by Lisa Hughey
So here we were at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.
Jordan went in first and purchased his ticket for the show on the Cosmos in the Albert Einstein Planetarium.
After he entered, I waited five minutes, watching the doors, watching for any surveillance.
I hunched my shoulders, carrying a giant handbag with all of my belongings tucked inside.
No weapons, as they frowned on that sort of thing at the Smithsonian. The museum was predictably busy, although not as packed as a Spring Break day.
I’d hoped by picking a tourist destination we’d avoid security details looking for glory.
These guards weren’t focused on finding a fugitive from justice. What sort of person on the Most Wanted list would take time off to check out the Apollo 11 memorabilia?
At least that was my theory.
After five minutes passed, I’d seen no one suspicious. I also hadn’t seen my boss arrive.
I got in line, shuffling my feet as I progressed toward the entrance. At the door, I grabbed a brochure and sat on a bench near the planetarium and pretended to read, but the big glasses perched on my nose made the print blurry.
Watching the crowd, I studied the people, looking for anyone who was paying more attention to the people than the exhibits.
The crowd was boisterous. Children running and screaming with delight. Dads and grandfathers staring in wonder at the older airplanes suspended from the ceiling. The shiny hull of the space shuttle jutted up to the second story. The chatter of several different languages swirled around me.
I let my eyes go unfocused and centered into the Zen of waiting, listening without a specific target, letting my ear pick up words or phrases that caught my attention.
“...ai faim...let the baby touch...Heinrich, stop running...Jesus, it’s hot in here...remember watching on the television....”
Nothing jumped out at me.
Jordan waited in line, hands clasped in front, shoulders back, as he occasionally stared at the plane suspended near his position.
He didn’t fidget or look around or glance at his watch, as if waiting for someone. He was in character, completely absorbed, and didn’t break.
The other people waiting were hanging over the railing pointing to the various objects.
Out of the periphery of my vision, I noted someone rush up to the end of the line, polished Cordovan wing tips clicking on the floor, tan raincoat flying out behind them. Carefully I slouched against the wall, while my heart pounded in my chest so hard I thought it would bust right out of my ribs and bounce across the floor.
Carson Black, Director of Field Operations for the NSA, waited to hand in his ticket. This was not good news. Carson wasn't my CIA contact.
The belt loops loosely tied in back left the coat hanging perpetually open, and showed only glimpses of his perfectly pressed gabardine suit. His dark bald head gleamed under the heavy industrial lights hanging from the ceiling.
The unnatural florescent highlighted the sheen on the top of his head, as if he’d run to get there in time. True we hadn’t given him a big window. Except he shouldn’t have been at the other end of that phone line.
As I pretended to study my brochure, I ignored the funny twist in my stomach. Not morning sickness. But the little lump of affection and stress all rolled into one.
For all intents, Carson had been a surrogate father to me. I didn’t know how he’d react to my current change in status. I didn’t have so many people in my life that I could afford to lose one.
And I had to be suspicious.
My boss wasn’t here, but Carson was?
Why and how would Carson have access to my contact information? What was he doing here?
If he had backup coming or if he had a wire, he didn’t show it. That kind of relaxed body language took years to cultivate. He had no little tells to indicate a stiffness or itch from the tape. No hitch in his step. No roll in his shoulder.
Oddly enough, he’d been the one to steady me after my grandparents’ death. He’d taken me under his wing, so to speak, and even had me over to his home for Easter in what had become a tradition.
He’d counseled me, mentored me, given me advice on an investment advisor, and generally been a sounding board. He’d birthed my entrance into the espionage world. Could he be here now to end it?
I hadn’t seen him much recently. Since I’d taken up with Jordan, really.
Carson had a wife. He seemed to make their relationship work with his job, but I didn’t want to know if he thought my relationship with Jordan was a bad idea.
So, I’d begged off the last time he’d called to get together for a drink.
I continued to observe the area around me. No one had taken undue interest in either Carson or Jordan.
I couldn’t take the chance that somehow Carson had identified Jordan. Couldn’t leave Jordan without a defense. The plan had been for Jordan to observe from inside the auditorium and watch for my contact to see what he would do. But I was changing the plan.
With one minute left to enter the auditorium, I shuffled up to the ticket taker, clutched a wadded up tissue in my right hand, and smiled at the rotund lady taking the computer-generated, time-stamped ticket.
I ambled into the auditorium, took a moment to orient myself and find both Jordan and Carson.
The circular room had a pit in the center where the images of the 360 degree film would be projected onto the domed ceiling.
The lights were, thankfully, already low.
We’d agreed I would wait in the lobby. Screw that. I wanted to be close. For backup and observation. I couldn’t protect Jordan from the lobby.
The theater was about three quarters full.
I wandered into the room to find a seat in the back row, right by the exit.
I eased down slowly, wiggled the amplification device into my ear, then rolled my thumb over the little wheel to turn the device on. The ear bud fitted uncomfortably into my left ear, but hopefully the device was unobtrusive. I plopped the giant purse on my lap and dialed up the sound.
The background noise from the other occupants blasted in my ear as a woman in front of me let out a monster sneeze. Jeez, it’s a wonder she hadn’t blown herself halfway to Baltimore with that one.
A little kid halfway down the other side kicked at the row of seats in front of him until I wanted to scream. The lady sneezed again.
I surreptitiously quartered the circular room searching for both Carson and Jordan. I found Jordan immediately, his broad shoulders easily identified even in the dim light.
And then I found Carson.
My heart stopped.
They were sitting together. And it was clear they knew each other.
I must have jerked, because for a split second, Jordan’s attention was focused on me. His body stiffened and his mouth tightened as recognition dawned.
He’d made me.
Now the question was...had Carson?
Even more important. Had I been set up?
THIRTY
It was hard to say who was more surprised...him or Carson.
Jordan had seen Carson as soon as he walked in, of course. The last time Jordan had seen this man, they’d been working clean up on the shooting of Susan Chen’s associate.
Carson made a circuit of the room before settling in next to Jordan.
Carson said softly, “I’m assuming this is not a coincidence.”
“You wired?” Jordan asked Carson through clenched teeth, and hoped the answer was a solid no.
“Who had time?” Carson returned.
That wasn’t a no.
If Carson had brought any backup, Staci had placed herself right in the line of apprehension.
Since he’d spotted her he’d studiously avoided looking at her. Dammit. This wasn’t what they had agreed on.
Didn’t she trust him at all?
And what was the deal? Carson Black worked for the NSA, not the CIA. He was Jamie Hunt’s boss. Not Staci’s. So what was he d
oing here?
He didn’t know Carson well enough to figure out if the guy was nervous. He seemed relaxed if a bit winded from getting here so quickly. Clearly Carson had come to meet with Staci. Maybe they could get some information out of him.
“Let’s make this quick.” Jordan surreptitiously activated the record button on his cell phone. “Can you help?”
“After you turn off that device.” Carson crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat as if getting situated before the movie short began.
Jordan nodded once and flicked the button off. It had been worth a try. He consciously slowed his heart rate, concentrating on the flow and ebb of the blood through the ventricles.
He was more used to covert stakeouts than up close and personal meetings but he had to get his head back in this game. This guy was a master of espionage.
“You see the news?” Jordan asked as music piped into the room.
“Ah, yes.” Carson rubbed a finger along the bridge of his nose. “Nasty business.”
Jordan knew he had to be careful what he said. Just in case. “Why was that information released?”
“I’m as much in the dark as...you,” Carson responded. “I tried to do some checking, but suddenly that file is extremely high clearance.”
“Is it possible they don’t realize what they’ve unleashed?”
“Probable.” Carson relaxed back into the plush seat, one leg crossed over the other. “This has all the earmarks of a CF.”
“Yeah.”
Jordan wasn’t sure how to ask the next question without revealing he had more knowledge than he should.
“Could this have anything to do with a certain file?”
“I don’t know of any file that would be relevant,” Carson answered calmly.
That was a lie, and Jordan knew it. “Let me refresh, a numerical file.”
“What do you know about that?”
Shit. He’d hit a nerve. He could feel it.
Maybe Staci was right. Maybe her troubles did stem from her investigation into the mysterious Department 5491.
The music crescendoed to a climax and the theater went completely dark.
Jordan waited until the soundtrack began again before he answered slowly. “It exists.”
“It should be irrelevant.”
“You’re sure?”
Even with peripheral vision, Jordan could see the pulse in Carson’s neck pick up. “I don’t see why or how.” But his voice was faint and lacking conviction.
“Since she was accumulating data...perhaps someone wasn’t happy with the contents.”
“That’s something I shall have to explore.” Carson pursed his mouth, lips tightening as if he’d swallowed a sour grape.
He reached into his jacket pocket, the movement had Jordan tensing. All Carson did was pull out a roll of antacids. With a buffed, manicured finger he thumbed one disc into his palm. In an almost delicate move, he slid the antacid onto his tongue and closed his eyes for one brief second.
“I think it’s the key to finding why all of this is happening.”
Carson blanched. “It’s a dead issue.”
The lights from a meteorite exploding on the ceiling showered over Carson’s face.
Jordan hesitated unsure about broaching this next subject. He was not even sure there was any connection to Staci, but unable to shake the possibility they were missing something.
“Was there a report filed regarding the events from last week?” He knew Carson would get the reference to the shooting at the Presidential Suites and the capture of Susan Chen. Carson had been there.
“Of course.”
“Would it have been released to members of the Senate?”
“Most definitely not.” Carson pretended to watch the stars float across the ‘sky’. “Why?”
“Someone attempted to question me about those events, and he referenced a report.”
Carson raised one brow. “Who?”
Rather than say Senator Jordan's name or the state of Virginia aloud, he gave the nickname. “Old Dominion.”
“He is known for being a hardliner but also a friend to our,” the espionage, “community.” Carson lolled his head back against the seat and whispered, “I’ll check into how he got access.”
“How come you placed the ad?”
“I’ve been...concerned.”
“How did you know what to say?”
“Because I’m the one who set up the process years ago.”
Jordan didn’t say anything but glanced around. They’d been together too long. They needed to get the hell out of here.
“There’s a lot of nasty refuse coming her way,” Carson said. “Why not just get out?”
“I protect what’s mine.” Jordan decided to go for broke. She’d only reluctantly agreed to stay and with the slightest incentive, she’d be gone. “And she’s mine.”
“She’s very lucky,” Carson commented softly.
I’m the lucky one.
“Is she...okay?”
Jordan would bet Carson had seen the report from the prison as well. “As well as can be expected.”
Carson’s face tightened. “Let her know I’m available to help in any way I can.”
“You mean that?” Jordan clearly heard the sincerity in Carson’s voice. There had also been an element of affection and tenderness which surprised him.
“Of course,” Carson replied.
“Thanks,” Jordan said.
“Be careful. And watch your back.” Carson clapped him on the shoulder. His gaze shot briefly to Staci and then back to Jordan. “Both of them.”
Without another word, he was gone.
***
They made it back to the car without incident. Jordan hadn’t bothered to talk on the way there. He was too worried that if he opened his mouth, he’d start shouting.
“How do you know Carson?” she asked after she slid into the front seat of the car.
When she ripped the stomach prosthetic from around her waist and pressed to deflate the air, he caught a tantalizing glimpse of the soft skin of her stomach.
Not the right time. He took a deep breath and prepared to be calm and reasonable. “Carson? I met him when I helped rescue John Wishbone and Bella Holden.”
“Carson Black, Director of Field Operations for the NSA was on an op with you. Right,” she snapped, or tried to, her words coming out garbled. She spit out the cotton.
“The NSA doesn’t have Field Ops.” His denial was automatic.
She snorted. “Yes they do.”
He sat thinking about that for a minute. “Okay. My turn.”
She sat stubbornly in the passenger seat, arms crossed over her chest mutinously. A small piece of cotton fuzz was trapped on the curve of her chin.
“You know Carson.”
“Obviously.”
“So when you saw him, why the hell didn’t you get out of the museum?” Jordan gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “What if he’d been there to bring you in?”
“If I left, I certainly wouldn’t have seen you two getting all friendly.”
They spoke at the same time.
“I was trying to get information to protect you.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
Emotions swirled around the interior of the car, turning the air heavy with their pent up aggression and frustration.
Without volition, Jordan reached out to brush the piece of cotton from her face, rubbing his thumb tenderly along her mouth to clear the final wisp. “My heart stopped when I saw you.”
“It was unexpected, seeing him.” She relented, for a moment turning her cheek into his palm. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine.”
Staci sighed. “It was a waste of time.”
“Maybe not. He was adamant that 5491 had nothing to do with your problems.”
A little too adamant?
They were both silent.
Finally, she said,
“I think we should talk to Katerina Wolfe.”
“Who?”
"She's another person on the 5491 list."
"Why would you want to get anywhere near her?"
“The idea’s been brewing in the back of my mind.”
He was more surprised than if she’d said she was hoping for twins.
“Both Zeke and Jamie are out of town. But Wolfe lives in the area.”
He blinked once, slowly then his eyebrow rose. “And you don’t think she’ll turn you in?”
“Think about it. Barb said we should talk to the other people who had the drug. Katerina is connected.” Staci argued. “She’s part of 5491.”
Jordan finished. “She also works for the Defense Intelligence Agency. Like Zeke, she’s probably still on leave which means she has a vested interest in figuring this out.”
The more he considered the idea, he could see the merit. But he had to remind her. “Or she could get back in their good graces by turning you in.”
“So we’re careful.”
He had conditions to be met before he’d agree. “I cover your back and listen in.”
“Deal.”
Jordan continued, “If I sense any kind of trap or set up, we abort.”
“Fine.”
“If she’s being followed, we abort.”
“Fine.”
THIRTY-ONE
October 19
12:00 noon
International Spy Museum, Washington D.C.
What kind of espionage agent arranges a meeting in the Spy Museum? Located on F Street, the museum was either a brilliant spot or a disaster waiting to happen.
Rather than take the elevator to the beginning tour room, we slipped passed the exhibit exit door and made our way through the museum backwards. We strolled up the corrugated steel flooring ramp, ignoring the lighted glass cases featuring spy memorabilia, until we arrived at the agreed upon meeting room which chronicled the escapades of Mata Hari, Harriet Tubman, and others, The Sisterhood of Spies.
The irony did not escape me.
Katerina Wolfe had taken the bait nicely. We'd agreed to meet in twenty minutes, which gave us just enough time to get here. Luckily we’d been able to buy tickets for the right time.
For this meeting I felt I needed to be recognizable. I had combed out most of the gray and hoped the average tourist wouldn’t take notice of my face or recognize me, assuming they even watched television on vacation.
