“How about you?” Tracey asked. “You clearly didn’t like the guy I picked out for tonight. But I’ve got a long list of men who’d look perfect on the CIA director’s arm. And a list of guys who wouldn’t.” She offered a mischievous smile. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”
Christine laughed. “I’ll take ’em clean-cut for now.”
“Or I could find you a good Russian,” Tracey replied.
Tracey’s comment caught Christine off guard, unsure whether she was referring to her heritage — Christine was half-Russian — or her previous relationship with Russian President Yuri Kalinin. But one thing was clear — Tracey knew more than she should have.
“You’ve been snooping in my file?”
“I couldn’t help myself,” she said. “It’s that thing you’ve got going with Harrison. It’s not often that a director goes out of her way to hire someone, and not just once but twice.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Tracey nodded. “But only on the seventh floor. We’re pretty tight-lipped about stuff up there, so I wouldn’t worry about the underlings learning that you’ve got the hots for a married man.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” Christine replied. “I respect his marriage and would never come on to him. It’s just that — I waited too long.”
“I’ll say,” Tracey replied. “You turned him down twice.”
“That’s in my file?”
“You bet. When you have a clearance as high as ours, they go all the way back to where you grew up. Interview your neighbors and friends, people you went to school with.”
Despite the security clearance investigations over the years, Christine had never seen the actual files — what they had gleaned and the corresponding assessments.
Tracey continued, “Jake even hung around a few years after you said no the second time. That’s dedication on his part, and stupidity on yours, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Christine swirled her drink, then took a sip. “I can’t argue there.”
Mike returned from the bathroom as the food was served.
The ensuing conversation with Tracey and her husband delved into numerous topics, and Christine lost track of time. She finally remembered her babysitting/gymnastics-training appointment and checked her watch. She should have left five minutes ago.
“I need to run,” Christine said. “I’ve got to pick Maddy up.”
As Christine reached into her purse, Tracey said, “We’ve got the check. Get going.”
53
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Christine’s black SUV pulled up to the entrance of the Intercontinental a few minutes past seven. Harrison was waiting in the lobby with Maddy, who was dressed in her gymnastics leotard and carried a small gym bag filled with hand grips and other assorted gear. Christine apologized for being late, informing Harrison they’d be back in about two hours. The gym was only a few miles away.
Maddy climbed into the back of the SUV with Christine, and the vehicle pulled out into traffic. It was obvious that Maddy was excited to work out with Christine, but she also seemed nervous. She clutched the gym bag in her lap and examined the two men in the front seats. She leaned toward Christine and whispered, “Who are those men?”
Not wanting to get into a discussion about why she needed protective agents, Christine whispered back. “They’re coworkers. We sometimes go out to dinner together.”
Maddy squinted, studying the two men a bit closer.
“They don’t seem very friendly.”
“They’re very nice,” Christine said. “It’s been a long day. They’re just tired.”
They soon arrived at the gym where Christine worked out on occasion. It was partially full tonight, with the higher levels working late, as usual. Once reaching level nine, it was standard practice at elite gyms to start the girls on split-shift practices: two hours before school and four hours afterward during the week, plus six hours on Saturdays. By the time the girls reached high school, if they had the talent to compete at the national level, they were practicing thirty-six hours a week.
Caitlin Johnson, one of the upper-level coaches, broke off from the girls, greeting Christine and Maddy when they entered, while Christine’s coworkers remained in the SUV. Christine had hoped Caitlin would be available to help with Maddy’s beam routine. But she was tied up with practice until nine thirty, when the gym closed. Still, Christine had trained for seventeen years, from the age of five until she graduated from college. Back handsprings weren’t terribly complicated, and Christine hoped she’d be able to diagnose Maddy’s issue.
“It is good to see you again, Christine,” Caitlin said. “We’re done with the beams tonight. They’re yours until we close.”
Maddy joined Christine in the locker room while Christine changed into her gymnastics leotard in case she needed to demonstrate the correct way to execute the move. It was one of the rare times she wore clothes that revealed her blemishes: bullet wounds in her right biceps and thigh, plus her left shoulder. Maddy’s eyes went to the scars.
“Everything works fine,” Christine said, declining to explain how she had received the wounds.
They returned to the beam section of the gym, containing eight full-height beams, each four feet off the ground, plus several floor beams, which were only a few inches high and used as stepping stones to the normal-height beams when learning new, complex moves.
Christine had Maddy warm up on one of the floor beams.
54
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Lonnie Mixell stood on the wharf across the street from the Intercontinental, examining the twelve-story building, with its penthouse terrace and bar. He wore a light windbreaker, beneath which was a shoulder holster containing his SIG Sauer P226 with attached suppressor, plus a sheath containing a six-inch knife. As he prepared to step across the street, his mind went to a night a few months earlier, at a location not far away, just across the Potomac River. To the last time he saw Trish alive, with the coward Harrison holding her hostage, shielding himself with a woman.
He had waited months for this day as his wounds from his encounter with Harrison healed, lying awake at night as he imagined the various ways he might take from Harrison what his former best friend had taken from him. He even considered letting Harrison live, to spend the rest of his days with the memory of his wife dying in his arms.
But first, he needed to determine what room Harrison and Angie were in. The Intercontinental at the wharf, where the CIA booked rooms for their officers, wasn’t the kind of place that gave out that information. Any visitor or devious attempt to gain access, such as an individual posing as a food delivery guy, would be told to wait in the lobby while the resident was contacted, confirming it was okay to send him up. This wouldn’t do. He needed the element of surprise.
Mixell had a plan, of course, and he walked across the street and into the alley beside the hotel. There was a service door for personnel, which was shut, plus a loading dock entrance in the side of the building, and the metal roll-up door was also closed. He leaned against the wall not far from the service door and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, even though he didn’t smoke. He had planned ahead, stopping by a convenience store along the way.
He lit a cigarette and took a puff.
It was only a matter of time.
55
WASHINGTON, D.C.