Wormhole (The Rho Agenda #3)(73)

“Jackie boy. Now that’s one hell of a story.”





Jan Collins finished printing the vehicle pass, handed it to the government contractor waiting on the other side of the white counter, and pressed the button that incremented the “Now Serving” display.

“Number 207,” she called out, as a middle-aged man arose from one of the blue-upholstered chairs that filled the waiting area and limped toward her station, a pink numbered slip of paper in his fingers.

“How may I help you?”

“Need a one-day vehicle pass.”

“You could have gotten a one-day pass from the Reece Road security guards. You really didn’t need to come inside the Visitor Control Center.”

“Damn. So I wasted twenty minutes in line?”

Jan smiled. “Looks like. But since you’re already here, I can issue the pass. I’ll need your driver’s license, ID card, registration, and proof of insurance.”

“It’s a rental car.”

“Then I’ll need to see the rental agreement.”

The man laid the documents on the counter along with a retired military ID card. Jan looked through the papers, made a few entries in her computer, and compared the face on the card to that of the man who stood before her. Six feet tall, hair beginning to gray at the temples, he looked to have packed on a few pounds since the ID card had been issued. The brown eyes were the same, though, as was the man’s disarming smile. Something about his eyes made her uncomfortable. Then again, maybe it was just the humidity that had her edgy today.

“And the reason for your visit?”

“Just stopping by to see an old friend who’s stationed here.”

“OK, Major Hanson,” she said, handing him the printed vehicle pass. “Stick that on your dashboard and you’re good to go.”

“Thanks.”

Hanson picked up the pass, smiled, and limped toward the door.

Jan pressed the button, advancing the count. Glancing at the board, she saw that Sheila, the lady who worked at the next station, had already finished two people while she had helped the retired major.

Raising her voice, Jan called for her next customer.

“Number 210. Come on down.”





Jack Gregory limped through the small parking lot outside the Demps Visitor Control Center, clicked the UNLOCK button on the red Camry’s key fob, opened the door, and slid into the driver’s seat. The clock read 10:25 a.m. and it was already hot enough to make the facial and body disguises uncomfortable.

Starting the engine, Jack pulled back out onto Reece Road, getting into the line of cars stopped before the security gate. The black-clad security guards were contractors, commonly used at American military bases to free up soldiers for war-fighting missions. As he flashed his retired military ID, the guard took it, looked through the window at his vehicle pass, and then motioned him to pull forward into a vehicle inspection lane.

“Pop your trunk and hood, open your glove box, step out of the car, and open all the doors.”

Jack did as instructed, stepping back to allow the inspectors to do their work. While one guard slid a long mirror under the vehicle, the other made his way around the car, looking in the engine compartment, inside the open doors, and in the trunk.

“OK. You’re clear.”

Jack nodded. Then he closed up everything he’d opened, slid into the driver’s seat, and began his leisurely drive onto Fort Meade proper. Turning left on Rose Street, he drove behind the PX and commissary, taking a left into the Burger King parking lot. Might as well grab a little brunch before the place packed up with the lunchtime crowd. After that, he figured he’d check out the PX and commissary, hit the National Cryptologic Museum, maybe even stop off at the base library. Might as well enjoy a leisurely day.

After all, he had ten hours to kill. The items hidden inside the hollowed-out backseat cushions would have to wait until dark.





Twenty-three hundred hours on the dot. Jack backed the Camry into the open parking slot at the Sleep Inn and swiped his key card in the side door, feeling the cool breath of air-conditioning fight back the outside humidity as he stepped into the carpeted corridor that led to his room. The faint smell of mildew didn’t bother him. The hotel was clean and well kept. Besides, it was damned hard to keep all traces of mildew out of a Maryland hotel in summer.

His room was a ground-floor suite he’d rented by the week, nicely appointed, as these midpriced hotels went. It had a fridge, microwave, coffeepot, and couch. The coffee table wasn’t anything fancy, but it beat eating at the desk. The shower had good water pressure, and the bed was comfortable. All in all, not bad mission accommodations.

Slipping out of his shirt, Jack unhooked the midriff fat suit, tossed it and his shoulder holster on the bed, and walked into the bathroom. When he walked out again twenty minutes later, he was tan, blond, and naked. If not for the crazy quilt of scars that covered his torso, he could have passed for a member of the Australian Olympic beach volleyball team.

He walked over to the dresser, stepped into a pair of striped boxers and a Baltimore Ravens T-shirt, grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge, and sat down in front of the laptop waiting on the desk. It was a basic black Toshiba laptop he’d picked up at Best Buy last week for $427. Good enough to serve his purpose, but not worth stealing.