shopping center’s rent-a-cops and the local police from tagging his vehicle as suspicious, or worse yet, having it towed—a potential nightmare for a man who kept all of his possessions in his van and was paranoid about his privacy.
Lopa slapped the off button on the alarm, sat up, and took a peek out through the hand-sewn curtains that not only served to screen the van’s interior but blocked the harsh green glow that illuminated the parking lot at night. It was still dark, but a single glance confirmed that he was in the Mountlake Terrace strip mall, where one of his many alter-egos maintained a membership at the local gym.
In spite of the fact that he lived within the context of an extremely large city, most of Lopa’s days were spent in near-isolation on the streets or in the solitude of his van. Today would be different however, since he was scheduled to meet the man who would kill FBI agent Christina Rossi for him. That being the case, Lopa was even more efficient than usual as he entered Ginny’s Gym, spent thirty minutes on the treadmill, shaved while he showered, and ambled down to Starbucks where he purchased a grande mocha, a Hawaiian bagel, and a copy of USA Today .
Exactly thirty minutes later, Lopa entered his van and made his way onto I-5 southbound, where he entered the normal flow of traffic. As always the cell leader was careful to keep his speed at or just below the limit, signal before he changed lanes, and avoid conflicts with other drivers. Still, in spite of all those precautions it was unsettling to know that on any given day footage of his white van was likely to be captured by the news choppers that cruised overhead, the traffic cams mounted at strategic spots along the freeways, and the ATM machines that fronted most banks.
Lopa took the Mercer street exit, made a couple of turns, and lucked into an on-street parking spot. The terrorist tried to avoid lots because some were monitored. Had anyone been watching the man who exited the white van—they would have been hard-pressed to describe him later. He had black hair, that much was obvious, but everything else was a blur. He wore a tan jacket, faded blue jeans, and beat-up hiking boots, the same sort of clothes worn by students at the University of Washington, thousands of blue-collar workers, and anyone else who didn’t have to wear a suit or uniform.
As usual Denny’s was packed with people who liked lukewarm coffee, grand slam breakfasts, and sticky tabletops. Lopa saw the security camera that was mounted over the cash register, wished there was a way to avoid it, and knew there wasn’t. He scanned the area ahead, spotted the man in the black beret, and made his way down the center aisle. The man with the rimless glasses, sunken cheeks, and sallow skin looked more like a retired college instructor than the man of violence that Lopa knew him to be. That impression was reinforced by the fact that the assassin was reading the New York Times and sipping tea. In spite of the fact that the ELA had no formal hierarchy and consisted of ad hoc cells, there were certain websites that could be used as message drops, which was how the man he knew as Eason had been contacted. Lopa approached the booth with the surety of an old friend joining another for breakfast, slid onto the bench-style seat, and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning! It’s good to see you.”
Eason lowered the paper, removed the reading glasses, and tucked them away. Rather thanactually reading the Times , he’d been looking over the top of it, watching to see if Lopa had been followed. If the terrorist had a tail, and if left with no other choice, the assassin was prepared to remove the Ingram MAC 10 submachine gun from the briefcase on the floor beside him and spray the interior of the restaurant with 9mm bullets before exiting via the door located six paces behind him. But Lopa was clean, or that was the way it appeared, so Eason added some additional water to his cup and
Lopa slapped the off button on the alarm, sat up, and took a peek out through the hand-sewn curtains that not only served to screen the van’s interior but blocked the harsh green glow that illuminated the parking lot at night. It was still dark, but a single glance confirmed that he was in the Mountlake Terrace strip mall, where one of his many alter-egos maintained a membership at the local gym.
In spite of the fact that he lived within the context of an extremely large city, most of Lopa’s days were spent in near-isolation on the streets or in the solitude of his van. Today would be different however, since he was scheduled to meet the man who would kill FBI agent Christina Rossi for him. That being the case, Lopa was even more efficient than usual as he entered Ginny’s Gym, spent thirty minutes on the treadmill, shaved while he showered, and ambled down to Starbucks where he purchased a grande mocha, a Hawaiian bagel, and a copy of USA Today .
Exactly thirty minutes later, Lopa entered his van and made his way onto I-5 southbound, where he entered the normal flow of traffic. As always the cell leader was careful to keep his speed at or just below the limit, signal before he changed lanes, and avoid conflicts with other drivers. Still, in spite of all those precautions it was unsettling to know that on any given day footage of his white van was likely to be captured by the news choppers that cruised overhead, the traffic cams mounted at strategic spots along the freeways, and the ATM machines that fronted most banks.
Lopa took the Mercer street exit, made a couple of turns, and lucked into an on-street parking spot. The terrorist tried to avoid lots because some were monitored. Had anyone been watching the man who exited the white van—they would have been hard-pressed to describe him later. He had black hair, that much was obvious, but everything else was a blur. He wore a tan jacket, faded blue jeans, and beat-up hiking boots, the same sort of clothes worn by students at the University of Washington, thousands of blue-collar workers, and anyone else who didn’t have to wear a suit or uniform.
As usual Denny’s was packed with people who liked lukewarm coffee, grand slam breakfasts, and sticky tabletops. Lopa saw the security camera that was mounted over the cash register, wished there was a way to avoid it, and knew there wasn’t. He scanned the area ahead, spotted the man in the black beret, and made his way down the center aisle. The man with the rimless glasses, sunken cheeks, and sallow skin looked more like a retired college instructor than the man of violence that Lopa knew him to be. That impression was reinforced by the fact that the assassin was reading the New York Times and sipping tea. In spite of the fact that the ELA had no formal hierarchy and consisted of ad hoc cells, there were certain websites that could be used as message drops, which was how the man he knew as Eason had been contacted. Lopa approached the booth with the surety of an old friend joining another for breakfast, slid onto the bench-style seat, and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning! It’s good to see you.”
Eason lowered the paper, removed the reading glasses, and tucked them away. Rather thanactually reading the Times , he’d been looking over the top of it, watching to see if Lopa had been followed. If the terrorist had a tail, and if left with no other choice, the assassin was prepared to remove the Ingram MAC 10 submachine gun from the briefcase on the floor beside him and spray the interior of the restaurant with 9mm bullets before exiting via the door located six paces behind him. But Lopa was clean, or that was the way it appeared, so Eason added some additional water to his cup and
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