Camille watched as the boy slowly made his way around the gallery. He moved in a counterclockwise direction and paused at each painting. Carefully studying each work of art, he repositioned himself occasionally to examine a small detail or to look back at paintings he had already scrutinized as if in comparison. When the boy finally came full circle and arrived back at the doorway they had used to enter the gallery, he silently took his place beside the girl. Camille said nothing. She understood that it was not the time for words.
They stood there in silence and simply watched the flow of patrons through and around the room.
“How about a snack?” Mary Sullivan asked finally. “The café downstairs is nice.”
The boy nodded, and the three visitors departed the gallery without another word.
Regina Cash made her way to the main floor and stationed herself along the East Sculpture Hall. She spied the boy almost immediately. He was accompanied by the Sullivan woman and her daughter—Cash recognized them from the pictures Palmer had sent her earlier that day. Cash nonchalantly moved to the side of the hall and pretended to look at a sculpture.
“Got him,” she said in a whisper. “Heading toward the rotunda.”
Her words were instantly transmitted to the small receiver in the ear of each team member.
Cash made a quick turn as soon as the boy passed and fell in with the rest of the tourists trailing behind him. When they reached the rotunda, the boy, Mary Sullivan, and her daughter turned right and headed for the stairs leading to the ground floor. Cash fell a few feet back but stayed close enough to maintain visual contact.
“Constitution Avenue,” she whispered. “Tag. You’re it.”
Eric McClain was the team member assigned to the exit leading to Constitution Avenue. He moved into position as soon as he heard the transmission from Regina Cash. A moment later he saw the boy and his entourage exit from the stairwell.
“Tagged,” he whispered.
The plan was to intercept them as soon as they left the museum and separate the boy from the woman and her daughter. The roper was already waiting, and McClain needed to confirm which exit they would use. Timing, he knew, was crucial. But the trio didn’t head for the exit. Instead, upon reaching the small foyer at the bottom of the stairs, they turned toward the center of the museum. McClain followed close behind.
“Still in the house,” he said into his transmitter.
McClain stayed close behind as the small group made their way over to the Garden Café, directly in the middle of the ground floor. He watched as they spoke briefly to the hostess, who then escorted them across the café to a small table near a fountain.
“Garden Café,” McClain whispered. “Tag. You’re it.”
He glanced over at Dorchek Palmer, who sat in the café less than ten feet from the boy. McClain nodded ever so slightly in Palmer’s direction, turned, and departed.