copies to the portable drive.
Fletcher sat in the chair, about to start rooting through the hanging file folders, when he heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching truck.
24
Fletcher got to his feet. Having encountered such scenarios dozens of times over the course of his life, he felt no sense of danger or unease. It could simply be a passing vehicle. Or, if one or both owners were about to arrive, he could dart back to the bedroom office, quickly gather his things and escape. He would not be seen or caught.
The bedroom across the hall overlooked the front of the house. He pulled back the dusty blinds. A truck was pulling off the main road - a Ford 350 Super Duty painted black and covered in dirt and dried mud. A diesel engine, judging by the sound.
The truck parked round the front. The driver didn't kill the engine. Left it running as he opened the door and got out holding a big, metal toolbox. A rotund older man with a thick white beard: Santa Claus dressed in cheap flannel. He dropped the toolbox on the porch, turned and moved back to the truck.
Fletcher returned to the office. It took him only a few seconds to find the folder holding the company's completed order forms. He removed the thick stack of paper and then checked the rest of the hanging-file folders. Finding nothing else of value, he slid the drawer shut.
He checked the laptop. The software was still running. He leaned back in the chair and rifled through the stapled sheets. Thirty-six completed orders dating back to early March of last year.
Placing the papers on the desk, he leaned forward, pulled up his left trouser leg and removed the Velcro straps securing the portable scanner to his calf. The wand-size cordless device scanned a black-and-white document in two seconds, storing the images on the unit's micro-SD card.
He slid the scanner across the first page, then the next. Within four minutes he had scanned all 108 pages. He had to wait another six minutes for the CD software to finish copying the files to his portable hard drive.
His gear packed up and tucked away, Fletcher left through the back door and jogged across the field to retrieve his backpack from the tree.
Having been condemned to a life of constant vigilance, Fletcher was forced to take every conceivable precaution to make sure he wouldn't be caught. While he had found no evidence to suggest that he had been followed here, he could never entirely dismiss such a possibility. His rental car, locked and parked on the hidden trail in the woods, had been left unattended for the past hour.
Fletcher spent several minutes sweeping the car for listening devices or a GPS-tracking system. Finding it clean, he drove like a man who knew he was beingfollowed. He watched the rearview and side mirrors for any signs of a trail - a task made much simpler by the remote setting and its lack of vehicles - and conducted the normal counter-surveillance measures. Deciding it was safe to return to the airport, he called Karim.
The conversation was brief. Fletcher explained the items he'd recovered. Karim didn't ask any questions and assured him everything he needed was on board the plane. They picked a meeting spot.
An hour later, Fletcher parked his rental car and made his way across the lot. It was half past five and there was still light in the Alabama sky, the February air still pleasantly cool - a much welcome relief after Chicago's frigid temperature and biting winds.
He found Karim waiting near a flagpole in front of a brick-faced building. Only waiting wasn't an accurate description. The man was smoking and pacing at a furious clip, like an expectant father from the time when men weren't allowed in delivery rooms, leaving him to fret while his wife underwent the world's most difficult childbirth. Karim, Fletcher knew, always acted this way at the start of a hunt. He kept fuelling the adrenalin with too much coffee and nicotine.
'Good, you're here,' Karim said. 'I was thinking, this
Fletcher sat in the chair, about to start rooting through the hanging file folders, when he heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching truck.
24
Fletcher got to his feet. Having encountered such scenarios dozens of times over the course of his life, he felt no sense of danger or unease. It could simply be a passing vehicle. Or, if one or both owners were about to arrive, he could dart back to the bedroom office, quickly gather his things and escape. He would not be seen or caught.
The bedroom across the hall overlooked the front of the house. He pulled back the dusty blinds. A truck was pulling off the main road - a Ford 350 Super Duty painted black and covered in dirt and dried mud. A diesel engine, judging by the sound.
The truck parked round the front. The driver didn't kill the engine. Left it running as he opened the door and got out holding a big, metal toolbox. A rotund older man with a thick white beard: Santa Claus dressed in cheap flannel. He dropped the toolbox on the porch, turned and moved back to the truck.
Fletcher returned to the office. It took him only a few seconds to find the folder holding the company's completed order forms. He removed the thick stack of paper and then checked the rest of the hanging-file folders. Finding nothing else of value, he slid the drawer shut.
He checked the laptop. The software was still running. He leaned back in the chair and rifled through the stapled sheets. Thirty-six completed orders dating back to early March of last year.
Placing the papers on the desk, he leaned forward, pulled up his left trouser leg and removed the Velcro straps securing the portable scanner to his calf. The wand-size cordless device scanned a black-and-white document in two seconds, storing the images on the unit's micro-SD card.
He slid the scanner across the first page, then the next. Within four minutes he had scanned all 108 pages. He had to wait another six minutes for the CD software to finish copying the files to his portable hard drive.
His gear packed up and tucked away, Fletcher left through the back door and jogged across the field to retrieve his backpack from the tree.
Having been condemned to a life of constant vigilance, Fletcher was forced to take every conceivable precaution to make sure he wouldn't be caught. While he had found no evidence to suggest that he had been followed here, he could never entirely dismiss such a possibility. His rental car, locked and parked on the hidden trail in the woods, had been left unattended for the past hour.
Fletcher spent several minutes sweeping the car for listening devices or a GPS-tracking system. Finding it clean, he drove like a man who knew he was beingfollowed. He watched the rearview and side mirrors for any signs of a trail - a task made much simpler by the remote setting and its lack of vehicles - and conducted the normal counter-surveillance measures. Deciding it was safe to return to the airport, he called Karim.
The conversation was brief. Fletcher explained the items he'd recovered. Karim didn't ask any questions and assured him everything he needed was on board the plane. They picked a meeting spot.
An hour later, Fletcher parked his rental car and made his way across the lot. It was half past five and there was still light in the Alabama sky, the February air still pleasantly cool - a much welcome relief after Chicago's frigid temperature and biting winds.
He found Karim waiting near a flagpole in front of a brick-faced building. Only waiting wasn't an accurate description. The man was smoking and pacing at a furious clip, like an expectant father from the time when men weren't allowed in delivery rooms, leaving him to fret while his wife underwent the world's most difficult childbirth. Karim, Fletcher knew, always acted this way at the start of a hunt. He kept fuelling the adrenalin with too much coffee and nicotine.
'Good, you're here,' Karim said. 'I was thinking, this
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