She landed on him hard. Heard him gasp. Heard his weapon clatter across the marble floor.
Then something massive smashed into her, knocking her aside.
She lay sprawled on her back, sucking in air, reeling from the impact.
“Got him!” A beefy young agent straddled Muller, knees pinning the traitor’s arms, a. 40 caliber Glock pressed to his captive’s forehead.
“James Muller…you…are under arrest!” Groat’s voice, quavering. He stood over Muller, panting, legs splayed too far apart, pointing his own service pistol in extended hands. The muzzle was wavering.
She forced herself to sit up. Other agents retrieved Muller’s weapon and suitcase, then established a perimeter. The young agent atop Muller flipped him onto his stomach, slapped cuffs around his wrists behind his back, and began to pat him down. He glanced over at her sheepishly.
“Sorry,” he said. “Hey, you okay?”
She wasn’t in the mood to reassure him. Her right shoulder felt like it had been clubbed with a baseball bat. She hauled herself slowly to her feet and took stock. Her own Glock was still in its holster. Her favorite sunglasses lay next to Muller, crushed. He remained curled up on his side, fetal position, coughing and retching, his hands secured behind his back. Around them, scores of passengers, some whimpering, huddled against walls or lay terrified on the terminal floor; others hurried away down the corridors.
Rubbing her shoulder, she stepped toward Groat, who lowered his weapon. His eyes were too wide; they held both fear and relief.
She got right in his face. “You jumped my signal.”
He took an involuntary step back. “You…are you all right?”
“No thanks to you, you stupid son of a bitch.”
*
They jammed into a small airport security office. State police milled outside the door. Another trooper, a sergeant, sat at a gray metal desk barking into the phone. Muller slouched in a chair next to the desk, hands still cuffed behind his back, two Bureau agents looming over him. They’d wrapped a towel filled with ice from a soda machine around his rapidly bruising throat. His cheeks were red and he was still coughing.
Groat entered the room. His eyes darted at her, then scurried away. He marched straight to Muller. Drew an envelope from inside his suit jacket, then unfolded a document from it.
“Okay. To finish the formalities. James Harold Muller, you are hereby under arrest for violation of Title 18, United States Code Section 794(c), conspiracy to commit espionage. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say-”
Muller shot a glance up at him. “Not another word, Ricky,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse. “I know my rights.”
“Look, I have to-”
“If you shut the hell up, Ricky, I might even be willing to make a statement without the presence of counsel.”
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him. This was too good to be true.
Groat nodded. “Okay. We’re listening.”
Muller coughed and shook his head. “No, Ricky. Way too many people here. You want my cooperation, we do this my way.”
“Exactly what way is that?”
The traitor sat back in his chair, taking his time. His gaze drifted over to where Annie stood leaning against the wall in a corner, arms folded across her chest.
“I see you’re back to brunette, Annie. Good. Blonde just isn’t you.”
She just looked at him, refusing to take the bait. She knew he loved to grandstand.
“Tell me the truth, now, Annie. You’re the one who sorted it all out, right?” Muller nodded scornfully in Groat’s direction. “Certainly not this bozo. Groat couldn’t find his ass with a GPS.”
The FBI man’s face reddened. She saw the other agents struggle not to smile.
“Yeah, I figured as much,” Muller went on. “You know, Annie, I always worried that it would be somebody like you who’d get on to me.”
“You’ve got something to say, say it,” she said.
He coughed again. “Sure, Annie. I’ll tell you everything. But not the G-Man here. In fact, not anybody from the Bureau.”
“What do you mean?”
“You heard me, Ricky. I only talk to people I respect. Agency people.” He paused again, making a show of it. “I think Annie’s earned the right to be in on this. And I think, maybe…how about Grant Garrett? Yeah, Garrett, too.”
“You’re in no position to dictate terms!” Groat shouted. “This is FBI jurisdiction, not-”
“Ricky, Ricky. You just don’t get it, do you? I am in a position to dictate terms. Uncle Sam very badly needs to know what I did. But if Uncle wants to hear it, he’s going to have to do things my way.”
Nobody said a word. James Muller leaned forward and smiled.
“Come on, now, people. Do I chat alone with Annie and Garrett? Or do I get lawyered up?”
TWO
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.