“Shit. What happened?”
Archer struck a few keys and logged off the system. “Sally got a little tired.”
DeSantos’s jaw was clenched. “You think someone was monitoring us?”
“It’s the CIA, Hector. Someone’s monitoring everything.”
“We should have printed the file.”
Archer nodded. “Next time I will.”
“If we can get into the database next time, and if the file hasn’t been purged by then.”
They both sat there for a moment staring at the blank monitors.
Finally, Archer leaned back in his chair, pulled a piece of Juicy Fruit from his pocket, and popped it in his mouth. “So what does all this mean?”
“It means that we don’t know shit about our assignment.” DeSantos slammed the manila folder closed. “It means that we’re purposely being kept in the dark. By the same people who gave us this file.”
“Knox gave it to us.”
DeSantos reclined in his chair and rocked it gently back and forth on its spring. Finally he said, “Then I think we need to get more information from Knox before we put our asses on the line.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Archer said, lifting the telephone handset.
DeSantos pushed the folder aside and shook his head. “I can see it now. This assignment is gonna be totally FUBAR.”
Fucked up beyond all recognition.
16
Michael Chambers sat down at the edge of the cold pavement and tried to catch his breath. Every muscle ached, his heart was pounding, and he was beyond hungry. He felt as if he’d just finished a triathlon.
He had awoken at sunrise, as the one-hour nap he had planned to take had become a twelve-hour slumber. He decided it was best to continue on without the stolen Tracker, so he removed the license plates, shoved them in the glove box, then sent the empty SUV careening over the embankment.
He popped another two Excedrins — realizing that he needed more sustenance than just pain pills — and started hiking along the sharply sloped road. After an hour’s walk, he sat down to allow his body a short rest. Amidst the tall pine trees on both sides of the roadway — the hill extended above the road as well as below it — he saw a car struggling up the steep incline.
Chambers stood up and raised his arms above his head, waving rapidly. But as the car approached, he could tell it was a dark sedan, much like the ones he had seen pass him last night on the way to the gas station. He turned and looked up the roadway in the opposite direction, hoping to see another car, another way out. But there was none.
As four men in suits got out of the car, Chambers backed away from them, wishing he could disappear into thin air. But there was nothing he could do.
There was nowhere left to run.
Michael Chambers sat in the backseat of a dark blue Crown Victoria sandwiched between the two men who had corralled him on the roadway. In the front, another two men in navy suits sat ramrod straight, facing the front windshield.
All four were clean-cut, Chambers noticed, and they were all in their late thirties or forties, graying slightly at the temples. He had sat there for fifteen minutes, waiting for one of them to talk. But as the ride wore on and they remained silent, he began to realize that something was not right.
“Look,” Chambers said, “am I under arrest?” None of the men answered him. “You’ve got the credit card back. It was an honest mistake.” He looked at the two human bookends on either side of him. “If you guys aren’t mall security, then who are you?”
Finally, a reaction — the driver’s eyes found the rearview mirror, glanced at the man to Chambers’s right, and squinted, as if he was confused about something. Chambers felt like verbally echoing that sentiment when suddenly the driver spoke.
“You don’t have to keep up the front with us. We know who you are, and I can assure you we’ve taken steps to look after your safety.”
“My safety—” Chambers said as the car pulled up to a security booth outside a building somewhere in the metropolitan area of Washington, D.C. The guard, whose uniform said FBI POLICE, took a piece of paper and a small leather wallet from the driver. They exchanged a few words, and a moment later the large red blockade marked with the word STOP began to lower into the roadway. They drove over it and proceeded down the ramp into the underground parking garage.
Chambers was taken up two different elevators, down an impressively paneled corridor, and into a room that overlooked the Potomac. It was a spectacular view, one that captured his attention as he gazed out over the immaculate white limestone and granite buildings that sat like Monopoly pieces on a playing board. Only in this case the game was politics — and power, not real estate, was the coveted commodity.
Standing there lost in the beauty of the city, Chambers suddenly noticed how quiet it was in the room. The men had left him alone. He glanced to his right, where a large, sleek black metal desk stood, behind which official-looking certificates with government seals were mounted. He read “Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation” on one, and—
“Agent Payne.” A trim, tanned man with a full head of immaculately combed gray hair stood in the doorway, his face as hard and cold as the metal desk that stood across the room.
Chambers hesitated. “Excuse me?”
“You were a very difficult person to find.” The man held out his hand. “Welcome back.”
Chambers hesitantly accepted the offer and shook. “Welcome back? Have I been here before?”
His host looked confused. As he studied Chambers’ face, the door opened again, and two men dressed in dark suits stepped in. “I don’t think these men need an introduction, do they?”
Chambers looked at them and slowly extended his hand. “How do you do?”
One of the men took Chambers' hand and shook. “You can drop the cover now, Harper.”
Chambers glanced at the other man, who was looking him over with a discerning eye.
“How’ve you been?” the first man asked.
“Do I know you?”
The suited men looked over at the gray-haired man, who shrugged one of his shoulders.
“Obviously,” Chambers said, “I know you people. But I had a car accident and it’s kind of… clouded my mind. Not only don’t I recognize you, but I don’t even know who I am myself. You said my name was Harper? Is that my first or last name?”
The two men shared an uneasy glance.
“Your name is Harper Payne,” the tall man with black, slicked-back hair said. “I’m Special Agent Jonathan Waller, and this is Special Agent Scott Haviland.” With a nod of his head, Waller indicated his shorter, thicker-built colleague. “We’re with the FBI.”
“And I’m FBI Director Douglas Knox,” the gray-haired man said as he settled into his chair behind the large desk. He looked at Waller. “Why don’t you take Agent Payne to Admin One.”
“Maybe we should get him over to the naval hospital, get him looked at.”
“Debrief first,” Knox said, holding up an index finger. “Assess the situation. Then you can set him up for a full physical.”
“I’ll get the Scarponi file, meet you there,” Haviland said.
Waller nodded and led Chambers out of the room.
Administration One did not have a view of the Potomac. In fact, it did not have a view of anything: this ultramodern, utilitarian room had recessed lighting, state-of-the-art computerized projection equipment, and blue, high-backed ergonomic chairs lined up around an oval, polished wood conference table.
Upon entering the room, Waller motioned for Payne to sit. As he settled into the deep chair, the pain in his thigh caught him off guard. He pulled out the bottle of Excedrin and popped another tablet in his mouth. “Since you know who I am, maybe you can tell me how I ended up with a bullet in my leg.”