Nobody’s Hero (Ben Koenig #2)

Chapter 74

Koenig enjoyed stakeouts. Always had. Which was just as well as he’d been on thousands. He’d always considered a good stakeout mentality to be the single most important attribute an SOG marshal could have. The kind of perps they’d hunted were rarely at home waiting to be arrested. They dodged and they dived and they hid. But, with few exceptions, they eventually visited their old haunts. Their mom, their girlfriend or boyfriend, wife or husband. The family dog. Their bookie or their local bar. Koenig had even staked out one guy’s favourite wet-shave joint. Waited for him to tire of his stubble. Which he did. Still had shaving cream on his face when Koenig had led him out in cuffs. Stakeouts took patience. They took discipline. Getting bored doing something boring wasn’t an option. Falling asleep wasn’t an option. Drinking so much coffee you constantly needed the bathroom wasn’t an option.

But Koenig enjoyed them. He’d found a way to concentrate while his mind wandered. He’d pondered the big things in life. Like how much honey would cost if bees were paid minimum wage – 190,000 bucks a jar the last time he’d checked. Or what he’d wear on HD 189733 b, an exoplanet that rained molten glass. Probably a thick overcoat. Maybe a hat.

And he could let his mind wander like this while he was in a freezing loft, rats crawling over his feet and legs, with his eyes fixed to a pair of tactical binoculars.

Zen.

He wasn’t going to enjoy this stakeout, though.

Not one bit. Surveillance was a team effort. Had to be. It could go on for weeks or months. Years even. But there was no team here. Just the four of them. And they didn’t know what Hobbs and Nash looked like. All they had were the descriptions Cunningham had given them. Nash had a birthmark on her face and tattoos on her arms. There was nothing distinctive about Hobbs. Cunningham had pressed that point. Like his anonymity was remarkable.

To make matters worse, the address Cunningham had given them was a converted warehouse on the intersection of the Lower East Side, Chinatown and SoHo. It was a busy, bustling part of New York. Packed sidewalks during the day. Bars and restaurants and bodegas after lights out.

There was nowhere to set up indoor surveillance. Not without being noticed. Not without people talking. Talk that Hobbs and Nash would no doubt be tuned in to.

That left outdoor surveillance. In New York that meant hiding in plain sight. To stay near the target building they needed a reason to be on the sidewalk for extended periods of time. A plausible one. To be a rock in the river of commuters. In this part of the Lower East Side there wasn’t a lot of choice. The homeless and professional-beggar guises, both of which Koenig had used in the past, wouldn’t work in this neighbourhood. The NYPD moved them on. Handing out flyers for the nearby clubs and bars would work, but only at night. They needed to be on the sidewalk at all hours.

‘You’re still set against bringing in Smerconish?’ Draper had said. ‘We could have eyes and ears inside their apartment within two hours. Commandeer every camera in a ten-block radius.’

‘Nothing’s changed,’ he’d replied. ‘Someone sent a kill squad to that airstrip, and that means your pilot’s flight plan was hacked. And Smerconish was one of a handful of people who knew we were in the UK at all. So, no, we’ll use him only when we have absolutely no choice.’

‘I have an idea then.’

‘I’m not doing it,’ Koenig had replied.

‘I haven’t told you what it is yet.’

‘You don’t have to, you’re smiling.’

‘You are smiling, dear,’ Margaret had chipped in.

Draper explained her idea.

And after much complaining, Koenig eventually sighed and said, ‘Fine.’

He couldn’t see any other way.