Page 31 of A Step You Shouldn't Take

Reed climbed to his feet, leaving my eyes level with his stomach. The bumps of his abs strained against his T-shirt, and I fought to keep my eyes from straying downwards. Why did he buy all of his clothing a size too small?

“I’ll keep you updated with the billing,” he said.

Be still my beating heart. No, seriously. The stupid thing was threatening to punch its way out of my ribcage.

I forced a smile. “I’d appreciate that.”

CHAPTER 10 - REED

THE BRITISH EMBASSY in Washington, DC was located on Massachusetts Avenue NW, otherwise known as Embassy Row. It was also one of the largest embassies in Washington, employing around five hundred people, over two hundred of whom were diplomats. Not only would all of those diplomats have immunity, certain members of their families enjoyed the privilege too, as well as consuls and other staff going about embassy business. Even the damn chauffeurs.

With the amount of shit going on in the world—a terrorist incident in London and a recent attack on the Italian consulate in São Paulo that had left everyone twitchy—security was at an all-time high. The three buildings that together made up the embassy—the old and new chanceries and the ambassador’s residence—were located behind a high metal fence and surrounded by trees and gardens designed by the wife of a previous ambassador that may have been nice to look at but which made surveillance hell.

Information was difficult to come by. Embassies tended to be quite insular, since they were a little slice of foreign territory located overseas, and without a British passport, I couldn’t easily get inside. They didn’t run tours. Even the fucking White House ran tours.

For the first day, I donned anI heart WashingtonT-shirt and played tourist, taking a bus ride around the area and snapping hundreds of pictures while I was at it. Not the usual shots of Ford’s Theatre and the Lincoln Memorial, but entrances, exits, positions of security staff, and structures I could use as cover for snooping. It was tricky—the embassy compound had more than one entrance and exit, and if I hung around for too long without a good purpose, I’d probably get questioned.

The nearest cafés were right at the far ends of Massachusetts Avenue, which left me with two options. Either the parking spaces open to the public opposite the embassy’s main security gatehouse on Observatory Circle, or the park on the other side of Massachusetts with its jogging trails and benches over near the Khalil Gibran Memorial.

The parking spaces were ideal, but if I sat there all day in between the British Embassy, the New Zealand Embassy, and the Naval Observatory which included the vice president’s official residence, I’d look sketchy as fuck. No, I’d have to leave my car there with a covert camera filming, then review the footage remotely. That would cover one exit.

I’d have to get more creative for the other.

Literally.

***

On Thursday morning, I drove to Washington before most of the world was awake because I wanted to secure a prime parking spot. My plan worked. By seven thirty, I’d got my recording equipment set up as I wanted it, and I strolled off along the street, carrying my phone, a compact camera, a pad of paper, and a tin of graphite pencils.

Back in my teens, I’d been a keen artist before life and the need to earn money took over. Nowadays, I rarely got the time to draw, and I might have looked forward to a quiet day outside, doodling trees, if it weren’t so damn cold.

Think positive, Cullen.At least I’d have plenty of choice when it came to benches.

By four p.m., I had eight and a half hours of video plus seventeen sketches of trees, the memorial, and a squirrel, none particularly good since most of my focus had been directed towards the gate of the embassy. Another vehicle nosed past the barrier as I watched on my phone, which I’d propped on my leg out of sight of passers-by. A white Honda with a woman at the wheel who waved to the security guard before driving off along the road. Did I mention I also had frostbite?

Then I saw a possible target. A black sedan, a Mercedes, edging out of the gate. I quickly zoomed in. Yes! That was it. The car that drove past Luigi’s, with a man at the wheel. Only this guy was black. Brittney’s friend’s photo may have been blurry, but the guy driving that night had definitely been light-skinned.

So who was today’s mystery occupant?

The plot only thickened over the next week. Each day, I watched both entrances, and I counted four different people driving that same car. The black guy on one more occasion, plus three others, all white. I discounted the man with light-blond hair because that didn’t fit with Brittney’s photo either. Were any of the drivers chauffeurs? Was it some kind of pool car? Or did a particularly generous diplomat just lend the Mercedes to all of his friends?

The following Friday, it pulled out of the gates just as I arrived, and I decided to follow. One of the dark-haired men was driving, and he wove through the traffic, cutting in front of people and generally behaving like an asshole. Guess he thoughtdiplomagicgave him a free pass on courtesy too. Finally, he abandoned the car outside Manny’s Delicatessen, skewed across a handicapped spot.

He’d driven three miles to get breakfast?

I parked properly and followed him inside, and sure enough, he was at the counter ordering a breakfast roll with everything plus freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Don’t forget to strain the pulp out this time,” he told the girl behind the counter, who didn’t seem all that thrilled to see him judging by her gritted teeth. Was he a regular?

“You want ketchup in the roll, sir?”

“And HP sauce. And extra napkins. Last time you didn’t give me any napkins.”

I grabbed a smoothie from the chiller and got into line behind him, and when he reached out to pay, I leaned to the side and got a look at his credit card. Simeon J Dobkins.

Suspect number one had a name.

He left as the girl rang up my smoothie, turning right out of the parking lot, back towards the embassy.

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