In addition to his eating binge, he also had to contend with the fact that his sexual arousal hadn’t dissipated. Smelling the terror on the woman as well as feeling her fluttering body pressed tightly against his was a heady combination of sensations made only more acute by the danger of it all.
He was drifting into choppy water and being pulled further and further from shore. He fingered the pillbox in his pocket as he stared over at the cooler with its beer and sodas. If he took more medication he could become dopey and slip up. But if he didn’t take any, and he gave in to one of his nastier impulses, he could also slip up. He felt damned either way, which suddenly brought on an additional sensation, anxiety.
He decided to write his own prescription. Walking over to the cooler, he removed two Yanjings, paid the old Chinese woman with the whiskers behind the counter, and sat back down at the table.
He drank the first beer in one long swallow. With the second, he took his time and willed himself to relax. It took several minutes, but eventually the warmth of the alcohol crept into his bloodstream and he began to feel himself relax. The benefit of the anxiety, if you could call it that, was that it was an arousal killer. His erection had completely gone away.
The longer he sat in the restaurant, the more relaxed he became. The more relaxed he became, the more his mind drifted, particularly to what had happened at the graveyard and he could feel the strings of arousal starting to be tugged. He was being pulled out to sea again. What he needed was some coffee.
Finishing off his second beer, his steered his legs out onto the street and into the early evening. Rush hour was already well under way. When he finally found a café it was staffed by wrung-out baristas watching the clock, eager to close up and get home for the evening. He ordered his coffee with a “black eye,” coffee-talk for two shots of espresso. As he had done in the Chinese restaurant, he paid in cash, and then exited the establishment.
He felt the caffeine hit his system faster than the beer. There was a pep in his step and he felt a buoyancy of spirit. Everything was going to be okay. He was actually looking forward to his assignment tonight. It was complicated, but not impossible. Every step had been mapped out in perfect detail. It was like making a cake. As long as you followed the recipe, you had nothing to worry about, and he always followed the recipe.
The vehicle and his supplies were stored in a dilapidated garage in East Boston. He spent an hour casing the neighborhood and an additional hour surveilling the garage before he approached.
The key to the padlock had been sewn into the lining of his jacket. Ripping part of the fabric, he removed it, and let himself in, closing and locking the door behind him.
He slipped a small flashlight from his backpack and cupped the head so as not to throw too much light. The white panel van was unlocked. Climbing in back, he did a quick assessment. Everything was where it was supposed to be.
Opening the lid of the large garbage can, he checked to make sure the final ingredient was in place. Squinting into the beam of his flashlight was a man, bound and gagged, with a two-day growth of beard.
He closed the lid and began to feel very excited as he laid out a blue jumpsuit and stripped off his clothes.
CHAPTER 18
BETHESDA
MARYLAND
General George Johnson, Director of National Intelligence, lived in a modest colonial house near D.C. with his wife, an around-the-clock protective detail, and a French bulldog named Martin. Despite nearly two years of the detail that changed shifts every eight hours, the dog still went berserk every time someone showed up at the house.
For the security-minded, this might have been viewed as a positive. General Johnson, though, saw his wife’s dog as a colossal pain in the ass. Even before they had rung the bell, Lydia Ryan and Bob McGee could hear both the dog and the DNI barking from inside the house.
“Damn it, Marty! Quiet!” Johnson shouted at the bulldog. “Carol! Come get this damn dog!”
A solidly built man in a dark suit opened the door. Behind him, the DNI was trying to corral the little bulldog with his foot in order to prevent him from charging the visitors. “Sorry about this,” Johnson said as he beckoned his guests. “Please come on in.”
“I told you, you should have gotten a Rottweiler,” McGee said as he stepped inside.
“I’ve got several already,” he replied, gesturing at his security men standing in the foyer. “And I haven’t caught them once going on the rug,” he cracked before yelling for his wife again, “Carol!”
The DNI’s assistant stepped out of the living room. “I’ll take him upstairs, sir,” he offered, bending down and scooping up the dog. Instantly, Marty’s bark turned into a growl.
“Be careful, Stu.”
“It’ll be okay, sir.”
“Sure it will,” Johnson said with a smirk as his assistant began climbing the stairs. “I’ve got a hundred bucks that says he bites you.”
“He’s not going—” the assistant began just as the dog nipped him in the hand.
“Told ya,” the DNI said with a laugh as he walked over to shake hands with his guests.
McGee introduced Ryan and then General Johnson invited them to follow him to his den.
“Can I offer either of you anything?” he asked, “Coffee? Soft drink?”
“Coffee would be good,” said Ryan, still feeling jet-lagged from her trip. “Thank you.”
“Got any bourbon?” replied McGee.
“I’ve got plenty. Up or neat?”
“Neat, please.”
“They say consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds, Bob.”
“Actually,” McGee corrected, “they say foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. There’s nothing foolish about a man loving bourbon. Unless, of course, that man starts including ice cubes in his glass. Ice is a crutch.”
The DNI was a short, broad-chested fireplug of a man in his early sixties, with a bit of a paunch and thinning gray hair. It was after-hours, and he wore khakis and an oxford shirt. He laughed good-naturedly at McGee’s joke as he busied himself at his wet bar pouring a cup of coffee for Ryan and a drink for himself and McGee.
By the time he was done, his assistant, Stuart, had finished taking the dog upstairs and had joined them in the den, along with a laptop, two legal pads, and a file folder. The DNI asked the security men to wait outside and had Stuart close the door behind them.
As the DNI handed his guests their drinks, he introduced them to his assistant, assured them that they could speak freely in front of him, and then asked everyone to sit down.
The den was tastefully decorated with hunting prints and wood paneling. There were brown leather couches with plaid accent pillows, two green club chairs, skirted end tables, a brass coffee table, and a large wooden desk.
Accepting a pad and pen from his assistant, the DNI took his seat and stated, “Stu needs to be home in time to watch the Dog Whisperer, so let’s discuss why we’re here.”
General George Johnson had served in the United States Army with considerable distinction. His outstanding career had begun in Vietnam, where he had received multiple commendations for bravery and gallantry. He went on to lead the First Infantry Division through several conflicts, and was transferred to head the Army’s Intelligence Support Activity. His pragmatic understanding of not only warfare and tactics, but also espionage and diplomatic relations, eventually secured him a spot on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, where he helped advise the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Council, and the President on all matters military. Based on his performance there, he was chosen to run the National Security Agency, before being tapped for his current position as Director of National Intelligence.