Toward 7:15 the next morning, Alex emerged from the townhouse on 38th Street. Two black Cadillac Escalades with tinted windows were waiting. Alex’s bodyguards ushered her to the first one. She climbed into the backseat, and Ramirez, the looming gunman, slid into the seat on the other side. MacPhail rode shotgun up front.
They had a young driver today, a young blond man with a crew cut. He signaled to two other men in the second Escalade, and they all started to roll. Soon they were cruising through the morning traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel, and within half an hour they were barreling down the New Jersey Turnpike.
Alex attempted small talk with Ramirez and MacPhail, but they weren’t talkative. She got the impression that they’d been out late. So she retreated into a book, a fantasy ghost story called Cemetery of Angels, then shifted to her iPod for the next few hours. Wary, but also sleepy, she managed to nap for part of the ride. When she opened her eyes, the Escalade was crossing one of the bridges from Washington, D.C., into Virginia.
Being back in the Washington area brought back a flood of memories, some of them happy, others bittersweet.
They arrived at CIA headquarters in Langley shortly after noon, passed security, and took a light lunch with a case officer who’d been assigned to babysit her until her meeting at 1:30. His name was McAdams. He was cordial, talked a lot, but said almost nothing. Alex knew that the important talk would be held behind closed doors.
She returned the small talk through lunch and waited.
The meeting was in a conference room on the second floor, east. Her babysitter led her to the door, but her bodyguards were asked to wait outside. Alex entered and waited.
Inside was a rectangular table with six empty chairs. The walls were light green, normal CIA decor, with, surprisingly, a window that overlooked an inner courtyard. Near it was an American flag in a stand. In less than a minute, Alex heard voices. The door opened and three men entered. All three wore dark suits, ID badges in plastic holders dangling across their neckties.
“Agent LaDuca,” said the leader, extending a hand. “I’m Maurice Fajardie, Assistant Director/DCA, Central American Affairs, Caribbean Division. These are my associates who will also be involved in this case.” He then introduced her to Curtis Sloane, in charge of overall covert intelligence pertaining to Cuba, and Tom Menendez, whose title told her that he oversaw pursuit of fugitives in the eastern Caribbean.
After handshakes all around, they sat at the table.
“So, Alex,” Fajardie began, “I hear someone took a shot at you. How are you holding up?”
“The good news is they missed,” she said.
“We’ve all been briefed on what’s going on,” Sloane said.
“You’re quite a trooper,” Menendez added with admiration.
“I feel more like a head case than anything … that or Bambi in deer season.”
There were faint smiles. She looked around the table. The two associates had their eyes fixed on her, like a couple of foxhounds waiting for a bugle.
“It was a long drive from New York,” Alex said, “so let’s get to it, shall we?”