The Muller investigation had been a diversion, a blessed obsession that forced her to focus on betrayals less intimate. But the case was winding down. She’d no longer have the cushion of that distraction. She’d go home each night to the now-too-big Tudor in Falls Church. Lie alone in the now-too-big king bed.
“It’s okay. The divorce went through only a couple of months ago. I didn’t broadcast it.”
“I understand… Well. Maybe you don’t need another major disruption so soon. How about you sleep on it?”
She faced him again, forced a smile. “Thanks. I’m flattered. Really. I’ll think it over.”
Maybe another major disruption is just what I need.
FOUR
CIA safe house,Linden, Virginia
Tuesday, March 18, 10:15 a.m.
They turned off 66 at exit 13, just west of the small rural community of Linden, Virginia. Their limo followed close behind the lead car-a Grand Cherokee loaded with a security team and communications gear-onto Route 55, running parallel to 66. A short distance past the volunteer fire department and a bottling plant, they turned south onto a narrow side road posted “No Trespassing-U.S. Government Property.”
The road took them into the wooded hills. Within a couple hundred yards, they approached a guy standing at the roadside in jeans and a denim jacket. He spoke into a walkie-talkie as they passed. After about a mile, the road curved left into a tiny valley-a flat depression, really, between a couple of thousand-foot-high hills.
It dead-ended at the gate to a driveway that looped in front of a modern, three-story house. The gate was part of a white rail fence that surrounded the property, which looked to be about three or four acres. The house had multiple gables and was wrapped by a broad porch filled with scattered white wicker tables and chairs. A young woman in a green windbreaker and brown slacks sat in a rocker near the front door, a magazine on her lap. Not far from the house, a man in a plaid shirt was raking a patch of bare earth. Several smaller wooden structures stood not far from the main building. A gravel parking area held three vehicles; next to it rose a two-story, four-car garage.
Fearing that the Russians might now come after him to shut him up, Muller had insisted that his debriefing take place somewhere both secret and secure, but also away from Langley. When told about the Linden site, he quickly agreed. Garrett explained to Annie that the Agency had established this covert safe house four years earlier, after left-wing “journalists”-he pronounced the word with disdain-had blown the locations of other CIA facilities much closer to HQ, even posting detailed satellite photos on the Internet. But this one remained secret. Any lost tourist or deer hunter who wandered near the property would see little to arouse his suspicions before politely being sent on his way. There were no signs of security obvious to an untrained observer, but Annie knew better. The innocuous rustic rail fence would be loaded with sensors. She also noticed small communications antennae and multiple satellite dishes on the house and garage roofs.
Because of today’s special guest, security would be much tighter than usual. The woman on the porch and the man in the garden would be part of a detail of about twenty armed, highly trained members of the Office of Security. Most would remain hidden in the house, in the garage, and on the road leading to the residence. A sniper team would be perched on one of the hills overlooking the property. And their arriving convoy would add eight more officers to the protective detail.
As their lead car pulled up to the gate, the young woman on the porch stood and moved her hand onto the porch railing. The gate section blocking the driveway slid aside electronically, allowing them to enter. The Cherokee and their chase car peeled off toward the parking area, while their driver pulled their limo around to the front door.
“This,” said Grant Garrett, unfastening his seat belt, “should be interesting.”
*
“Why us?”
At the question, James Muller looked up from his cup of coffee, which was steaming in the surprisingly chilly room. His soft, almost cherubic features flowed into a smile. His hands were no longer cuffed, but a security officer stood nearby.
“Why me, anyway?” Garrett continued. “I know you’ve worked before with Ms. Woods. But you and I have never met. So, why do you want to talk only to her and me?”
They sat on sofas and stuffed chairs in the spacious, maple-paneled den of the safe house. In addition to the cool temperature, the room seemed dreary and impersonal, as if the home’s occupants had not yet fully moved in. Annie noticed that the big stone fireplace was unused; no metal tools around it that might be employed as weapons. Nor were there candy dishes, ashtrays, photos on the walls. Even the built-in bookcases were empty. Thick, bark-colored curtains were drawn over what she knew would be bullet-resistant, laminated windows.
Muller chuckled. “Why you? Because I want to tell my story to the best- that’s why. And you’re The Man. Nobody at Langley holds a candle to the great Grant Garrett.”
“So, do you want to talk, or do you want to be president of my fan club?”
Muller roared with laughter, sloshing coffee into the tan, high-pile carpet. “Sure, I’ll talk. I just figured it was only proper to tell my tale to the only people at Langley still worth a damn. You and Annie. You-because you’re the guy holding operations together. Annie-well, because fair’s fair. She’s the one who caught me.” He looked her up and down, grinning. “And because she’s hotter than hell.”
Annie had long ago pegged Muller as a narcissist, if not a sociopath. He loved every minute of the grandstanding and attention. She sighed, put down her cup, leaned forward.
“Think you’re flattering us?” she said quietly. “You sold out your country. You ended the careers and lives of some great people. So before we get down to specifics, you mind telling us why?”
He lost the grin. His pale blue eyes blinked rapidly. Narrowed into slits.
“Why. You want to know why. Well, maybe because after thirty years in the Company, doing damned good work, my pay still sucks. And maybe because that – plus all the nights and weekends, year after year-cost me my marriage. But hey, at least I could always take solace in the complete lack of recognition. Did you know I was security admin for the CI team that nailed Nicholson? That’s right, Nicholson. How could anyone do better than that? But what the hell did it get me?”
He began to rise from his sofa, but sat back down when the security officer stepped forward. He took a long breath. When he spoke again, he was subdued.
“Look at me. I’m fifty-three. And what do I have to show for it? My whole life is crap. I would’ve retired in a few more years. But to what? I’m alone. She took the kids, even the dog. I’m broke from the alimony. Where could I go? What could I do? Be a security guard at Wal-Mart?”
“So-you approached the Russians, not the other way around?”
Muller looked at Garrett and nodded. He tilted his cup to his lips and drained the last of the coffee.
“How long ago?” she asked.
“Three years, January.”
“Where? In D.C.?”
Muller nodded, put down his cup. “Okay, I’ll get into all of that. But look, I haven’t had a smoke for over twenty-four hours. I was so goddamn jittery last night I couldn’t even sleep.”
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“Come on, man, give me a break. Can’t we go outside?”
Garrett looked at Annie. “I could use one myself. Okay. Out on the porch.”
*
They went through the kitchen and out the back door, led by the security officer, who slipped on mirrored sunglasses and stepped down into the yard. Two more members of the detail followed, then fanned out to flank them. Annie donned her own sunglasses-a spare pair she kept in her car-before stepping out into the dazzling morning sun.