26

Thirty minutes after the mother left the park, a police officer entered, searching the area with his eyes, clearly looking for something. Johan had no illusions about what that might be. The woman had reported him as suspicious.

He stood up and began sauntering toward the portico he’d used to enter the park, studiously avoiding eye contact with the police officer and running through alternatives for continued surveillance of the office. He needn’t have worried.

He reached the wall and saw his target door open. A wiry man of about thirty-five exited, wearing a Berber jacket that was coarse and homespun, the cloth rough, with small wooden dowels instead of buttons or a zipper, the hood lying flat on his back. To Johan, it looked like a coat worn by someone from Tatooine in Star Wars, which wouldn’t matter, except the hood sat high enough to prevent Johan from getting a good look at the target’s face. The man locked the door as if he were in a production of Scrooge, pulling out a ring and using a key much too large for the modern day.

Johan glanced behind him and saw the policeman still searching. He exited the park, now forced with a choice: follow the target, or penetrate the office. He watched the man walk away, growing smaller with every step, and decided on the latter, with a little bit of a wait.

He crossed Line Wall Road and entered the pedestrian area of the main downtown tourist section. Walking down Main Street, he contemplated his next move, but he already knew what that would be. He’d seen the target lock the door. Seen the ridiculously old key. He could defeat the lock on that door in about fifteen seconds using a paper clip and a flathead screwdriver. All he needed was some time.

Walking three blocks and looking for someplace to park for a spell, he passed yet another liquor store, the sign out front blaring the great deals within. Just like the last one had. What on earth? He was no stranger to drinking in his hardscrabble life, and never one to run from a beer, but this was a little ridiculous. Unlike in Madrid, where one had to search for a place to buy something besides wine, here there seemed to be a liquor store on every corner.

How could they all stay in business?

He assumed it was the tourists. Or that everyone here was a drunk. Given the number of pubs in the area, it could be either. Not that he minded. He saw a sign for a pub down a narrow alley and followed it to the source. He took a seat at the outdoor patio, ordered a Guinness, and waited for the sun to go down.

Two hours later, he paid the bill and retraced his steps, walking back down Line Wall Road. He reached the office of Mint Tea and glanced around, the night giving him shadow. Cars passed, but no pedestrians were on the sidewalk. He went to work on the lock, getting it open in under a minute.

He glanced around again, seeing no threat, and cracked the door. He hesitated a moment, listening. He heard nothing from inside.

He entered swiftly, closing the door behind him. He ran his hand along the wall, looking for a switch, and found it, the light blazing into his eyes. He saw a narrow space, less than eight feet across, a shelf running down the wall. On it was a computer and a printer, then a collection of schematic drawings. In the back was a wider room, without a door.

He advanced slowly, not sure if there was a hallway connected to it or some other entrance to the narrow office space. He reached the small alcove and waited a beat, hearing nothing. He felt along the wall again and found the lights. Inside was nothing but trash. Iron rods, bits of wooden dowels, cans of paint, and drop cloths, all haphazardly scattered about. Nothing of interest. He went back to the office, finding a filing cabinet underneath the shelf, with a sheaf of papers on top of it.

He picked up the paperwork, seeing a work order made out to Mint Tea from a company called Gibdock, apparently for work on an oil tanker named Dar Salwa. The first page held a laundry list of various maintenance procedures that had to be accomplished. Underneath it were the schematics for the double-hulled crude carrier, with certain sections highlighted in red. From the date in the top left corner, it looked like the order had been completed two days ago. It meant nothing to Johan. He turned to the computer and swiveled the mouse, causing the screen to illuminate.

He saw a password block and then heard a knocking on the entrance door, freezing him in place. Holding his breath, he waited. It happened again, this time turning into pounding, the door reverberating with the blows. He heard, “Karim? You still in there?”

Johan said nothing, breathing through an open mouth to lessen his presence. The voice said, “You got the light on, so I know you’re in there. Quit hiding from me. You owe me. Open the door.”

Johan slid to the back area, walking ever so softly, leaving no trace of his crossing. He checked for an exit but found none. He was cornered. Hiding behind the small entrance wall of the alcove, he turned out the light and withdrew a pocket blade, flicking it open. Waiting.

He heard nothing more. He remained still for another twenty minutes, then advanced to the front of the office. He slid to the right of the door and peeked out of the small window, seeing the street empty.

He glanced at the computer, wanting to return to it but knowing he shouldn’t. Not tonight, anyway. Too much risk. He turned out the lights and exited, locking the door behind him. Tomorrow was another day.