5
Fifth Avenue
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY
It was a clear day in mid-April, with a light chill hanging in the air. I pulled my maroon hoodie off the shoulders of my leather biker jacket and hung it low over my head.
Quarter Horse followed the usual routine. He plonked himself on a long wooden bench across the street from the Rockerfeller Plaza. The location changed; the city, the state, the country. But it was always a bench.
I pretended to window-shop a short distance away along West 50th;, a super-busy street swimming with New Yorkers, tourists and honking yellow cabs.
Philippe, on the other hand, hung around the entrance to the plaza, pretending to talk on his phone.
Really, he was talking to me. “Quarter Horse is in attendance,” he said into my earpiece. “Wait for my signal.”
What
