Sam Fisher- CROSSCUT

  FISHER knew he was being followed. He knew it by the obvious signs, of course, but he also felt it in his gut. What he didn’t know was how many there were and when they would make their move. He’d already picked up the package right under their noses, so they certainly weren’t going to let him reach the drop-off. But how close would they let him get?

  He stopped before the window of a watch shop and stood admiring the newest Tissots on display. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man he’d named Tail 6.1 (one watcher on his six o’clock position) also stop before a window to study the merchandise. The man was good; as Fisher watched, the man pulled out his cell phone, dialed, then said after a moment, “No, I’m looking at it right now . . . yeah, the exact one you’ve been looking for . . .”

  A good tail personalizes his or her cover, Fisher reminded himself. Without that, a watcher tends to carry a “pursuit aura” that anyone with even the most rudimentary countersurveillance training would pick up on.

  “. . . no, the one on Franklin Street . . . right. Okay, bye.”

  Walking fifty feet behind Tail 6.1, Tail 6.2.2 (two watchers together, a man and woman walking arm in arm, second position behind the first tail), passed their compatriot at the shop window and kept walking, passing Fisher a few seconds later and continuing down the sidewalk. Fisher mentally switched their designation to Tail 12.2—they were now in the lead tail position.

  He’d been keeping this imaginary clock face in his head for the past two hours, moving the various pawns around as they changed positions and proximity to him. They were all very good, moving seamlessly as they kept a blanket of surveillance over him, all the while changing clothes and partners and demeanors in hopes of remaining invisible to him. It hadn’t worked, but neither had he been able to lose them with the routine dry-cleaning tactics. The other factor: Did they know he’d made them? Probably not; if they did, they would’ve already taken him.
...

  Another half minute passed, and then Fisher heard what he assumed was the plumbing van race around the corner and slide to a stop before his escape alley. Fisher bent over, lifted the end of the ladder, and let it drop with a clang back onto the eaves. He then turned on his heel, walked to the roof’s access door, and opened it an inch, leaving it ajar. Finally, he walked to the northern edge of the roof and dropped onto the fire escape below. As he reached the third-floor landing, he heard the rapid crunch of footsteps on the roof gravel.

  “Here, here . . . that ladder . . .” a voice called.

  Then a second voice: “Got an open door here . . .”

  The crackle of radio static, then a third voice: “Units . . . command . . . regroup, back to the street . . .”

  Fisher waited until he heard the footsteps running back over the gravel, then braced himself against the brick wall, took two quick steps, and leaped across the gap to the opposite building’s balcony. He crouched down, slid open the window, crawled through into the empty apartment, and closed the window behind him.
...

  The woman Fisher knew as Jackie Fiest was wearing a blue sweatshirt embossed with a circa 1960s red female symbol. She smiled ruefully at him and shook her head. “You’re an SOB, Fisher.”

  Fisher smiled back. “I assume that means I passed?”

  “Passed? Sweetie, you just got done running a dozen of my best watchers in circles for the past two hours. What d’you think? Come on, get in, let’s debrief.”
...

  The dissection of the exercise continued for another half hour until finally Jackie asked, “Any feedback from your side of things, Sam? How’d we do?”

  Fisher shrugged, took a sip of his beer.

  “Come on, man,” said Reginald. “Let’s hear it.”

  Fisher glanced at Jackie, who gave him a nod.

  “Okay. Frederick, you were on my six most of the night.”

  “Right.”

  “Almost flawless, but when you
stopped at that shop window and made your fake call, you only punched four numbers—too few for a real number and too many for a speed dial. Reginald and Judy: Reginald, you never changed your shoes. Same pair of Nikes with the black scuff on the toe. Jackie, your command van: It’s a 2005 model. The day I first noticed you, I checked the Johnson & Sons fleet. None of them are newer than 2001, and all have painted logos—not magnetic.” Fisher paused for a moment, scratched his head. “That’s about it, I think.”

  Collectively, the faces around the table were staring openmouthed at him. Finally, Jackie broke the silence: “Well, I guess we’re gonna call that a passing grade for you.”

  “Come on, man, you noticed how many numbers I punched into my phone?” Frederick said.

  Fisher shrugged.

  “Seriously?”

  Fisher nodded. “Seriously.”

- Fallout, Chapter 1, 3