At first, he seemed as surprised as I was, his eyes widening and his body stiffening, and then he whirled around as I had and stared down the empty walkway. He looked back at me, his eyes suspicious.
“Whaddya lookin’ at?” His voice was slurred and thick.
“You,” I admitted.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“I don’t know. What’re you doing here?”
His mouth set in an angry line. “You sayin’ I can’t be here?”
“Not necessarily.”
He considered that, found it acceptable, and loosened his stance, looking almost athletic in the process. He wasn’t old-at most in his mid-thirties-and his clothes, while far from city wear, were more rough than ragged.
He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “You do me a favor?”
He took a couple of paces toward me, which I didn’t like. Only half consciously, I moved my jacket before me, holding it loosely in both hands.
“I need some money,” he continued. “I gotta get enough for bus fare. You give me something?”
I stepped back as he drew nearer, the hairs on my neck tingling. “Isn’t this a pretty strange place to be looking for bus fare?”
His eyes narrowed, and his right hand dipped to his side. There was a metallic click and a flash of reflected light. I surprised him by leaping forward, the jacket held taut between my fists. He came up with the knife, startled by my sudden proximity, and I caught the blade in the folds of the coat, twisting it away and to one side. Inches from his face now, enveloped in his breath, I saw his mouth open in pain as he let out a shout. I then brought my knee up between his legs with all my strength.
The results were mixed. On TV that would’ve been the end of it. In fact, as he crumpled, he grabbed me around the neck with his free arm, rolled with his hips, and sent me staggering toward the nearest soldier. I tripped over the low curb separating the walkway from the terracing and stumbled with a dull clang into the statue, twisting around to keep my eyes on my assailant.
I’d dropped my coat in the process, the knife still within it, and it now lay between us on the ground. Doubled over, one hand clutching his groin, he dove for it the same time I did, just as a clear shout rang out in the night.
“Police. Stop where you are.”
I got to the jacket first, but only because my opponent pulled up at the last second, rabbit-punching me in the neck instead of fighting for the knife. As I collapsed onto the cement, the flat switchblade hard against my chest, I saw him run off into the darkness toward Independence Avenue.
Heavy footsteps ran up behind me. “Don’t move.”
I twisted around to look up at a young patrolman, standing over me with a gun in his hand. “I’m the victim.”
He looked at me nervously and then glanced up to where the other man had vanished.
“I’m also a cop,” I continued, very slowly reaching for my back pocket. “I’m going for my badge.”
I extracted the worn leather folder and flipped it open.
The patrolman slowly lowered his gun, his disappointment complete. “Shit.”
The DC police were sympathetic and helpful, giving me aspirin and an ice pack for my neck. They listened patiently to my account, took a few notes, and when they were done, they even drove me to my Arlington motel. But I wasn’t asked to look through any mug books, or to give a detailed description to an artist, and when the switchblade was recovered, I noticed no effort being made to preserve any fingerprints. What I’d suffered, I was told, was a typical attempted mugging-one of the mandatory accessories of any large city. I was wished a pleasant visit, given a generalized apology for having witnessed the back end of the welcome wagon, and left to my own devices.
That night, however, as I lay watching the passing car lights play across my ceiling, I found myself unable to be as casually dismissive. While not a city dweller, I still knew the makeup of the average mugger. The man I’d wrestled with had not been such a creature. I’d sensed duplicity and purpose in his eyes, beyond the presence of any cash in my wallet.
As the hours slipped by, the more I replayed what had happened, the more I believed our meeting to have been no simple random act.
Chapter 5
The entrance to the CIA is disarmingly placid. A large sign off of Virginia Route 123 announces its presence, the initial access road is empty, treelined and free of any obvious security, and when the first man-made obstacle is encountered, it consists solely of a kiosk equipped with a camera and a loudspeaker. I announced myself there, showed my badge to the camera as requested, and proceeded to a visitors’ center farther down the road. Only then, leaving my car to enter the small building, did I glimpse my final destination at the end of a woodsy corridor-gray, massive, and studded with antennae.
The security people behind the counter were polite and efficient, dressed in cheap uniform jackets decorated with identification tags listing numbers and letters only-no names. I was asked to fill out forms, to explain once more my purpose for being there, and was issued a parking pass and a visitor’s badge. A phone call was made to the main building, and I was given directions to the parking lot opposite “the old main entrance.”
The sun and the heat were back, making the surrounding forest shimmer in the haze of hot air bouncing off the parked cars and sticky asphalt. As I slammed my door in the VIP lot and squinted up at the monolith across from me, I was struck by its IBM-gothic harshness-all brutal, straight cement lines and jutting angles, punctuated by row upon row of blank, characterless windows.
To one side, in startling contrast, was a statue of Nathan Hale-the twenty-one-year-old Revolutionary spy caught on his first time out-standing with a rope around his neck under some shade trees. Either the guys behind that choice had seen patriotism and nobility where I also saw amateurism and failure, or someone with a wicked sense of humor had been given too much leash.
Through the wide bank of glass doors, I entered an enormous marble lobby, freezing cold and soaring high, buttoned in place by the CIA’s oversized seal, mounted like a religious icon into the floor before me. The reverent tone was picked up by a lone statue of founder William “Wild Bill” Donovan, a glassed-in honor book of CIA dead, and a wall-mounted excerpt from St. John’s famous gospel, “The truth shall make you free.” There was a certain majesty to all this self-esteem, along with a sense that perhaps too much was being made of it.
A small woman, her graying hair in a tight bun, stepped forward from a distant row of elaborate turnstiles to greet me. “Lieutenant Gunther?” she asked pleasantly, extending a hand. She didn’t introduce herself.
“You step in past the first barrier,” she explained, escorting me up to one of the turnstiles and entering what looked like a cow pen for humans, “and place your visitor’s badge into the slot,” whereupon the bar behind her rose to lock her in. “After the computer has processed the badge’s information,” she continued as the bar before her ducked out of the way, “you can proceed. But,” she smiled broadly, turning on her heel and holding up her identification, “don’t forget your badge.”
I followed suit indulgently, half wondering how much coded information I was sharing, and joined her on the other side.
She tapped my breast pocket. “Great. Just clip it there for the rest of your stay, and follow me.”
We climbed a flight of four steps, and turned left into a broad hallway.
“Impressive lobby,” I commented.
She laughed. “A little like a mausoleum, if you ask me. There’s a newer entrance that’s much friendlier. I can show it to you later, if you like.”