Edge

and fields, largely invisible to any surveillance from the perimeter. I parked some distance from the warehouse, beside the other federal cars, out of sight of the nearby driveways and roads. Then, my shoulder bag bouncing on my back, I walked through a stand of brush and beneath a rusting railroad bridge that was graffiti-free; even the gangbangers had no interest in this prime example of urban decay. I surveyed the area again, saw no sign of hostile surveillance and slipped through tall weeds toward the staging area. A glance at the ground—the broken twigs, overturned leaves and stones—told me that Freddy had brought with him at least six agents (all of them seemingly unconcerned that they left such clear evidence of their presence; I spent some time obscuring the most obvious signs).
    Surrounding me was a world of trash and abandoned vehicles and rusting machinery and outright garbage piles. On my right, I could see a glimpse of a narrow canal, filled with bile green water and dotted with refuse and a dead squirrel or two, which I suspected had ended up there after taking a sip. Improbably, a small recreational power boat floated in the current toward the Potomac. Then the strip of foul water vanished from sight; a moment later I got to the command post and greeted Freddy and his people: six male agents in their thirties, large and unsmiling, and one younger woman, equally somber. The mix of these law enforcers was like the city itself: black, Latino, the minority white—the woman and an older, weathered male agent. Peopletend to think that the FBI is all dark suits and white shirts or the scary tactical outfits that make them look like science fiction movie soldiers. In reality, most agents dress informally: windbreakers, baseball caps and blue jeans. In the case of the woman, make that designer jeans, which I couldn’t help but notice fit very closely. All were in body armor.
    Which I myself now donned.
    Everyone seemed tense, though I could tell from their eyes that they were looking forward to engaging.
    As I slipped on my com device earpiece and stalk mike, Freddy gave me their names and I paid attention, since I might need to differentiate them if the situation heated up. I nodded to each in greeting. I asked if there’d been any contact. The woman said, “We had a light sedan, gray or tan, go by the west perimeter, that road over there, five minutes ago. Didn’t pause but it was going slow. I’d guess ten miles an hour.”
    Gray or tan could have been beige. Loving’s car from West Virginia? I suggested this and they took note.
    The slow transit in itself might not be suspicious. A lot of roads in the District were riddled with potholes, the asphalt was crumbling and traffic signs were missing. Kids stole them for souvenirs. Which could explain the car’s leisurely pace. But then the bad conditions would also provide a good excuse for Loving to drive slowly and be less suspicious.
    “You have a sniper?” I asked Freddy.
    He snorted a laugh. “Sniper? You’ve been watching too many movies, Corte. Best we have is Bushmasters.”
    “Accurate is what we want, Freddy. It’s not about size.”
    “Was that a joke, Corte? You never make jokes.”
    “A map?” I asked.
    “Here, sir.” The woman agent produced one.
    I looked it over carefully, though I was keenly aware we didn’t have a lot of time. Either Loving would move fast or he wouldn’t try for the assault at all. I turned to the agents and explained my plan for the takedown, then pointed out the best placement for everyone and for the hardware. Freddy made a few suggestions, which I thought were good.
    I looked at the building that was supposedly our safe house. A few lights were on inside. And there was a machine that Hermes had developed, a nice little toy, like a slow-motion fan whose blades cast shadows randomly on shades and curtains, giving the impression that somebody was inside and walking occasionally from room to room. It also produced a light that mimicked the glow of a TV screen. You could program voices to sound like people having conversations. There was even a mode selector: argumentative, humorous, conspiratorial—to make any eavesdropping lifters or hitters believe the warehouse was populated by principals under guard, and not workers.
    “How’re the Kesslers?” Freddy asked.
    “Calmer than a lot of my principals.” But, I told him, Joanne was a zombie and would be in therapy for a year; her husband was drinking