Jed paced, his hands clasped in front of him and in position for a quick draw of the H&K pistol in his waistband. He felt almost no concern that he would need to use it—much less in any kind of quick-draw scenario—but it certainly completed the look of a burly bodyguard operator on mission. Unlike movies and TV, where the protection specialist stood at attention beside the door behind which his protectee worked, in real life it was far more effective to be on the move, blending in with crowds and making it hard to determine who was being protected. Once the package was on the move, then of course Jed became a show of force, but for now he paced the hallway and lobby of the mezzanine level, scanning groups of people, checking behind doors, placing himself between the conference room and people of concern.

Moving helped, he realized. Giving his body purpose seemed to acclimate his mind to the role.

“Okay, it’s showtime,” Nisha said in his ear. “The waitstaff are offering snacks and beverages.”

He forced himself to resist the urge to mumble something in reply, instead peering out from the arched entrance to the mezzanine and lobby below.

“Our guy is taking orders now . . . coming to Zhao in just a second . . . Okay, he’s asking him what he wants . . .”

Jed smiled, on the inside at least, while maintaining the grim and stern face of the character he portrayed. God bless Nisha. Her running commentary was no doubt for his benefit, not spooky standard operating procedure. He wandered slowly down the hall toward conference room number six.

“Looks like Zhao has asked for coffee or tea—hard to hear him, but I think he said tea,” she said.

Jed paced past the door, stealing a glance and then making a disappointed tsk sound. Whatever did or didn’t happen on the other side of the door, he couldn’t do anything about it. Two shorter but thick-looking bodyguards dressed in tan linen suits passed him walking the other way, scanning him up and down before giving the slight nod as they passed. The Venezuelan security team, he knew. Beyond them Grayson, posing as the Russian guard, stared at him and then gave a dismissive snort before looking away.

Perfect impersonation of a Russian operator, he thought. He stopped by the door and checked his watch, trying to look like someone trying not to look bored.

“Okay, the drug is in the tea with no flags up,” Nisha continued. “Waitstaff are delivering it to him now.”

Jed pictured the scene unfolding in his mind’s eye, based on her play-by-play.

“Waiter put the cup in front of him, but Zhao is talking to the guy beside him . . .”

“He’s making a joke,” John added, irritating Jed for some reason.