The men reached the big granite outcropping. The first man raised his hands to his eyes — the park was still too dark for the binoculars to be useful — and slowly scanned the hill where the mole was hidden. He seemed to be talking to the other man, though from this distance the mole couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then he pointed up the hill.
Step by step, the big Chinese closed in on the beech stand where the mole was hiding. The mole wished he could burrow into the dirt. Then the big man turned right, cutting over the hill, disappearing. The mole waited to be sure he was gone, then reached across his body to draw his S&W out of his shoulder holster. With the gun free, he lay down again and waited.
The man below leaned against a rock, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, and lit one up. He smoked quietly, the tip of his cigarette glowing in the darkness. When he was done, he stubbed the cigarette onto the sole of his shoe and dropped the burned-out butt back into the pack he carried. Trying not to leave evidence of his presence, the mole thought.
The minutes ticked by. As 6:00 A.M. approached, the man stood up. “Mr. T?” he said. He whistled into the darkness. “Mr. T?”
From his spot in the trees, the mole wondered if the Chinese planned to shoot him this morning. They had to know that if they killed him they would never be able to recruit anyone else. The CIA would broadcast this story to the world, so that any potential agent would know how the Chinese treated their spies. But then where was George this morning? And why bring two men? Nothing made sense.
At 6:10, the temperature was rising, the black sky turning blue. The mole covered the S&W with his hand so its metal glint wouldn’t give him away. In a few minutes more the sun would be fully up, exposing his position. Still he waited. At this point he had no choice. Under his windbreaker, sweat pricked down his back.
THREE HOURS LATER HE SAT in his Acura in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, fumbling with the clamshell packaging that surrounded a disposable cell phone he’d bought at a Radio Shack. The thick plastic cut his fingers, and as his frustration grew he felt like throwing the phone into the traffic. Finally he managed to rip the phone from its packaging. He breathed deep, tried to relax, powered up the phone, and punched in a 718 number, to be used only in absolute emergencies. He let the phone ring three times and hung up. He stared at his watch, allowing three minutes to pass, then repeated the drill. Three minutes later, he called for a third time. This time the phone was answered on the first ring.
“Washington Zoo. George here.”
“Do you still have the giant pandas?” An idiotic but necessary code.
Pause. “Has something happened? Where were you today?”
“Where were you? Who were those guys?”
“It was for security. They would have brought you to me.” Pause. “Since what happened in England, we are concerned.”
“It isn’t smart to talk anymore on this phone.”
“Okay. Let’s meet in person. Somewhere nice and public, George.”
“Public?”
“Like Union Station. I’ll figure it out, let you know.”
“Please don’t panic. We’ve worked together a long time. I’m your partner.”
“Then you should have come this morning.” Click.
TWIN FLOWER BEDS LINED the driveway, an explosion of daffodils and tulips in red and yellow. The house itself was brick, big but nondescript. A two-car garage and white painted shutters. Exley walked up the driveway without much hope. It was the last of the five on her original list. Of the others she’d visited, one had been empty when she arrived, which proved only that both parents worked. The other three had been typical suburban homes, with typical suburban moms. Exley worried that she was wasting her time. What had she expected to find? A Post- it on the refrigerator that said, “Meeting w/Chinese handler Tuesday night — don’t be late!” On the other hand, Tyson’s team hadn’t nailed anything down either. Even with only a few suspects to check, this kind of work was seriously time-intensive.
This place looked like another bust. The driveway was empty and the curtains shut. Exley mounted the front steps, and to her surprise heard a soap opera blaring from a television inside. A dog barked madly as Exley pushed the bell. She’d heard a couch creak as she rang. Then nothing. Whoever it was seemed to be hoping she’d go away. She rang again, feeling vaguely nauseated and headachy. Too much coffee and too little sleep.
“Coming,” a woman said irritably. Janice Robinson, wife of Keith, according to the agency’s dossier. Janice pulled open the door and peered heavy-lidded into the afternoon Virginia sun. The house behind her was dark, though a television flickered in a room off the front hall. A fat golden retriever poked its snout at the door, barking angrily while wagging its tail to prove it wasn’t serious.
“Can I help you?” Janice said, in a solid southern drawl. She wore a faded red T-shirt with “Roll Tide” printed in white across the chest. Her face was pretty but chubby, her hair a dirty-blond mess, her eyeliner thick and sloppy. The scent of white wine radiated off her, decaying and sweet as a bouquet of week-old flowers.
“I’m looking at that ranch on the corner and I was hoping you maybe could tell me about the neighborhood,” Exley said. “My husband and I have an apartment in the District, but we’re looking to move. My name’s Joanne, by the way.”
Confusion flicked across Janice’s face, as if Exley had tried to explain the theory of relativity and not her house-buying plans. “You want to hear about the neighborhood?”
“Nobody knows it like the neighbors, right?” Exley smiled.
“Hard to argue with that,” Janice said. Exley couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic. Maybe she wasn’t as ditzy as she seemed. “I have to take my car into the shop, but I guess I can spare a minute.” Janice opened the door and waved Exley inside.
“Do you do those?” Exley indicated the flower bed. “They’re so beautiful.”
“My babies.” She patted the retriever’s head. “Lenny tries to eat them, but I don’t let him. My name’s Janice. Come in.”
Janice led Exley through the dark house to the kitchen, where more flowers awaited, fresh-cut this time. A ceiling fan mopped the air. Exley couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a room so stifling. Probably twenty years ago, some airless fraternity basement in college, getting drunk and looking for what she thought was a good time.
“I don’t like air-conditioning,” Janice said. “It breeds colds.” Lenny plopped down heavily, his tongue flopping out. Even with the flowers and dog, the house seemed sterile to Exley. The darkness. The television blaring. The bottles lined up by the sink. If this were a movie, a serial killer would be hiding in the basement. Or Janice would have her grandmother chained to a bed upstairs.
“Would you like a glass of water? You seem peaked.”
“That’d be great,” Exley said.
“Maybe some wine. I find a glass in the afternoon keeps away the colds.”
“Just water, thanks.” Exley worried she seemed snappish. “I’d love a drink, but I have to get back to the office.”
“Of course.” Janice poured a glass of water from a pitcher in the refrigerator and set it on the table. Exley had a brief paranoid fantasy that the water was laced with something. She’d take a sip. The world would go black. When she came to, she’d be locked in the basement next to a fat guy in a leather mask. No. That was
