Persuader

at the law firm's door. Then at Xavier Export's. Then at the elevator. Then at me.
    "OK," she said. "We'll leave you to it. I really don't want to, but I really have to, you understand?"
    "Completely," I said.
    "Teresa might be in there with him," Villanueva whispered.
    I nodded. "If she is, I'll bring her to you. Meet me at the end of the street. Ten minutes after you make the phone call." They both hesitated and then Duffy put her finger on the elevator call button. We heard noises in the shaft as the machinery started.
    "Take care," she said.
    The bell pinged and the doors opened. They stepped in. Villanueva glanced out at me and hit the button for the lobby and the doors closed on them like theater curtains and they were gone. I stepped away and leaned on the wall on the far side of Quinn's door. It felt good to be alone. I put my hand around the Beretta's grip in my pocket and waited. I imagined Duffy and Villanueva stepping out of the elevator and walking to their car.
    Driving it out of the garage. Getting noticed by the guard. Parking around the corner and calling information. Getting Quinn's number. I turned and stared at the door. Imagined Quinn on the other side of it, at his desk, with a phone in front of him. I stared at the door like I could see him right through it.
    The first time I ever saw him was on the actual day of the bust. Frasconi had done well with the Syrian. The guy was all squared away. Frasconi was very adequate in a situation like that. Give him time and a clear objective and he could deliver. The Syrian brought cash money with him from inside his embassy and we all sat down together in front of the judge advocate and counted it. There was fifty thousand dollars. We figured it was the final installment of many. We marked each bill separately. We even marked the briefcase. We put the judge advocate's initials on it with clear nail varnish, near one of the hinges. The judge advocate wrote up an affidavit for the file and Frasconi held on to the Syrian, and Kohl and I moved into position ready for the surveillance itself. Her photographer was already standing by in a second-floor window in a building across the street from the café and twenty yards south. The judge advocate joined us ten minutes later. We were using a utility truck parked at the curb. It had portholes with one-way glass. Kohl had borrowed it from the FBI. She had drafted three grunts to complete the illusion. They were wearing power company overalls and actually digging up the street.
    We waited. There was no conversation. There wasn't much air in the truck. The weather was warm again. Frasconi released the Syrian after forty minutes. He came strolling into view from the north. He had been warned what would happen if he gave us away. Kohl had written the script and Frasconi had delivered it. They were threats we probably wouldn't have carried out. But he didn't know that. I guess they were plausible, based on what happened to people in Syria.
    He sat down at a sidewalk table. He was ten feet from us. He put his briefcase on the floor, level with the side of the table. It was like a second guest. The waiter came and took his order. Came back after a minute with an espresso. The Syrian lit a cigarette.
    Smoked it halfway down and crushed it out in the ashtray.
    "The Syrian is waiting," Kohl said, quietly. She had a tape recorder running. Her idea was to have a real-time audio record as a backup. She was wearing her dress greens, ready for the arrest. She looked real good in them.
    "Check," the judge said. "The Syrian is waiting." The Syrian finished his coffee and waved to the waiter for another. He lit another cigarette.
    "Does he always smoke so much?" I asked.
    "Why?" Kohl said.
    "Is he warning Quinn off?"
    "No, he always smokes," Kohl said.
    "OK," I said. "But they're bound to have an abort sign."
    "He won't use it. Frasconi really put a fright in him." We waited. The Syrian finished his second cigarette. He put his hands flat on the table.
    He drummed his fingers. He looked OK. He looked like a guy waiting for another guy who was maybe a little overdue. He lit another cigarette.
    "I don't like all this smoking," I said.
    "Relax, he's always like this," Kohl said.
    "Makes him look nervous. Quinn could pick up on it."
    "It's normal. He's from the Middle East." We waited. I watched the crowd build up. It was close to lunch time.
    "Now Quinn is approaching," Kohl said.
    "Check," the judge replied. "Quinn is approaching