“The Hotel Washington in D.C. It’s an agency perk. Call Durrani. He can arrange a room for however many nights you need.”
Harrison wasn’t sure whether to thank Khalila or tell her to never talk to him again. He decided not to respond, then contacted Durrani, who made the arrangement. He called Angie back; she’d be waiting for him in the hotel lobby tonight.
Khalila said nothing more for the rest of the flight, and upon landing at Reagan National, grabbed her luggage and departed without a word.
The century-old Hotel Washington, located on 15th Street NW between Pennsylvania Avenue and F Street, was only a block away from the White House. Harrison pulled up to the entrance to the eleven-story hotel, which was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and had appeared in several movies, with its rooftop terrace featured in The Godfather: Part II and No Way Out.
Harrison tossed his keys to the valet and pulled his duffle bag from the backseat, then entered the historic hotel. Although the luxurious lobby was well appointed, his eyes were instantly drawn to Angie, seated across the lobby. Her face brightened when she saw him, and she smiled as she rose from the chair and walked toward him. She was wearing a raspberry-colored featherweight sweater that clung to her curves, low-slung jeans, and knee-high suede leather boots.
Angie’s smile turned mischievous as her pace increased, and Harrison quickly deduced what she was planning to do. He dropped his duffle bag on the floor and shifted one foot farther back, bracing himself. Angie sprinted the remaining distance toward Harrison and leaped into his arms, straddling his waist with her legs as she locked her lips on to his. When she pulled back, Harrison glanced at the lobby occupants — distinguished guests wearing suits and elegant dresses — some of whom were staring at the couple, but Angie seemed not to notice or care, her eyes locked on to his, an infectious grin on her face.
“You’re excited to see me, I take it,” Harrison said, charmed as always by her youthful exuberance.
Angie whispered into his ear. “If you think I’m excited now, just wait until we’re alone.”
51
DULLES, VIRGINIA
It was just before 8 a.m. when the last passengers aboard Air France Flight 21 trudged into Terminal B at Dulles International Airport, toting an assortment of carry-on bags, backpacks, and sleeping infants. For the most part, the travelers felt as tired as they appeared after the overnight nine-hour flight, except for a man near the back of the line, who pretended to rub the sleep from his eyes.
Although he shuffled along with the rest of the passengers, Lonnie Mixell felt quite refreshed, which was remarkable since his journey had been much longer: a three-flight trip from Baku, Azerbaijan, to Bucharest, Romania, then on to Paris for the final leg to the United States — all preceded by a winding drive through Syria, Turkey, and Armenia.
The extra precautions had been necessary. After Harrison caught up to him in Syria, Mixell realized the facial recognition programs had access to far more cameras, and could process the images faster, than he had expected. As a result, he’d begun his journey back to the United States far from Syria, and with a notably altered appearance.
He stopped in a bathroom, and after relieving himself and washing his hands, looked into the mirror. His hair had been dyed black and was now streaked with gray, and his eyes were blue due to a pair of clear-vision contacts. His cheekbone structure had been altered by implants wedged high in his mouth on both sides, and his jawline was more pronounced due to additional implants outside his lower teeth — along the sides and in the front.
Despite the altered appearance, the face in the mirror was still quite handsome, he had to admit. Of more importance, however, the image matched the picture on his passport, issued in the name of David Morrell, an executive of DavRoc Industries, looking to open a distribution center near Washington, D.C. In keeping with his new and wealthy identity, Mixell wore a three-piece blue suit and complementing silk tie, along with polished black wing-tipped dress shoes.
He had previously made an appointment for this morning and had made a call upon landing at Dulles, and waiting at the curb by baggage claim in a red Lexus GS sedan was Sandy Perry, the sole owner of a realty company specializing in commercial properties. She emerged from the car to greet Mixell, who noticed the woman was an attractive brunette in her forties, smartly attired in a white blouse and gray skirt that went midway down her thighs. He also noticed that she wore no wedding ring.
She offered a firm handshake as she greeted him. “Welcome to Virginia, Mr. Morrell.”
Mixell smiled warmly. “Please, call me Dave.”
After he placed his carry-on luggage in the trunk, he slipped into the passenger seat beside her.
“I’ve got a good list of properties,” she said as they pulled away from the curb. “I’m sure one of them will be exactly what you’re looking for.”
Sandy was already aware of David Morrell’s professional details, and the conversation eventually turned to more personal topics. Mixell learned that Sandy was single, a recent divorcée.
Sandy Perry had been in the real estate business for over twenty years; a well-known and highly respected woman in her community. Her recent divorce had been an embarrassing and frustrating ordeal, and the mere thought of her ex-husband made her hands clench the steering wheel.
She forced herself to relax and focus instead on the client in her passenger seat, whom she had sized up the moment she laid eyes on him at the airport. She glanced at him frequently as she drove, her eyes lingering for longer than they should have, given she was speeding toward Washington at well above the speed limit.
David Morrell was a strikingly handsome man. His black hair was streaked with gray, which she found attractive, and his eyes were the most amazing color of blue she had ever seen. He was tall and well built, filling out his suit quite nicely.
As they traveled down the Dulles Access Road, her mind began to wander. She was an attractive woman, and over the last few months, she had taken advantage of her new single status. Her eyes went to Morrell’s left hand, which bore no wedding ring.
“How long will you be in town?” she asked.
“Only a few days.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to hide the disappointment from her voice. “Will you be back to visit the property often?”
“It depends on how things go.”
Mixell noticed Sandy’s frequent glances. He got those kinds of looks often, and while he occasionally mixed business with pleasure, business came first today.
He had requested a property in Alexandria, Virginia. Other than that, there were few requirements: a warehouse with at least three thousand square feet of space on the ground floor, and an industrial-sized garage door at least ten feet wide by fifteen feet tall.
Sandy showed him several properties, and one of the warehouses would have worked, except the large industrial doors opened to the west instead of the east. That was a detail Mixell had decided not to share with the realtor to prevent unnecessary questions.
She showed him several more properties, this time pulling up alongside a vacant warehouse at the end of Oronoco Street. As far as the location went, it was perfect. Situated on the bank of the Potomac River and bordered on one side by Oronoco Bay and the other by Founders Park, he doubted he would find a more secluded location, considering his requirements.
Sandy unlocked the heavy steel door and pushed it open for Mixell. The bare warehouse was exactly what he was looking for. The interior was large enough for the planned equipment, there were only a few grimy windows along one wall through which dim light filtered in, and there was a large industrial door on the far wall, opening to the east.