The dog stared stupidly at him, then trotted back, his leash trailing on the muddy ground. The man could only shake his head. For months Janice had told him to get that dog-training video with the Mexican guy. He would have bought it already if she hadn’t nagged him so much. Even when she was right, she was wrong.
“Lenny. You dope.”
He patted the dog’s flank. Lenny licked his hand by way of apology before flopping onto the ground. Rain had fallen all night, leaving the earth soaked. The dog rolled from side to side on his back, ecstatic at the chance to cover himself in dirt.
No wonder this stupid animal was his favorite creature in the world, the man thought. This simple sense of joy that he had lost long ago. If he’d ever had it. Certainly he preferred Lenny to his wife. If their house were burning and he could save only one, he’d probably grab the dog.
“Enough. You’re making a mess.”
He took Lenny’s leash and stood, trying not to lean too hard on his knee. The rain had let up before dawn, but a drizzle continued, spotting his forehead. He breathed in deeply, hoping the cool damp air would soothe his lungs.
The man looked around the leafy woods to be sure he was alone. Wakefield Park lay in suburban Virginia, just west of the Beltway. But it seemed to belong somewhere more rural. Sparrows darted through beech trees, and foxes regularly made their way to the creek in the center of the park. In the early mornings, the place was deserted aside from a few mountain bikers — and the man in the green windbreaker.
It was the perfect spot for dead drops.
The man checked the gold Rolex he wore only outside the office: 6:07. Time to move, before the bikers showed up. He tugged on Lenny’s leash and off they went, Lenny’s head twisting from side to side as the idiot dog looked for more squirrels to chase.
TEN MINUTES LATER THE MAN stopped near a granite outcropping beside a burned-out tree stump. He was alone, though he could hear the morning’s first biker yodeling gleefully over a rise to the east.
From his jeans the man pulled a little black plastic case that looked like the control for a car alarm. The case had two buttons, one black, one red. He pushed the black button.
To the west, up a slight hill, he heard two chirps. Maybe 150 feet away. He walked up the hill and pushed the black button again. This time the beeps were closer, thirty feet. He paced closer, one careful step at a time. He looked around, making sure he was still alone. He was. Once more he pushed the button. The beeps came again —
There. It lay by a tree, a broken oak branch like any other. Only it wasn’t. It was the dead drop to end all dead drops. The branch was genuine, and originally from this park. But at a lab outside Beijing it had been hollowed out, its center replaced with a waterproof plastic compartment big enough to hold two thin sheets of paper — or a flash memory drive. Big enough to betray the CIA’s most important secrets.
The Chinese had installed a receiver in the branch that responded to a signal in the plastic case the man held. The technology was simple, basically a car alarm with better encryption, but foolproof. He and his handlers could make drops just about anywhere. For the last three years, they had used Wakefield, a perfect spot, a fifteen-minute walk from his house.
He reached down for the branch—
And a squirrel ran by and Lenny tugged on his leash. Stupid dog.
“Go. You deserve each other.” He dropped the leash. The retriever took off.
“Alone at last,” the man said. He picked up the branch, rubbing his fingers over its bark, feeling for the hidden pressure points at each end. If they were pressed simultaneously — and only if they were pressed simultaneously — they would release an electromagnetic lock and pop open the center compartment.
There. He found the first pressure point. Now where was the other? He probed the bark. There. No, there—
“Hey! Buddy!”
Dammit. He turned to see a mountain biker ped aling toward him. The guy was wearing the ridiculous gear they loved, a neon-yellow reflective jacket and tight Lycra shorts.
“This your dog?” Lenny trailed after the bike.
The man in the green windbreaker felt his heart thump crazily. “Yeah. His name’s Lenny. He thinks one day he’s gonna catch himself a squirrel. Thanks for bringing him back—” Stop talking, he thought. You’re just a guy out walking your dog.
He snapped his mouth closed. He dropped the branch and reached for Lenny. “You dummy,” he said to the retriever. “You’re gonna get lost.”
“Ought to keep an eye on him. I almost hit him.”
“You’re right. My mistake.”
The biker rolled closer. The man felt oddly light-headed.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Shouldn’t you put him back on the leash?”
“Sure. Of course.” He reattached the leash. “Thanks for bringing him back.”
“No prob, man.” The biker nodded victoriously and turned down the hill. The man in the windbreaker sat down and waited for his pulse to return to normal. After all his years of tradecraft, he couldn’t believe that a jackass on a souped-up twelve-speed had almost busted him.
“Lenny. You almost caused me big trouble.”
Instead of answering, the dog squatted to relieve himself. Or maybe that was his answer, the man in the green windbreaker thought. He let Lenny take his time, waiting until he could no longer see the biker, until he could no longer feel his heart thumping sideways in his chest. When he was sure he was alone, he turned back to retrieve the branch — and the instructions inside.
9
WELLS WALKED DOWN A WHITE SAND BEACH, dipping his feet into the waves lapping along the shore. The water was the clearest blue imaginable, so bright it almost seemed neon. Exley lay on the beach under an umbrella, wearing a modest bikini that changed color as he looked at it, now red, now yellow, now green with camouflage stripes. That’s wrong, he told her. War isn’t sex. But she didn’t hear.
He turned back to the ocean. Instead of sand, the water covered a bank of fluorescent lights. Off, he said to Exley. Turn them off. She ignored him, and when he looked for her, she was gone. He tried to run for her, but the waves ripped him away from the beach, away from her—
“Mr. Brown.”
Wells woke, muzzy-headed, to a hand shaking his shoulder. Instead of a beach, he was on a C-17. The cabin stank of sweat and stale unwashed bodies. They’d been airborne for twenty hours.
“You okay, sir? Look a little green.”
“Fine, Lieutenant.” Wells rolled his head, futilely trying to unlock the scar tissue in his back. Instead of standard seats, the military plane had plastic benches screwed to its walls. They seemed designed to torture the spine.
“Lieutenant, how long was I out for?”
“Five hours, give or take,” the lieutenant said. “We’ll be down in forty-five. Pilot just turned on the lights.”
The lights. That accounted for his dream, Wells thought. All around him, men in fatigues were slapping themselves awake, swigging mouthwash, stretching, anything to shake off the boredom of an 11,000-mile journey. Wells had hitched a ride to Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan with the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne, which was being sent overseas for the third time in five years. Macho chatter filled the cabin,
