Free The Watchman by Adrian Magson Page A

Parillas for this job, or Parillas had developed a recent change of heart about his career choice. The final confirmation was when I took out my cell phone and handed it to him.
    â€˜What’s this?’ he muttered.
    I showed him. I’d filmed Parillas on the cell’s camera from the time he’d emerged from the cartel’s SUV to him dropping an arm around the lead gunman’s shoulders. That and the way they were grinning at each other was enough to confirm that he wasn’t being coerced in any way and knew the gunman a lot better than he should.
    Beckwith climbed into the SUV to view the footage in private. I stayed on the outside with Mr Black, who nodded but said nothing. Beckwith didn’t need us seeing his embarrassment. He must have checked it three times, the expression on his face going darker with each showing. Then he made a call and two minutes later, a couple of armed border agents appeared and hovered nearby.
    It must have been tough, finding out who had been feeding the Tijuanas with inside information. But he wasn’t going to try covering it up.
    We waited in silence until a familiar white Land Cruiser nosed out from the border crossing and slid into a bay further along. We watched as Parillas climbed out and sauntered across, playing Mr Cool.
    When he saw the two border agents walking towards him, he didn’t seem concerned. Then he saw me behind the car and stopped dead, his mouth hanging open.
    When the two agents cuffed and searched him, he simply looked sick and made no effort to protest. For him the deception was over.

Thirteen
    P icking up on a tail is never easy. Forget what they tell you in books or films. The shop window trick is only good in a deserted street with few pedestrians. Too much vehicle or pedestrian movement is unhelpful clutter. And in the area around 31st and Fifth Avenue in New York, clutter is the name of the game.
    The other problem is, serious tails rarely work alone; they operate using a box or leap-frog formation with up to four or more people, some on foot, others mobile, constantly swapping over, their movements steered by a controller. That makes the job of counter-surveillance pretty tough; you just don’t know where the next watcher is coming from.
    Unless the person following you actually wants you to know he’s there.
    The man behind me made himself known on at least three occasions before I got the message. But just in case I’d picked up a genuine head case with time to spare, I made him work at it a bit longer before I gave up on the game. I was intrigued.
    He was dressed smart, in a sports jacket and pants, good walking shoes. English, at a guess, which was more than interesting. I put him somewhere in his late fifties, maybe older, but fit, with combed-back greying hair and a slightly jowly face. In spite of his age he had no trouble staying with me, even when I upped the rate a little and jigged across a couple of intersections to string him out. He seemed to be at home in the area, knowing when to stay on one side and when to cross to take advantage of the traffic flow.
    I finally stepped into a Starbucks on Fifth and E34th, and watched him through the steamed-up windows as he paused to study the front of a Korean electronics store on the corner. Then he turned and strolled across the street on the lights. By the way he was moving, he knew there was no need to hurry.
    It told me he knew where to find me if I managed to lose him.
    He caught my eye as he walked by, and I smiled to show him I knew. Then I went to the counter and ordered two daily brews.
    He was sitting at a corner table when I turned round, checking out the other customers. He’d chosen a seat away from the crowd and looked very relaxed.
    Even more interesting.
    I got sugar and paper napkins and walked over, putting the coffees down and drawing up a chair.
    â€˜I’m not sure what I should call you,’ he said, inspecting the coffee. ‘Is