In this case, the rotation of the Earth has been our friend. Following a fifteen-hour flight from Bagram to Washington, and a nine-and-a-half-hour time zone difference, we taxi to a halt at 1730 hours local time.
Apart from Robyn, there are five military passengers on the Globemaster. General Anthony, Colonel Tristan, Captain Larsen, Captain Koenig, and Captain Noelle Santiago. The last is the tough, no-nonsense nurse who saved Robyn’s life last night. They all wear digital camouflage. The general’s party carry their dress blues in garment bags. Stein requested Robyn’s measurements. Dress blues will be waiting for the sergeant upon arrival.
Robyn and I sat together the whole flight. I would have preferred to sleep in the cargo bay, but we rated seats in first class. The upper deck. I didn’t expect trouble on the plane, but we took turns sleeping.
We deplane and I step onto the tarmac. Guide Robyn with gentle pressure on her elbow. Three black army limousines meet the general’s entourage. The one in the middle has red plates above the grille, stenciled with three white stars.
The army limos are matched by three black uparmored Suburban SUVs. Stein stands next to the one in the middle. A slender figure, dressed in a tailored black business suit. Her brown hair hangs past her shoulders.
“Let’s stay with the general,” I say.
We step to the general’s side. Stein strides toward us. Hard guys get out of the Suburbans. They’re dressed in dark business suits, cut to conceal weapons.
“Here comes trouble,” General Anthony mutters.
Stein offers her hand. “Good afternoon, General.”
“Good afternoon, Ms Stein.”
“State will take care of Sergeant Trainor this evening,” Stein says. “We’ll convene tomorrow afternoon at the White House.”
“Where will you be staying?”
Stein smiles. “You know better than that, General. Sergeant Trainor’s location tonight is classified.”
“Ms Stein, I would feel better if Breed went with you. Technically, he is a civilian.”
“I think we can accommodate one more.” Stein’s response is smooth as butter.
“Lead the way, ma’am,” I say.
“Wait.” Robyn turns to Noelle Santiago, shakes her hand. “Thanks for saving my life.”
Stein leads us to the Suburbans. I count five men in the security detail. Two in the first and third Suburbans, a driver in the second. Stein climbs into the front passenger seat next to the driver, Robyn and I climb into the back. The security men slam our doors shut and return to their vehicles.
I notice the driver has an H&K MP5 submachinegun with a fixed stock sandwiched between his leg and the door. Stein has a folding-stock MP5 on her lap. I can see why she likes the weapon. It’s sexy, stylish, easy for a woman to control. But it’s a nine millimeter, an oversized pistol. Useless against body armor.
“Black Widow,” a radio crackles. “This is Spider One.”
Stein raises the walkie-talkie and keys the mike. “This is Black Widow. Go ahead, One.”
“We are ready to roll.”
“Alright, One. Let’s go.”
“Spider One, out.”
The general’s motorcade pulls out and races to the Andrews main gate. Stein’s little convoy follows at a respectable distance.
Four motorcycle policemen wait outside the base.
“Motorcycle escort.” I nod with approval. “Stein, I am impressed.”
At the gate, an air policeman salutes the general. Another stands in front of our lead Suburban and motions for us to halt. The first two motorcycle cops race off, sirens wailing. The general’s motorcade slides in behind them. The two remaining motorcycle cops follow behind.
Gray exhaust fumes drift in the air as the general’s limos and their escort disappear in the distance. Robyn catches my eye and smiles.
The air policeman standing in front of our lead vehicle lowers his hand. Steps aside smartly and waves us through by slashing his forearm across his chest, palm bladed. Our convoy leaves the base and pulls into the traffic.
Little more than a month ago, I’d been in a similar convoy. Protecting a food company executive and his daughter.
“Where are we spending the night?” I ask Stein.
“A house outside Falls Church.”
“Who knows about it?’
“Nobody.”
“Your management?”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t nobody.” I look out the window at the DC suburbs sweeping past us. Once you share an operational detail with a bureaucrat, consider it public. “Pass the word. Let’s all take the SIMs out of our phones. Now.”
“Breed, you’re paranoid.”
“I’m alive.” I take my phone from my pocket. Extract the SIM. “You know how we found and killed Al Qaeda leaders.”
“That’s because we have that equipment.”
“Think maybe Lopez’s masters have that equipment?”
Stein keys her mike. “This is Black Widow. Pull over. Everyone take the SIMs out of your phones. No exceptions.”
We stop on the shoulder. In five minutes we are on our way, one security risk eliminated.
Only one.
The miles roll beneath our wheels. My unease swells like a tide. I am drowning in it. I find myself checking the windows of vehicles that overtake us. My hand goes to the Mark 23 in my waistband. Robyn glances at me sideways. I wrestle my anxiety to the floor, but I cannot hold it down. Something is very wrong.
DC suburbs give way to the rolling Virginia countryside.
I crane my neck to stare at the sky. Fuck it. I won’t be able to tell our drones from theirs. Whoever they are.
Stein should be over-communicating with her team.
Stop it, Breed. This is Stein’s show, not yours.
Rolling hills. Farmland, horses. Fences of long, split rails. On the left, a gate opening to a narrow road. The road winds its way among wooded hills. The seclusion provides the illusion of security. I’d much rather hold Robyn in a seedy hotel room off skid row. Two Deltas with her in the room. Three or four strategically placed through the building and elevated positions outside.
I can’t turn it off.
“What’s the police response time?” I ask.
“Thirty minutes,” Stein says.
“Do you have a QRF on standby?”
“Yes. Quantico.”
That’s something. “What’s their response time?”
“Twenty minutes by air.”
“Comms?”
“Landline, and a mobile phone dedicated to the property.
