A wad of cash from the drawer in his pocket, a pair of thick, plastic-framed glasses he had bought recently, Orioles cap, moustache, a chuckle at his appearance in the mirror, and moments later Mark Jones was stepping out of the basement entrance, his jacket collar up, his cap pulled down, and setting off down the street at a brisk walk.

He would take a taxi to the local U-Haul and rent a moving van under his pseudonym. Then he would meet his friends at the specified car park, and drive them all to the meeting with John.

* * *

Sitting in the rental van in the parking lot of a nearby mall, Neal considered his new life, and how quickly he had become inured to the constant threat he now found himself under. While in disguise, he had to constantly be on guard. If he glanced upward when outside, or took off his cap, or his face was caught square on by a security camera or the like, it was very possible he would die … unpleasantly.

The concept was profoundly disconcerting. Neal felt he had some small idea of how people felt in war zones, or in London during the blitz, or Sarajevo under siege. Somehow, he was not sure how, you just got used to it. Death might well come at any second. So why waste a moment worrying about it? Sure, whiskey and cigarettes had helped. After all, the need for healthy living seemed somewhat less important when you knew all the things that Neal now knew. In truth, he had really wanted to buy some weed as well, but the risk of getting arrested either in disguise, or as a White House advisor, was simply too great.

So here he sat in a rented U-Haul van, the window ajar, the engine off, smoking a cigarette for want of something stronger. He had parked deliberately in front of the small parking lot security camera, using the van’s bulk to block the camera’s view of his colleagues as they arrived.

Ayala was the first to turn up. She surprised him by quietly coming down the driver’s side of the van, approaching from the back.

As she stepped up to the window stealthily, her hand lashed out and whipped the cigarette out of his hand.

Neal, focused on the door to the mall across the parking lot, spun around in shock. “Shit! Ayala, you scared the living crap out of me.” He breathed a sigh of relief and laughed.

“These are very bad for you,” she said self-righteously in her sultry Mediterranean accent, then she took a long drag of the cigarette and flicked it away. He smiled, opened his door, and stepped out. As he did so, she glanced up at the camera on the pillar next to the van, noting how Neal had planted the big rental right in front of it. She smiled.