eyes, not looking around very much, feigned relaxation, but still looking around. Curiosity, but controlled curiosity. He’d be a little tired from the journey. Flying usually tired people out. A little wrung-out from the drinks he’d probably had . . . but he would have slept some, too.
They saw a tan camel-hair coat, mid-thigh in length. It looked Italian. Hadi was supposedly based in Italy—in Rome—right? Five-eight or so, medium build, a little on the skinny side. Dark eyes. Dark as hell, almost black, John thought. Looking studiously forward, not to the side, pushing a wheeled dolly with one large bag and one small one. They didn’t look that heavy, and the big one had wheels on it . . . lazy or tired? His hair was as black as the eyes were; nondescript haircut. Clean shaven. No beard, perhaps—probably?—deliberately so. Two more people came out behind him, obviously Canadians, fair-skinned and ginger-haired. One waved to somebody to Clark’s right. Wave off. Back to the camel coat. His eyes were moving left and right, but his head remained still. Good fieldcraft, John thought at once, on noting that. Then they locked on something: Clark’s head turned and saw somebody in a black suit, like a chauffeur but without the cap, holding a white cardboard sign with KLEIN written on it in Magic Marker.
“Bingo,” he whispered to himself. To Chavez: “Link up with the brothers and watch the flanks. I’m taking a walk. Jack, you’re with me.”
They headed down the concourse.
“See something I didn’t?” Jack asked.
“His name isn’t Klein. I’d bet the wad on that.”
No trip to the head, Clark saw. So much for that idea. They followed forty yards back. The subject, they saw, didn’t seem to speak with his pickup man. Too disciplined, or did they know each other?
“Got a camera?” John asked.
“Yeah, digital one. Ready to run. I might have a shot of our friend, but I haven’t checked yet.”
“If he gets into a car, let’s make sure—”
“Yep. Make, model, and tag. How’re we doing?”
I don’t think he’s seen us—damned sure didn’t look at where we were, either side. Either he’s one very cool customer or he’s as pure as the driven snow. Take your pick.”
“Looks kinda Jewish,” Jack said.
“There’s an old joke in Israel. If he looks Jewish, and he’s selling bagels, he’s an Arab. Not always true, but good enough for a joke.”
“Except for the hair, I can see him in a cowboy hat and long black coat, on Forty-seventh Street in New York, handling diamonds. Not a bad disguise. But he’s about as Jewish as I am.”
Past the magazine stands, past the beer bar, past the one-way exit by the metal detectors, out to the main concourse. Not down the escalator to baggage recovery, but he’d already done that, of course. Toward the main door in the glass wall, and out into the cool air of a Canadian autumn. Past the taxi traffic for arrivals, across the street to the parking lots. Whoever the greeter was, he’d parked in the hourly lot, not the daylong-or-later lot. Okay, this was a scheduled pickup, all right. And not one called ahead for from the plane phone. Into the lot, and then Clark had to slow his tailing routine . . . and right to a parked car.
“Camera,” Clark said sharply, hoping that Jack knew how to flash a photo covertly.
Actually, he did it pretty well, with the lens telescoped out to 2- or 3X zoom. It was a new-model black Ford Crown Victoria, of the sort used by a low-end car service. Everything was nominal to profile, Clark thought, as they started to close the gap.
Here’s your ticket from Chicago west,” the driver said, handing the ticket folder back over the bench seat.
Hadi opened the folder and studied the ticket. He was surprised to see the destination. He checked his watch. The timing was almost perfect. It had helped that first-class passengers were quicker to get to immigration.
“How long to the other terminal?”
“Just a couple of minutes,” the driver answered.
“Good.” And Hadi lit a cigarette.
The car pulled out. Clark noted this but kept walking. Until the car was a hundred yards away, then he doubled back to the arrival traffic and hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Jack: Eyeballs?”
“Got it,” Jack assured him. The Crown Vic had pulled into a line to pay the parking toll. He took two more shots to catch the tag number, which he already had memorized.