End Game (20 page)

None of this was in any of her Company profiles, of course. She instinctively knew how to lie to shrinks, even good ones, and she never failed a question on a polygraph test, unless it was a lie she wanted to be caught at in order to prove she was human after all.

She checked her rearview mirrors at intervals, but nothing other than the Harley that had been on her tail for a mile before it passed her and sped off, and the old Lexus that had followed her all the way to where she'd turned north but had continued on I-66, no one else had been of any interest.

Driving past her apartment in Tysons Corner, she watched for signs that anyone had shown up or that a drone was circling overhead before she parked the Chevy around the corner at another apartment building a block away and went back on foot.

The car would be noticed sometime today, or perhaps tonight, but by then she figured her situation would be resolved one way or another. In any event, it would never be traced back to her real identity.

No one had tampered with the fail-safes on her front door, nor had the security panel just inside been touched. Had someone been here, the panel would have sounded a silent alarm and then gone into a default mode that was impossible to reverse.

She changed into a khaki pants suit, white cotton blouse, and sneakers. She kept a decent pair of black pumps in a desk drawer at work, which she changed into for important meetings, but like just about every other woman on campus, she preferred to be comfortable whenever possible.

Her real go-to-hell escape kit of several passports and other forms of identification, plus several credit cards and five thousand in cash—mostly U.S. and Canadian dollars, but a few hundred in euros and an equal amount in pesos—she kept in a storage unit nearby, filled mostly with boxes of old clothes she had bought at Goodwill and other thrift stores in the area. If the place were searched, half the boxes would have to be pulled out and emptied before her kit would be found.

As she stood at the door, she looked at the apartment that had been her secret home for the better part of four years. It was small, only one bedroom, and very neat and modern, with good furniture, top-shelf appliances, a big flat-screen TV and sound system, and some nicely framed art reproductions on the walls. But it meant nothing to her. In her entire life she'd never had a home that meant anything.

She tossed her big leather purse onto the passenger seat of her deep-green BMW 330ci convertible and headed to work as normal, expecting she would get a few answers she needed, but that she would be on the run again by noon.

*   *   *

The line of cars at the main gate was shorter than it had been for the past several days. When it was Alex's turn, she handed the officer her ID and gave him a smile.

“Good morning, Don. Looks like you guys have got this down pat,” she said.

“Everybody's finally cooperating,” he said, handing her ID back. “Have a good day, now.”

“You too.”

Driving up through the woods to the OHB, she decided today was routine unless the security officer was a damned good actor. Which she didn't think he was. Evidently, no one had been put on alert about her.

She parked in the basement lot, the only secretary on campus who was assigned a space inside. As she swiped her card through the reader at the elevator door, a security officer's image came up on the screen.

“Good morning, Ms. Givens,” he said, and the elevator door opened.

She smiled. Everything to this point seemed normal, but her instincts were starting to ramp up. Their instructors at the Farm loved to quote the Navy SEAL litany of Murphy's laws. Number one was:
If everything is going good, you're probably running into a trap
.

The seventh-floor corridor was empty this morning, but she was early; it would be another twenty minutes before most of the VIPs and their assistants and secretaries started arriving. Except for the five people in the Watch down the hall from the DCI's suite, most of the offices were still empty.

The door to Page's inner office was open when she walked in and set her bag behind her desk then looked in. Page was already there. He seemed to be in good spirits.

“Good morning, sir. You're early,” she said.

“I think we're going to hit pay dirt this morning. I don't have to be at the White House until two, so maybe I'll have some good news for the president by then.”

“Sir?”

“We think we have our killer narrowed down to thirty-six people. McGarvey is bringing someone in who might recognize them.”

“That's wonderful news. But I thought your White House meeting was at nine.”

“It's been moved. Sprague came on board when I explained what was going on.”

Peter Sprague was the president's new chief of staff. He ran the White House with an iron fist. So far the media hadn't caught on to the killings on campus, and the president had made certain there would be no leaks from anyone on his staff. Sprague made sure of it; just as the security team on campus made sure there were none from here.

“That's good news,” Alex said. “I'll update your agenda. I'm sure there'll be a few additions.”

“Check with Ken, see if he has anything from the overnights I need to know about.”

Kenneth Whiteside was the midnight-to-noon chief of the Watch this morning.

“I'll do that first,” Alex said.

She powered up her computer and, while it was booting, walked down the hall to the Watch and entered the director's code on the keypad. Since the campus had been locked down after the first murder, the door did not automatically open. Whiteside had to make a personal identification of whoever wanted in.

When he saw it was her, he buzzed open the door.

“I'll be glad when we can get back to normal,” he said. He was a short, slightly built man with sandy hair, already turning gray at the sides even though he was only in his late thirties.

Five days of twelve-hour shifts, with only the next four off, had taken its toll on him, as it had on the other four analysts in the long narrow room. They had the pallor of people who worked under fluorescent lighting and never got out in the sun much. They either worked here or they were at home, catching up on their sleep.

“You and me both,” Alex said. “The boss's White House briefing has been pushed back to two, but he'd like to know if anything interesting showed up in the overnights.”

“I expected he would,” Whiteside said. He handed Alex a gray folder marked
TOP SECRET
. “The Pakis walked out on their talks in New Delhi six hours ago.”

A delegation from Pakistan had been in New Delhi for the past four days, trying to hammer out a nuclear disarmament treaty with their Indian counterparts. It was something President Langdon wanted very badly. He had been working with both governments for the past nine months to bring it about.

“They've run back to their embassy before.”

“They should be landing in Rawalpindi anytime now.”

“It's serious, then.”

“The White House won't be happy.”

Alex patted him on the arm. “They don't shoot the messenger any longer.”

“Let's hope not.”

Whiteside was one of the people on campus who Alex liked. He was a dedicated man who was happy with what he did because he loved his country. He was anything but cynical.

“I'll let myself out,” she said, and opened the door in time to see McGarvey and a woman get out of the elevator with a man she would have recognized from across a football field.

She closed the door.

Whiteside had gone back to his desk. He looked up. “Forget something?”

“If we get anything new from our Islamabad and New Delhi stations, Mr. Page will want to know before he goes over to the White House. He'll be leaving around one thirty, so anything at all until then.”

“I figured as much. I'll give O'Connor the heads-up when he comes in.” Dale O'Connor was the incoming shift supervisor.

“Let's hope it's good news for a change.”

 

THIRTY-FOUR

McGarvey had to go through a major rigmarole to get Schermerhorn past the main gate and then badged so he could be taken upstairs to the seventh floor.

“So this is our Alpha Seven operator,” Page said when they walked in.

“What time are you expecting your secretary?” McGarvey asked.

“Why?”

“She might be the one.”

“I don't think so. She's been with me for my entire tenure. Damned fine worker, bright, loyal.”

“Sounds like Alex,” Schermerhorn said. “I just want to take a look at her, and then we'll check the others.”

Page looked at him as if he were a disagreeable insect. “I sent her to the Watch for an update on the overnights.”

“I'll check to see if she left her purse behind,” Pete said.

“If it's her, she wouldn't carry anything incriminating,” McGarvey said. “Just close the door, please.”

“I don't like this, Mac,” Page said. “I've built a damned fine staff loyal to me because I trust them.”

“We're not going to ask her any questions,” McGarvey said. “When she gets back from the Watch, ask her to bring you the overnights. Schermerhorn will take a look at her, and when she leaves, it'll be up to him for the identification, and you for the next move. But you did ask for my help.”

Page had been standing behind his desk. He nodded and sat down. “Nothing like this has ever happened here. The few people who have any idea what's been going on are frightened out of their minds, and the rest on campus don't know what to make of the tightened security. They know something's up. But not what, and it's got them on edge.”

They all sat down across from him.

“How's the situation between Pakistan and India coming along?” Schermerhorn asked unexpectedly.

Page was taken by surprise. “What?”

“Nuclear disarmament. It's important out there. Christ, we don't need a nuclear war, because no matter how local it is, once the genie's out of the jar, it'll spread.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Page asked.

Pete gave McGarvey a questioning look, but he motioned no. He suspected Schermerhorn was trying to tell them something in his oblique way. NOCs, even when they were telling the truth, never told it straight on. They tested the waters first. Always.

“I read the newspapers and the blogs—between the lines. Every now and then even al-Qaeda hits it on the head. Bin Laden kicked the Russians out of Afghanistan. Didn't make him stupid afterward, just rabid.”

“I still have no idea what you're talking about.”

Schermerhorn shook his head. “Goddamn bureaucrats. Linear thinkers.”

“Enough of this.”

“Be careful where you tread, Mr. Director. One of these days something just may rise up out of the dust and bite you squarely on the ass.”

Page's intercom buzzed. It was his secretary.

“Mr. Whiteside has an update on the situation in New Delhi. May I bring it in?”

Page hesitated, but McGarvey motioned yes.

“Please do,” the DCI said.

Alex walked in, nodded to the others, her expression neutral, and handed the file folder to Page. “Mr. Whiteside said if anything new comes up before one thirty, they'll let you know.”

“Thanks, Dotty.”

Alex walked out, closing the door softly behind her.

*   *   *

She reached her desk, picked up her phone, and hit 70# in time to hear Page say: “Well?”

Schermerhorn was there; she'd recognized him the moment their eyes had met.

“I don't know,” he said. “I mean, I'm not sure.”

“Be sure,” McGarvey said. “Otherwise, we're talking about an innocent woman.”

It was a fabrication. She'd heard it in Roy's voice. He was lying for her benefit because somehow they knew she was listening in.

She pulled her Glock 29 pistol and silencer from its elastic holster attached to the underside of the bottom drawer, stuffed it into her purse, and slipped out the door.

A few people had started to show up, and she smiled and nodded as she made her way down the corridor and around the corner, stopping only long enough to make sure no one was coming after her.

Taking the stairs down two at a time, she reached the second floor before an alarm sounded.

“Attention, Security, OHB is currently under lockdown. This is just a drill. Repeat, the OHB is currently under lockdown. This is just a drill.”

She sprinted the rest of the way down to the parking garage. The stairwell doors were only locked from the outside. No security procedures were required to exit; nevertheless, she pulled out her pistol, shifted her bag to her left shoulder, and held the pistol at her side.

A lot would depend on the next sixty seconds. If the lockdown included the garage, the security barriers would be raised from the floor at the driveway out and she would be stuck here.

She pulled open the door and stepped out just as a security officer she only vaguely recognized came around the corner at the elevator door, twenty feet away. His sidearm was holstered.

He turned to her. “Sorry, ma'am, we're under lockdown. You'll have to go back up.”

Alex walked directly toward him, her eyes on his.

“Didn't you hear?” the officer asked. His name tag read:
SOLDIER
.

Alex raised her pistol and pointed it at him. “Lay your weapon and your radio on the floor along with your security badge, and then step back.”

The man reached for his gun.

She changed aim to his head. “I don't want to kill you, but I will. Do as I told you, immediately.”

The officer unholstered his pistol and laid it on the concrete floor, then took his radio from its holster on the opposite hip, unclipped the shoulder mic, and laid them on the floor.

“Your security badge.”