He got them out of the side pocket of his B-4, then headed for the brow. He left the ship at 1820, and by 1845 was getting out of the taxi at the east side of the park. Enough time to stroll around. He picked up a brochure, then followed the map in it down a pedestrian mall lined with Spanish Colonial buildings and palm trees, heading toward a massively ornate tower at the west end. It looked vaguely familiar, though he’d never been here before. Then turned south, realizing he’d passed what was marked on the map as the Spreckles Pavilion. He spotted Bepko on a bench. The NIS agent was in running pants, running shoes, a photographer’s vest. À camera hung around his neck. He squinted back as their eyes met, then heaved himself up and strolled away. Message received. Dan sheered off, too, and ambled on, wondering how many of the others who moved with him through the spring-smelling air were also not what they seemed. The park was a popular place. He caught Spanish, Italian, Japanese.
