There was a bed, a few chairs, some books he’d actually read, lamps, tables, a place to eat, a place to shower and use the toilet.
He reached up to the pull-up bar he kept over the doorway leading to his bedroom and did a quick twenty. It was good to feel his muscles in motion, pulling his weight up to the bar with relative ease. He could run most twenty-somethings into the ground. His strength and motor skills were still excellent. Yet he was forty now and clearly not what he once was. He could only hope to counter the inevitable erosion of skills and physicality with increased field experience.
He lay down in the bed but didn’t put any covers over him. He kept the apartment cold. He needed to sleep.
The coming night would be busy.
And different.
CHAPTER
8
Robie was in the basement gymnasium of his building. It was nearly nine p.m., but the place was open twenty-four/seven for the residents. All you needed was your key card. In one respect Robie’s workout routine never varied: He never did the same workout twice in a row. He focused not on strength or stamina or flexibility or balance or coordination or agility. He focused on them all. Every exercise he did required at least two and sometimes all of those elements.
He hung upside down on the pull-up bar. He did stomach crunches and then worked his oblique muscles while holding a medicine ball. The U.S. Army had devised a functional fitness regime that mimicked what soldiers did in the field, the sorts of muscles and skills required on the battlefield.
Robie held to the same concept and worked on things he needed to survive out there. Lunges, thrusts, explosiveness from his calves up. He worked everything in synergy. Upper body and lower body at the same time that he was pushing his core past the breaking point. He was chiseled but never took his shirt off. No one would ever see him strolling along displaying his six-pack unless he needed to as part of a mission.
He did a half hour’s worth of yoga until he was drenched in sweat. He was holding an Iron Cross on the pull- up bar when the door opened.
A. Lambert stared over at him.
She didn’t smile or even acknowledge him. She closed the door behind her, went over to a corner, and sat down cross-legged on an exercise mat. Robie held the cross for another thirty seconds, not to impress her, because she wasn’t even looking at him. He held it because he had to push his body past what it was used to. Otherwise he was just wasting his time.
He let go and dropped lightly to the floor. He snagged his towel and wiped off his face.
“I think you’re the only one who uses this room.”
He slid the towel down to find her now looking at him.
She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. The shirt and jeans were tight. No place to conceal a weapon. Robie always checked that first, male or female, young or old.
“You’re here,” he said.
“Not to work out,” she replied.
“What then?”
“Tough day at the office. Just chilling.”
He looked around the small, ill-lighted room. It smelled of old sweat and mold.
“Must be nicer places to chill than this,” he said.
“I didn’t expect to find anyone else here,” she answered.
“Except me, maybe. From what you said, you knew I used this room.”
She said, “I just said that because I saw you here tonight. I’ve never seen you down here before, or anyone else, for that matter.”
He knew the answer but asked, “So, tough day at the office. Where do you work?”
“The White House.”
“That’s pretty impressive.”
“Some days it doesn’t feel that impressive. What about you?”
“Investments.”
“Do you work at one of the big firms?”
“No, I’m on my own. Always have been.”
Robie draped the towel around his shoulders. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to your chilling.” However, he didn’t really want to leave just yet. Perhaps she sensed this. She rose and said, “I’m Annie. Annie Lambert.”
“Hello, Annie Lambert.”
They shook hands. Her fingers were long, supple, and surprisingly strong.
“You have a name?” she asked.
“Robie.”
“First or last?”
“Last. It’s on the mailbox.”
“And your first?”
“Will.”
“That was harder than it should have been.” She smiled.
He found himself grinning back. “I’m not the most outgoing guy you’ll ever meet.”
“But I saw you at the party on the third floor the other night.”
“It was a little out of character for me. First time I’ve had a mojito in a long time.”
“Me too.”
“Maybe we can go out for a drink sometime.” Robie had no idea why that offer had come out of his mouth.
“Okay,” she said casually. “Sounds good.”
“Good night,” said Robie. “Have a nice chill.”
He closed the door behind him and took the elevator back up to his floor.
He immediately made a phone call. He didn’t really want to do it, but any contact like that had to be reported. Robie didn’t think there was anything to be worried about with Annie Lambert, but the rules were clear. Annie Lambert would be investigated to a greater degree. If anything turned up Robie would be notified and appropriate action would be taken.
As he sat in his kitchen Robie wondered if he should have made the call at all. He could not look at anything normally ever again. Someone being friendly to him was a potential threat. It had to be reported. A woman “chilling” and saying hello to him had to be called in.
I live in a world that isn’t remotely normal anymore. If it ever was. But it won’t always be like this. And there’s no agency rule against having a drink with someone.
So maybe he would. Sometime. He left his building and walked across the street. The high-rise there had a perfect view of his, which was the point. On the fourth floor was an empty apartment. Robie had a key for it. He entered the apartment and went directly to the corner of the front room. Set up there was a surveillance scope that was rated as one of the best in the world. He powered it up and turned its muzzle toward his building. He pushed and pulled on dials, making corrective adjustments until a certain part of his building came into sharp focus.
His floor, down the hall three doors. The lights were on, the shades raised three-quarters. He waited. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. It was all the same to Robie.
Annie Lambert’s front door opened and closed. She moved down the hall. He swung the scope in measured movements, following her trek. She stopped at the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a Diet Coke. With his scope he could read the label clearly. She closed the fridge with a swipe of her hip. She filled a glass halfway up with the soda and the other half with rum pulled from a cupboard over the stove.
