Chapter 81: Surveillance
"The first thing to understand about lock work," Sarah said, "is that a good operative can open almost anything with whatever's available. Tools are a convenience, not a requirement."
She set a small canvas roll on the table in the briefing room's side training area and unrolled it. Inside, in individual loops, was a set of picks, tension wrenches, and a handful of specialized tools Simon recognized from the kit Casey kept in the field bag.
"You're a beginner," Sarah said, without making it sound like a criticism. "So we start with the basics. These two—" she removed a pick and a tension wrench "—will handle the majority of pin tumbler locks you'll encounter in the field. Master these first."
She explained the mechanics: how pin tumbler locks worked, how the tension wrench created rotational pressure on the cylinder, how the pick manipulated the driver pins one at a time until they set at the shear line and the cylinder turned.
Then she put a practice lock on the table and showed him.
Her hands moved with the unhurried precision of someone who had done this enough times that the knowledge had moved below consciousness — she felt the pins rather than thought about them, and the lock opened in under ten seconds.
"Your turn," she said.
Simon worked through it. The first attempt took four minutes. The second took two and a half. The third took ninety seconds.
By the end of the morning he had the core motion — the feel of pins setting, the micro-feedback through the tension wrench that told him when to move and when to hold.
"That's enough for today," Sarah said. "When you can do that consistently with your eyes closed, I'll show you improvised techniques. Hairpins, paper clips, credit cards for certain latch types."
"I appreciate the time," Simon said.
"You're part of this team," Sarah said. "It makes sense for you to be capable."
She said it simply, without ceremony, which was more meaningful than if she'd made something of it.
He ate lunch at the base and went back to the Buy More for the afternoon shift.
Chuck was waiting for him near the entrance with the expression of a condemned man watching the clock.
"You're not seriously leaving me alone with Jeff all evening," Chuck said.
Simon glanced across the floor at Jeff Barnes, who was in his standard state of apparent somnolence near the gaming display, existing at a frequency the rest of the world found difficult to tune into.
"I have plans," Simon said. "You'll be fine. Jeff responds to sustained attention — just ask him about his interests and then listen. You'll be surprised what comes out."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Chuck said.
Simon patted him on the shoulder and clocked in.
After close, he went to his car.
He opened the laptop mounted to the dash and pulled up the tracker application.
During his visit to Gisele's apartment, he hadn't only installed the phone detonation units and checked the security setup. He'd also placed trackers — small, coin-sized, with listening capability — in the insoles of three pairs of shoes he'd found in her closet. Whatever she wore, he'd know where she went.
Tonight, the tracker had her at a location two miles south — a bar in the industrial strip below the 101, the kind of place that kept its signage minimal and its rear parking lot full.
He drove there.
The bar's ground floor was a standard operation — music, movement, the compressed energy of a Friday night. Simon moved through it to the stairs.
Two men at the top. Large, positioned to be seen.
"Private up here," the taller one said. "Take it downstairs."
"My mistake," Simon said, putting his hands up slightly. "I thought the bathrooms were up here."
"Other side of the bar."
"Got it. Sorry."
He went to the bathroom as directed, took the end stall, and pulled out the receiver unit — a compact device the size of a thick pen, paired to the transmitters in Gisele's shoes.
The audio was intermittent through the floor — bass from the music below competing with voices above — but enough to follow.
Campos's people were doing what criminal organizations always did in closed meetings: reviewing territory, discussing disputes, accounting for problems. The specific content was less useful than the general shape of it. Simon listened for fifteen minutes and came away with a reasonable sketch of the organization's current operational picture, which would be useful context later.
More importantly, he heard nothing that indicated Gisele had mentioned him, his visit, or their conversation. She was operating inside the organization without having flagged an anomaly upward.
That was a positive signal.
He left the bar and drove home.
Monday morning. School.
The lunch table had the usual configuration — Meg and Veronica and Wallace, trays and phones and the easy rhythm of people who had known each other long enough to share silence comfortably.
"How was your weekend?" Meg asked. She said it casually, but she said it while setting down her fork.
Veronica and Wallace, who had been mid-conversation, went quiet in the specific way of people who had recognized that a different conversation had started.
"Fine," Simon said. "Met someone interesting."
"Interesting how?" Meg said.
Simon recognized the register. She'd checked with someone — Suzy at the training school, probably — and found out he hadn't been there Saturday.
"A woman," he said.
Meg's fork went down fully.
Veronica picked up her soda.
"You know how it is," Simon said, shifting before this went further in the wrong direction. "Sometimes guys just need time without the relationship dynamic. Games, bad food, complaining about things. It's a biological requirement."
"Dude, that's literally what I do every weekend," Wallace said. "Call of Duty is genuinely this year's best game."
"Exactly," Simon said, with gratitude.
"Wallace," Veronica said.
"The game is good," Wallace said.
"I know the game is good," Veronica said. "Right now we're not talking about the game."
"So you were with Chuck and Morgan at Morgan's place," Meg said.
"Yes," Simon said, with the conviction of a man who had committed to a story and was seeing it through.
Meg looked at him for a moment. "I'm not asking you to justify how you spend your time, Simon. I'm asking you not to hide things from me. I'm not unreasonable."
"You're right," Simon said. "I should have just said I needed some time. I'm sorry."
He meant it, in the way he always meant the apologies — sincerely, and with the knowledge that the next mission would require a different version of the same lie, and that the apology and the lie could coexist in the same person without resolving each other.
His phone rang.
Casey's number.
"I'm at school," Simon said when he answered.
A pause.
"Now?"
Another pause.
"Okay. Coming."
He hung up, stood, and looked at Veronica. "Cover for me with second period?"
"I'm not your social secretary," Veronica said.
Simon grabbed his bag. "I'll owe you."
"You already owe me," she said, but she was already reaching for her own phone.
He walked out of the cafeteria and broke into a jog.
Behind him, at the table, Veronica watched the doors close.
"He's lying," she said.
"We don't know that," Meg said.
"Meg. He got a phone call at lunch on a Monday and ran. That's not Call of Duty at Morgan's."
"We don't know what it is," Meg said. "And assuming the worst about someone without evidence isn't fair."
Veronica looked at her with the expression she used when she respected something even while disagreeing with it.
"You're very good at trust," Veronica said.
"I'm very good at giving people space to be who they are," Meg said. "That's different."
Veronica considered this.
"It's a fine distinction," she said.
"Most important ones are," Meg said, and picked up her fork.
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