry. The number is my mother’s. I frown, but press the red reject button to send the call to voicemail as I return the device to my pocket. When the stranger passes, I follow him, keeping behind an Orthodox Jewish couple, the man in a black fedora, the woman wearing a wig of straight brown hair. As we come within fifteen feet of Drubich – an acceptable range for the tiny camera in my Persol glasses, I briefly swivel to stare directly at Constantine, who doesn’t look back at me. Inside my coat pocket, my thumb flicks a toggle switch and a viewfinder appears in the right lens of my glasses. A scroll wheel enlarges the image. Having half of my vision temporarily magnified is an odd sensation and I have to repress the urge to close my left eye. Then I depress a button on the remote with my thumb and the image freezes for a second. I get a clear shot of Drubich. I relax fractionally, relieved that the unfamiliar device works as advertised. As I draw closer, I look away from him, focusing instead on the soldier a few paces in front of me. I’ll have to repeat the process if he’s really here to meet Drubich.

Then I notice something. Just as he’s getting closer to Drubich, the operator slides his right hand inside his coat pocket. The gesture is efficient and calculated in its smoothness. It’s not something you ordinarily do when you’re approaching a contact unless your instructions are to light a cigarette or offer a piece of gum – both gestures that would look distinctly odd in this context. You normally want to keep your hands out in the open so the person you’re meeting won’t think you’re planning to shoot him. I instinctively step around the Orthodox couple, moving myself directly behind the operator. His hand emerges from his pocket just before he reaches Drubich and I glimpse the thin tip of a needle barely protruding from his fingers. At the same time, I see another man, larger and more solidly built than the soldier in front of me, approaching Drubich from the opposite direction. As I watch, the bigger man stops and turns towards Constantine, tapping him on the shoulder. Constantine pivots towards the larger man and away from me and the man with the needle. In that instant, the operator in front of me raises his left hand towards his mouth to cough, drawing attention from his other hand like a trained magician. As his right hand rises, I clearly see a palm-push syringe in his grasp. The hand snakes towards the Constantine’s neck, and I have a moment of total clarity. Drubich may think this is a meeting, but it’s really a hit. And if I’m not mistaken, it’s his own guys – another Spetznaz team – that are trying to kill him.

Time slows to a crawl as I react. I see the soldier’s hand moving towards Constantine’s neck in slow motion, following a graceful arc. Meanwhile, the bigger man has leaned in towards Constantine, talking earnestly to distract him. I grasp the Russian operator’s hand at the last instant, just before the needle penetrates the skin on Drubich’s neck. I swiftly lock the wrist and bend it back on itself. With my other hand I immobilize his arm, which spasms as he loses control of it. Before he can react, I bend the arm back on itself, and the needle in his hand plunges into his own neck. I have a sudden feeling of awareness, like a flashbulb going off in front of me, and I dart sideways, letting go of the soldier. Just at that moment, I hear a scream as the Orthodox man behind me collapses in a heap, followed by the crack of a high-velocity rifle. I realize that a sniper is covering the Russian team on the ground.

The operator I’ve forced to inject himself collapses immediately, folding like a stuffed doll to the ground. As he drops, I catch the eyes of the big Russian who is chatting with Drubich and see him pulling a small pistol, an SR-1 Vector from his coat. Taking a step forward, I push Constantine Drubich to the side with two fingers and step into the space between him and the big Russian. As Drubich stumbles backwards, a splash of blood erupts from his shoulder, and he hits the railing hard and slides down to a sitting position. There’s another crack of that high-velocity rifle. I step towards the big Russian who has his Vector almost in firing position and see that there is another man drawing a weapon five paces behind him. It’s a team of four, then – three on the ground and one with a sniper rifle. Accelerating, I step almost past the big Russian, to the left. My left arm sweeps up under his right, hitting it at the nexus of a dozen nerves on the inside of the tricep and forcing the arm and the gun straight up in the air. Then as I straddle the man with my hips perpendicular to his, my right hand sweeps under his neck and I catch his Adam’s apple in the crook of my sweeping arm, reversing his momentum just at his point of balance. I point my outstretched right hand towards the ground and his head follows. At the same time, with my left hand, I’ve gripped his paralyzed right at the forearm, bending it backwards so that it points towards the third Russian, who is frozen in mid-stride, his weapon aimed at me. I dig my thumb and forefingers into the bundle of tendons in the middle of the big Russian’s forearm and the automatic in his hand explodes once, twice as he pulls the trigger involuntarily, hitting the third man in the middle of the chest, collapsing him instantly. Then I step my left foot back quickly like a matador and turn my extended right arm over, catching the big Russian’s neck under my elbow. Arching my back, I wrenched my elbow and feel a snap as I sever the man’s spinal cord. I look up. There’s an unfinished twelve-story building almost directly in front of me, one that the High Line runs directly through. It’s the ideal spot for the Russian sniper, and my eyes fix on it as I finish off the big Russian. Just as he starts to slide from my grasp, I see a flash from one of the unfinished floors in the middle of the building.