Washington, D.C.
Monday, March 17, 1:45 p.m.
The man left the elevator and emerged into the underground garage. Traffic noise from above echoed faintly around the cavernous gray walls. Like all downtown parking facilities, it was crammed with vehicles this time of day. But he saw no one else around; only his shadow marched before him as he approached his SUV.
He tossed his briefcase over onto the passenger seat as he settled in, snapped the belt across his corduroy jacket, and turned over the engine. The digital clock on the dash lit up, reassuring him that it was still before two o’clock. A relief that his meeting had ended so early; he’d beat the rush-hour traffic.
Still, District streets were never predictable, what with unexpected road closures and VIP motorcades creating constant bottlenecks. He reached over and clicked on the radio, set to the local news station, to catch their traffic report.
“…according to a CIA spokesperson. And the Washington Post is reporting on its website that the dramatic capture of this ‘mole’ within the Agency came after a nearly two-year investigation-”
The seat beneath him seemed to be falling away.
“-a Post source at Langley, the individual taken into custody caused, quote, ‘serious harm to national security, including the betrayal of numerous CIA assets and sensitive operations over a period of years.’”
His hand, still extended to the volume control, fell to his thigh.
“Meanwhile, the Agency spokesperson tells us that more information about the arrest of James Harold Muller today at Dulles Airport will be released at a joint CIA-FBI news conference, scheduled for 3:30 p.m. That’s it from here. Richard, back to you.”
“Thanks, Mark. We’ll have a lot more on this breaking story at the top of the hour… Now, let’s find out what’s happening on the area roadways-”
Muller.
For a moment, he couldn’t think of anything beyond that name. The rest of his mind was an empty hole.
Then the man’s face floated up into his consciousness. Smooth, round, moon-like. Pale blue slits for eyes. The wispy hair. The little smirk.
A blast of rage tore through him.
Muller.
Now it all made sense.
He hammered the steering wheel with his fist, once. Twice.
Then gripped the wheel. Hard. Squeezed his eyes shut. Took a slow, steady breath. Tried to impose order on the churning images in his brain.
All right. What happens next? What do they do with him?
Well, what would you do if you had just captured a traitor? Somebody who had-
Immediately, he knew. Knew what they’d do.
Guessed where they’d go.
He turned to fasten his seat belt. Straightening, he noticed his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. Hard and glittering, like marbles.
Then the anger melted away.
His hands now rested lightly on the steering wheel. As always after he’d made a decision, he experienced a sense of icy physical tranquility and heightened mental clarity.
He shut off the radio. Began to roll it around in his mind. Options. Details. Implications.
It occurred to him that he should be concerned. After all, he might be about to wreck everything he’d been working so carefully to establish during the past two years. Yet that stray thought now seemed an irrelevant intrusion, like a scarecrow hanging impotently in some distant field.
He would deal with any remote consequences, if and when. The only thing that mattered is that he could not let this go, here and now.
Would not let this go.
He sat in stillness for another minute, taking comfort in the low, reassuring purr of the engine. Then he shifted smoothly into reverse, backed from his parking space, and eased forward through the garage, prowling slowly toward the ramp that curved upward toward the exit.
He would make a few calls, change some plans.
He would not go home tonight.