It struck him that they had not stopped at a checkpoint during the drive. While Lars had been focused on the iPad, he would have noticed that disruption. Given the absence of a flag on the hood or a windshield sticker, this suggested that they were not on the grounds of Camp Peary.
Lars was still processing the destination twist as the driver came around to open his door. After closing it behind him, the driver handed Lars his phone, still sealed in the thick Mylar bag. “Go straight to room 20. The door will be unlocked. Don’t dawdle. Don’t attract attention.”
Lars accepted the phone and retained the tablet. “Thank you.”
The hotel looked normal enough. The outside door didn’t appear to be reinforced. No cameras or guards were evident. The receptionist, a fit-looking female in her late twenties, appeared preoccupied with her computer as he entered. Lars took the stairs rather than the elevator, as that choice didn’t require him to wait around in her field of view. He was thinking.
Room 20 was a corner unit at the far end of the hall. Lars paused outside to take a deep breath and roll his shoulders. With a You can do this! he pushed open the door.
Tom Bronco sat behind a laptop on the window side of a desk, which he had rearranged so that Lars could sit across from him. To Tom’s right, an aluminum briefcase lay on the desk.
Lars immediately wondered what was inside. “I didn’t know Uncle Sam sprang for town cars, but I certainly appreciate the gesture.”
“As you’ll see if we get that far, Uncle Sam’s usual rules don’t apply to us.” Tom’s tone was friendly but businesslike. “Please, have a seat.”
Lars sat. “Thank you. I’m a bit surprised to be here. Rather than The Farm, I mean.”
Tom held out a hand. “I’ll take two apples, please.”
Lars spent a second processing the odd request, then produced the iPad and iPhone.
Tom set the phone aside, then unlocked the tablet with his thumb. He began swiping screens and scanning answers.
Lars tried to read his reaction, but failed. Tom might as well have been a machine.
After half a minute with the iPad, Tom hit the power button. He set the tablet down and opened the briefcase.
Lars wanted to strain his neck to see inside but decided that would be bad form.
“Please lift up your shirt.”
Lars hadn’t known how to dress for the CIA, so he’d worn his conservative suit, a navy-blue Hugo Boss with a lot of miles on it, and a plain white shirt, no tie, accessorized with polished black leather lace-ups and a matching belt. He had a very limited wardrobe, but it was all quality stuff. “Pardon?”
Tom pulled a black strap from the briefcase. It was attached to a curly cord. “Or unbutton it, your choice.”
As he untucked and unbuttoned, Lars knew what would come next. A polygraph.
9
The Sinker
THE POLYGRAPH PROVED to be less stressful and antagonistic than Lars had anticipated. It was more like a methodical mining of his past than a criminal interrogation, with the focus on friends and family. Since he had none of the latter and few of the former, it took only a couple of hours.
After that, they spent ten minutes talking compensation. The salary wouldn’t make him rich, but it was considerably better than Lars was expecting, and the benefits were excellent.
“You ready for a steak and a beer?” Tom asked, shutting and locking the briefcase—with the two apples inside.
“Sure.” Lars wanted to ask how he had done on the test but resolved to play it cool. He had no reason to be concerned, and he didn’t want to give the impression that he was. Plus, he figured that Tom wouldn’t have bothered discussing the pay package if an obvious problem were present.
Tom rose and motioned toward the door. “There’s a good place just across the street.”
As they stepped onto the asphalt, Tom used a remote to pop the trunk of a rented Mercedes, further dispelling Lars’s impressions of government service. Tom locked the aluminum briefcase inside before they continued across the parking lot.
“You don’t live around here?” Lars asked, nodding toward the rental.
“I travel a lot.”
Lars noted the evasive answer. Tom had no personal belongings visible in the hotel room, and the bathroom accoutrements had appeared untouched when Lars made use of the facilities.
“Table for Bronco,” Tom told the hostess.
The perky coed inside the entrance of Berret’s Taphouse Grill checked her log. “You reserved the two-top in the corner of the bar. Right this way.”
Berret’s had a terra cotta tiled floor and draped white valances decorating the ceiling. Its brick walls were adorned with original paintings by local artists—Lars assumed, spotting price tags—and empty wine glasses accompanied every table setting.
The hostess led them through the main room to one in the back. It featured an old oak bar running the length of the inside wall and offered an atmosphere far more lively and casual than that in the main dining room.
Tom sat with his back to the corner, leaving Lars facing him and nothing else. “This place is known for its seafood, but I tend to order the filet with Brie. It’s worth the sin.”
Lars pushed his menu aside. When a patron was paying, he would normally go with whatever fish the restaurant served whole, but he was here to seal the deal, not satisfy his stomach. And if this went well, he wouldn’t need to remain so watchful of his weight. “Works for me.”
A waitress with red hair, a deep dimple, and “Carla” on her name tag appeared. Tom ordered drinks without consulting Lars or the microbrewery menu.
“Two pints of Fearless coming right up,” Carla replied.
Once she moved on, Tom released the tension. “The tests you’ve taken today were all scored live. You did well. Are you still interested in serving your country?”
Lars felt the tight spot between his shoulder blades release as he gave himself a mental high-five. “I find the general idea very interesting, but of course it’s the specifics that matter.”
Tom’s eyes twinkled. “When it comes to working for Uncle Sam, it doesn’t get any better than this. My job is better than being president.” Tom leaned in and spoke just loud enough for Lars to hear. “I recruit for a division of the Special Operations Group that’s formally known as FIFO.”
“Like the soccer organization?”
“That’s FIFA. Like the accounting term.”
Lars had been an economics major, but it had been a decade since his accounting experience ventured beyond balancing his checkbook. Still, the term was readily recalled. “First In, First Out.”
“Exactly. The name almost says it all.”
“Almost?”
“Our nickname is the ‘Dry Cleaners.’ It’s a direct contrast with our brother group, the Wet Wipes. The operative difference being that we solve problems with brains, whereas they solve problems—”
“With blood.” Lars got the picture, and he liked it.
His own appearance resembled the traditional depiction of Jesus, with long brown hair, bright brown soulful eyes, and one of those trendy barely beards. He had always appreciated the association with the Savior and would hate to give it up, even if only in his own mind, because of a clashing career choice.
The server reappeared with a frosty mug in each hand. “Two Fearless beers.”
“We’re going to go with large filets,” Tom said with the satisfaction of a man on an unconstrained expense account. “Medium-rare for mine. And a Caesar salad to start.”