5
Dawn broke through the black sky without warmth or drama. Gray light covered the buildings and flooded the deserted streets of northwest Washington.
Rita Macklin felt cold at the wheel of the ancient gray Chevrolet and she flicked the heater switch. The mechanism whirred into noisy, reluctant life and after a moment, heat rose from the vents.
Too damned cold, she thought, but in a moment, she felt too warm and she turned the heater off. She was just tired, she decided.
She crossed the District line on Wisconsin Avenue and when she reached Old Georgetown Road, turned left and followed the winding highway to the apartment complex she lived in near the old naval hospital. She parked in her assigned stall under the apartment building and took the elevator to her one-bedroom apartment on the sixth floor. The sun was just above the line of trees in back of the building when she turned the double lock on her door.
Because she was tired, she was not cautious.
She pushed the door open.
Something was wrong. She felt it first, then saw it.
Instinctively, she backed out the door, pulling it shut behind her.
And then she felt the pressure against her back and she was being forced suddenly, violently, into the apartment, slammed against the far wall. She opened her mouth to cry out when one of them put his hand over her face.
She hadn’t seen him. The hand smothered her. She bit down and tasted his flesh while she dug an elbow in his ribs.
“Fucking cunt.”
The second one clipped her then, very hard, across her delicate face, with a closed fist. There wasn’t any contest.
She went down to her knees, felt sick for a moment, as though she knew she would throw up. And then the feeling passed, replaced by a wrenching rage. She grabbed for a leg, there were legs all around her, but they moved too fast. One of them kicked her hard, in the side, and this time she was sick. The pain was white as she vomited on the carpet.
No, no, goddam it, she thought.
But she saw the stain of her vomit on the rug.
Goddam them. She pushed herself against the floor, trying to get up.
And then one of them grabbed her from behind and threw her down on the couch.
The room was torn up. Every drawer had been opened. Every book was pulled out of the elaborate bookcase she had constructed from plans in a newspaper.
Every goddam book, she thought. She wanted to cry but the feeling merged back into the tearing rage inside her.
Now the first of them sat down on the coffee table in front of her. He stared at her with a flat face, with flat eyes that might have been blind. It was the one who had clipped her in the face and then kicked her.
He stared at her for a moment.
She wiped her hand across her mouth. Goddam them, she thought again.
“Get out of here.”
The one with the flat face said, “Not yet. Not just yet.”
“You bastards, you dirty bastards.”
“Not just yet,” he said again, as though she had interrupted him. After another long moment, he dropped his gaze and reached into his pocket.
The man in gray sitting on the coffee table held up a card at eye level in front of Rita. Rita, terrified, was holding her sides now, her arms folded in front of her.
The card bore a color photograph of the man and the outline of the Great Seal of the United States and other words. The name of the card was Smith. Other words said: National Security Agency.
“Get out of here,” she said slowly, in a voice choked with anger.
“She bit my hand, the fucking cunt.”
“Shut up, George.”
“I could get an infection.”
“Shut up, George,” the man said calmly, as though he had said the same words often in the past. He wore a gray suit with a white-on-white shirt and a collar pin and a striped tie that might have meant he was a Yale man.
“This is against the law, in case you didn’t know that.”
“Is it?”
“Morons.”
“Please look at this.”
Another piece of paper held at eye level. She turned away. Then he struck her once sharply across the face, stinging her eyes with tears.
“Please look at this,” he said with the same flat voice.
Rita stared through her tears. It was a search warrant but she had never seen one before. It bore the signature of a federal district judge but she could not make out the name.
“What is this?” asked the gray man. “I can’t hear you.”
“A search warrant.”
“That’s right, Miss Macklin. For these premises. In the course of our legal search of these premises, you attempted to stop us from performing our legal duties and you injured a special agent. You were forcibly restrained when no other method was available to restore order.”
“I thought the CIA wasn’t supposed to spy on civilians anymore.”
“This is a case of national security and I have already identified myself as a field operative of the National Security Agency.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Do you want me to hit her?” It was the second agent, the one in the brown suit named George.
“I don’t want you to do anything, George. Just shut up, please.”
“Maybe I could restrain her again,” said George.
“Shut up, George.”
“I want to talk to a lawyer.”
“Miss Macklin, please shut up, too.” He stared at her until he was satisfied that she had decided not to speak. “We want the photograph.”
“What photograph?”
He struck her then, as he had before, hard across her cheek. Again, her eyes were stung with tears. She hadn’t seen his hand move at all.
“The photograph that you took of a man outside the Watergate Hotel last night.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“This is tedious, Miss Macklin. We want the photograph.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’ve been working on this all night.”
“Poor baby.”
“We want the film of the photograph you took.”
“Of Father Tunney, right?”
She smiled. Her eyes were still wet, she felt the sting of his slap across her cheek, her ribs hurt, but in that moment, she felt much better.
“Are you aware of Section C, paragraph forty-nine of the United States Code, volume seven, number one seven eight four?”
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me about it.”
The gray man went on, seemingly unperturbed. “It deals with acts of sabotage against governmental security procedures, Miss Macklin. I won’t go into details but the penalties upon conviction include ten years in prison and a fine up to a quarter of a million dollars.”
“I don’t have that much.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“I’m serious. I don’t even have a savings account.”
“Do you want to give me the film? And the tape recording?”
“Are you aware of the part of the U.S. Code that quotes the First Amendment?” she said.
“Where’s the photograph?”
“What time is it?”
The gray man appeared startled. “Why?”
“Because if it’s seven o’clock, you can see the photographs for yourself on Channel Four. On the Today show on NBC.”
The gray man stared sadly at her, as though she had disappointed him.
“And the sounds,” said Rita Macklin, tears stopped, voice rising. “Sounds of a poor defenseless girl reporter getting beat up by two Button Ears in the Watergate when she tried to talk to Father Tunney, whom they were holding against his will.”