Agent Walter brushed the hair out of his eyes. He stared at her for a long moment, and then flicked his fingers toward the camera above the door, signifying that he was ready to be let out.
There was a mechanical buzz as the lock actuated. He pulled the door open.
“Now, you can,” he said without turning around.
Ross lowered her bloody hand, seething. Her lip was already beginning to swell. “Now I can what?”
“Say you’ve been hit in the mouth.” He shut the door behind him.
Virginia Ross used the chair to pull herself up. Once on her feet she began to tremble so violently she had to use the table to keep her balance. She’d been put in charge of the CIA because she was also an intuitive genius — and of one thing, she was certain. The IDTF hadn’t spirited her away to some black site where the rules of law could be thought of as gray at best. They had put her in a prison on American soil — and one of their agents had just struck her in the face. They never intended to let her leave there alive.
DAY TWO
’Twould be an ill world for weaponless dreamers if evil men were not now and then slain.
Chapter 34
By six-thirty a.m., Garcia sat cross-legged with her back against the headboard of the hotel bed. Five hours of fitful sleep had chased away enough of her panic that she’d been able to take a shower. A white towel now sat piled around her wet hair like a turban. She wore a clean pair of faded jeans and a white T-shirt that was loose at the waist to conceal her Browning Hi Power and tight enough at the chest to ensure no one looked down there anyway. Barefoot, she wiggled her toes, tapping a pen against her teeth while she considered the list in the spiral notebook that lay in her lap.
Empty dishes from her breakfast of steel-cut oats, three slices of bacon, and toast covered in orange marmalade cluttered the room service tray next to her knee. The first cup of coffee from the little hotel-room coffeemaker had revived her just enough to stumble into the shower. The stuff that came with her meal was much better and actually made her feel something close to human again.
The notebook held two dozen names and their associated contact information. The problem with ditching a cell phone so it couldn’t be used to track her location was that all the phone numbers and e-mail addresses got ditched as well. She hated committing sensitive information like this to paper, and would eventually drop the entire notebook in a burn bag, but for now, she had to decide where to start.
The volume on the television was low, but the willowy brunette on FOX News seemed to shout every word that roamed across her teleprompter, from barked sound bites about the national debt to some slutty pop star’s latest vacation to rehab. Ronnie had picked up the remote to turn it off when the news anchor called in a hunky GQ model with “leaked” news about the arrest of the CIA director.
“…Ross’s capture comes amid a massive series of intergovernmental probes,” the reporter said from his vantage point outside the US Capitol. “The Justice Department would make no statement regarding the investigation, but sources confirm that Director Ross is suspected of leaking sensitive, even top-secret, material to foreign agents.”
“This is just incredible, Steve,” the shouting brunette said. “Do we know yet when she’ll appear in court?”
“As I said, Leslie, the government has not commented officially,” GQ said. “We can only assume that some of the hearings will be held in camera or, in other words, closed to the public due to the extremely sensitive matters that are certain to come out. That said, we can confirm that Virginia Ross, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, has been arrested and is being held in federal custody at an undisclosed location.…”
Garcia picked up the notebook and ran her finger down the back page, looking for a particular number. “Undisclosed federal custody,” she said to herself. She found who she was looking for, then picked up the burner phone.
He would either be the perfect guy to call… or he’d throw her in jail.
Chapter 35
Above all the other aspects of protective work, Deputy US Marshal August Bowen enjoyed the chance to explore. A Montana native and former US Army scout, he was a tracker and hunter by nature. He liked the conquest of things that others might consider mundane. The back hallways, restaurant kitchens, laundry rooms, and basements of five-star Washington, DC, hotels — all proved to be new frontiers as far as Bowen was concerned.
He had a pleasant face with deep dimples on either side of a well-trimmed goatee. At thirty-six, his beard was still dark, as his hair had been when he’d deployed to Afghanistan two years before. That trip had changed many things about him, the most noticeable being that his hair had turned gunmetal gray.
Broad shoulders and a trim waist made his off-the-rack suit look more expensive than it really was. A clear pigtail ran from his ear to the flesh-tone wire clipped to his shirt collar, disappearing beneath his jacket and running down to the brick-sized radio on the left side of his belt. A second and third wire from the radio ran respectively up the back of the coat and down his sleeve to a small beige microphone pinned to his lapel and an activation button held in place on his left wrist with a rubber band. This “surveillance kit” allowed him to use his radio without going all Hollywood and putting his finger to his ear or raising his hand to his mouth every time he spoke. The suit coat also covered a pair of handcuffs, a X26 Taser, and a .40 caliber Glock 22 with two extra magazines.
A voice came over the radio, crackling in his ear. “He wants to head to the courthouse in thirty minutes.”
“Advance copies,” Bowen said. As the deputy out front of all movement, he’d need to go check with the deputy assigned to sit with the vehicles and make sure the exits were clear. After that, he’d scout the route to the courthouse ahead of the detail.
Deputy US marshals worked with so many different agencies that they generally dispensed with cumbersome codes and signals on the radio, instead using plain talk that was understood by all, no matter the jurisdiction.
Picking up his pace, Bowen moved down the bright hall that ran below the main lobby of the hotel. Absent the fancy carpets and mood lighting of the guest areas, these subterranean passageways were steaming hives of activity with thriving cultures that were far more interesting than the stuffy cigar bars upstairs.
They also made excellent entry points for threats to the protectee, providing plenty of places to explore.
The principal, US District Judge R. Felix Knudson, was new to the bench. His chambers were in Norfolk, but he was in town training with some of the more experienced judges. One of his first cases had seen him rule against a group of white separatists who had a compound near the North Carolina border. The ruling had garnered enough death threats that the Marshals Service was still in the middle of trying to discern if the letters were sent by genuine “hunters” who planned to make good on their threats, or “howlers” who talked a loud and bothersome game but were basically harmless.
Of all the judges Bowen had protected, Knudsen had to be the easiest. He warned his detail well in advance of any movement and acted as though he realized they were genuinely concerned for his safety. He’d not been on the bench long enough to “turn purple” or “royal,” as often occurred to powerful judges and senators. It was a difficult thing, hearing nothing but yes to every question and hearty laughs at all your jokes, no matter how lame.