"Welcome back," Martinez said easily. "I heard you were successful." Taft looked at the number readout on his phone. The readout was scrambled, indicating Martinez was calling from inside their office.
"I see you're hard at work. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?" Taft asked his partner.
"A little. Your decoy's out of China, his feet just went wet over international waters a few minutes ago. Other than that, I was doing an interesting research project that coincides with what you were working on. I'll explain it when you get here."
"Sounds good. You'll forgive my lack of excitement over the decoy, but of course I had no idea of the plan," Taft said as he placed the empty watering can back under the sink.
"Agent 24 was posing as a British archaeologist. The Chinese detained him for a while. We think it aided your escape. Of course he had no idea you were grabbing Choi, so he convinced them to release him without much difficulty."
The total number of NIA operatives was just over fifty. To avoid the use of names, they were often referred to by number. The agent who had posed as Leeds, was 24. Special Agent Taft was number 7. Lucky 7. Taft had been one of the first agents recruited, fresh out of the army, nearly ten years ago.
"Glad to hear that. I'll be sure to thank 24. Is Choi back with his family?" Taft asked, sitting down again in a kitchen chair.
"They're flying him west for a reunion as we speak. We have a high-security compound in Colorado where they'll live for the time being."
"What exactly makes Choi so important?"
"It has to do with advanced physics. Einstein stuff."
"I risked getting killed to kidnap a physicist that specializes in the works of a man who's been dead over forty years?"
"It's more involved than that. I'll explain it to you when you get here."
"Does it say anything in the report about Choi's shoulder?" Taft asked, growing wearier by the minute.
"They have the shoulder in a splint. The doctors say it will be fine in time. Forget about him for now — he's someone else's problem now," Martinez said. "The computer that controls your house called me last night, something with a blocked pipe. I was sending an agent over this morning when I received word you were due back." The security and physical systems of Taft's home were tied to a computer. If he is away on a mission, which is often, he transfers it to Martinez for monitoring.
"Don't bother. I already took care of it," said Taft.
"What time are you going to report in to the office?" Martinez asked. Taft glanced at his watch. It was just past nine in the morning.
"Let me get a few hours sleep. How about after lunch?"
"Fair enough," Martinez said.
"I'm glad you approve," Taft said as he hung the phone back on the cradle. Taft gathered his bags at the front of the house and carried them up the ornate stairway to the second floor. The house was built in 1814. Originally a stage stop, it survived the last 185 years in various incarnations. It had been a boardinghouse, a restaurant, even a store. Long boarded up and abandoned when Taft bought it, the restoration project had taken three years.
Over the years, brick had been laid against the logs that formed the original structure, so that now the exterior walls were several feet thick. The floors were constructed of heavy oak planking. When Taft ripped out old Sheetrock inside, he found ornately carved wooden trim along the walls, as well as an old stone fireplace. He cleaned and painted the woodwork. The fireplace, he found, worked just fine. The house measured around four thousand square feet and although the furnace, air conditioning, plumbing, and electricity were state-of-the-art, Taft made sure it retained the old look on the outside. Most people driving past never gave the house a second glance. He liked it that way.
Twenty yards to the north of the house was an old stable that he had converted into a garage. Taft even went so far as to have an artist paint the garage doors to make it appear that horses were in stalls inside. With two-hundred-year-old trees on the property and the Potomac River running alongside, the house was quiet and comfortable. It was the one place where Taft could always escape the pressures of his work.
In the bathroom of the master bedroom, he dumped the dirty clothes from his bags into the hamper. He also stripped off the clothes he was wearing and stuffed them on top of the pile. Standing naked, he peered at himself in the mirror inside the bathroom. The trip to China had cost him a few pounds, and that was not all bad. He had a propensity to gain and lose up to ten pounds in the course of a month, depending on his level of physical activity. He quickly grew bored with any one sport, and his closets and the storage area in the garage were littered with sporting equipment. Skis, tennis rackets, and a kayak shared space with golf clubs, running shoes, and a host of other toys he had purchased over the years. His latest kick was bicycling, a sport he had embraced, then grew bored with several years ago. This time, however, Taft added a twist. He had purchased a cargo cart that attached to the rear of his bicycle and loaded it with bricks to make workouts more effective.
He brushed his teeth; then he contemplated shaving, but decided it would be too much work. Instead, he walked into the bedroom and peeled back the comforter on his antique, king-size brass bed. Slipping naked between the cool cotton sheets, he flicked on a machine that made the sound of the ocean, then stared at the ceiling. In less than five minutes he was sound asleep.
Just before noon, and without the benefit of an alarm clock, Taft opened his eyes. Climbing from bed, he noticed his legs were still aching. The sprint across the border with Choi on his back had stressed his leg muscles and tendons more than he had realized. Now, on the second day, soreness was full-blown.
Reaching into his dresser drawer he removed underwear and socks. Pulling a pair of almost-new athletic shoes from his closet he placed them next to the chest at the foot of his bed. Selecting a white, cotton, button-down shirt and a pair of khaki pants from the closet, he hung them on hangars on the doorknob. Clothes laid out, he walked in the bathroom and climbed into the shower. He adjusted the water first from biting hot to wash to freezing cold to rinse.
After showering, Taft wiped the steam from the mirror and shaved, splashing Bay Rum on his cheeks when finished. Dressing in the clothes he had laid out, he tied the shoelaces of athletic shoes, then walked downstairs.
In the entryway he programmed the security system while calling Martinez on the cordless phone. "I'm leaving. Do you want me to pick you up anything for lunch?"
"Feel like going past Pepito's?"
"That's fine. You want the usual?"
"Oh yeah," Martinez said in anticipation.
"Be there in half an hour," Taft said and hung up the phone. After a quick call to Pepito's, the Mexican restaurant he favored, to place a takeout order, Taft locked the front door and walked across the yard to the garage. Entering through the side door, he switched on the overhead lights. Several original American muscle cars sat on the white epoxy-painted floor. Near the door sat the new V-10 Dodge Ramcharger Taft had purchased only a few months before. The rest of the garage was filled with nearly thirty motorcycles, the oldest being a 1921 BSA. Pushing the button to raise the garage door, Taft walked back outside and peered out at the sky. It looked clear. The only clouds visible were far to the south, over Prince Georges County, Maryland. It was a day made for a motorcycle ride.
Decision made, Taft walked toward a row of classics. His eyes came to rest on a 1971
Norton Commando Roadster, and he reached for its key in a lock box on the wall, slid it into the ignition, and twisted. The Norton started immediately, settling into a purr. He walked to a bench and picked up his white Bell helmet, then rolled the motorcycle from the line. At the door he plucked a battered leather jacket off a hook on the wall and zipped it halfway up. As he passed the garage door, Taft pushed a remote control in the jacket's pocket to lower the door behind him. Driving slowly up his blacktop driveway, he listened carefully to the engine. The Norton had recently been missing, and Taft spent most of one afternoon several weeks ago balancing the carburetors. What he had done seemed to be working, as the motorcycle accelerated smoothly.