They rode in a six-wheel all-terrain vehicle, their captor at the controls in a motorcycle-style seat, Charlie and Drummond dead-bolted inside a cold, dark, and windowless trailer, hands pressed against the icy metal walls and floor to brace against the bumps and jolts. Through a small ventilation grate, Charlie watched the browns and yellows of the woods give way to the uniform pale green of a golf course.
The three-minute ride ended with a skidding halt on damp grass. A rasp of the bolt and the guard opened the trailer, revealing a wall of red and brown bricks set in a herringbone pattern. With a flick of the rifle, he gestured for Charlie and Drummond to exit the trailer.
As Charlie slid out, and his eyes readjusted to daylight, he saw that the bricks comprised the first story of a three-story, oak-framed Tudor mansion nearly a city block long, topped with a steeply pitched red tile roof that was a mountainscape of gables and dormers and cut-stone chimneys. Charlie had anticipated an impressive clubhouse but nothing of this scale or majesty.
“That way,” the guard ordered. It was as much as he’d said since ordering them against the wall to submit to a weapons search. He pointed his rifle at a stone staircase that wrapped around one side of clubhouse.
The stairs brought the three of them to a polished limestone portico that ran the length of the building, with tall, perfectly cylindrical columns every five or six feet. Inside it, their footfalls sounded like applause.
Halfway down, they crossed paths with two men in their late sixties, wearing expensive tennis shoes and the sort of warm-up suits in fashion at Wimbledon. Flushed from a match, they both smiled, one giving a crisp military salute and the other offering a bright “Good morning.” In reply the guard uttered a deferential, “Sirs.” With far too much cordiality, Drummond said, “Hello, how are you?” Charlie simply nodded, while studying the players’ reactions to the assault rifle at his and Drummond’s backs. They appeared to find Drummond’s bowling pants and shoes of greater interest. As they passed, they resumed a discussion of whether it was late enough in the day for cocktails. Charlie wondered what would have fazed them.
At the portico’s end, the guard directed him and Drummond up a short brick pathway. It led to a flagstone terrace that had the dimensions of a Broadway stage and overlooked an expansive garden, beyond which were a trio of grass tennis courts and, after that, a good percentage of Virginia.
A silver-haired woman in a wheelchair rolled over to meet them.