Color of Blood(109)

“Yes,” he said. “Official business.”

She looked straight into his eyes, then back at her screen, and handed his passport back.

Dennis picked his bag off the carousel and made his way to the Customs line. They were either going to take him into custody before he got to the line or right after clearing Customs.

But they didn’t take him in the Customs line.

After clearing Customs, they didn’t take him then, either, and he was confused. He knew his itinerary would have been flagged after he bought the ticket and was 100 percent certain they were going to take him at LAX.

But they didn’t.

Dennis rechecked his bag for the final leg to Dulles and quickly found a bar in the terminal that was packed with tourists, business travelers, and vacationers. Roll-on suitcases and travel bags clogged the walking space at the bar, lending it the feel of a college dormitory. A TV set over the bar showed CNN: a piece on an IED attack near Baghdad that had killed two US Marines and wounded three more.

He ordered a hamburger and beer and looked casually around the bar for the telltale signs of surveillance. He spotted a young couple that had come in after him and sat near the entrance.

They were too unnaturally natural, the kind of fake interaction that was not difficult for Dennis to spot. He guessed they were young agents in training and were being graded by someone more senior nearby. Perhaps the trainer was the Southwest Airlines steward sitting at the end of the bar.

What am I missing? he thought. Something is not right. Why would they not take me into custody right away?

Dennis ate his meal slowly and kept an eye on the time. He made his way eventually down to the gate and settled in with a copy of the New York Times. The front-page story featured the US military’s attempts to identify and destroy IEDs before they were detonated by using cell-phone signals. Most IEDs were set off using cell-phone calls to the explosive device, he read.

The young couple showed up at the gate for his flight, and it comforted him somehow to see the Agency acting in a way that he expected. He still could not spot the trainer agent, but it didn’t matter really; all was in alignment in the spook universe.

The key was to avoid confusion and self-doubt; the worst virus an intelligence agent can come down with. The correct balance of wariness and suspicion is useful, too much is debilitating. Dennis was not a field agent, but he had learned so much about their training and behavior over the years that much of their craft was part of his knowledge base.

The flight to Dulles was uneventful, and except for a small patch of turbulence over the Continental Divide, he was able to sleep a little. The flight landed at 9:30 p.m., and now Dennis was convinced they were not going to pick him up at all. They had plenty of chances to take him earlier.

The klaxon sounded, and the baggage carousel finally started its rhythmic, train-track clanking as the bags tumbled out from behind the rubber flaps. He edged to the lip of the conveyor belt and grabbed his beaten roll-on bag. Dropping it on the floor, he pulled up the handle, wedged his briefcase onto the handle, and dragged it toward the door for taxis.

Marty stood at the door. He wore an old khaki-colored raincoat looking like a character out of an old black-and-white spy movie.

Dennis tried not to act surprised, because he was.

He nodded to Marty as he got close.

“Come this way,” Marty said and walked through automatic doors.

Outside, a black SUV was idling. Two men got out as soon as they saw Marty approach.

Dennis always felt better when he could anticipate and prepare, but at this point he was genuinely surprised. One of the men reached out and took Dennis’s luggage. The other man opened the backseat door for Dennis. Marty got in beside him. One of the men drove, and the other sat in the passenger seat, turning back to look at Dennis. He had a pistol in his lap; with no silencer attached it was clearly there for effect.

“Where is the weapon you were given for the assignment?” Marty asked.

“In the suitcase,” Dennis said. “It’s broken down and stored in the handles.”

“Should I have you frisked?” Marty asked.

“No, I’m clean,” Dennis said, yawning. He did his best to feign disinterest, but he knew Marty could see through it.

They drove in silence onto the Dulles Access Road toward Interstate Route 495.

“You shouldn’t shoot people,” Marty said suddenly. “It complicates things.”

“People shouldn’t shoot at me, either,” Dennis said. “And then try to strangle me. And then drug a good friend and threaten to shoot me again.”

“Mmm,” Marty said.

Dennis wondered why he had referred to Judy as a good friend. It didn’t sound right.

They drove south on Route 495 until they got to Route 50 and headed east. Again, he was a little confused about where they were taking him. At Seven Corners they turned onto Leesburg Pike heading south. After another fifteen minutes they pulled in front of his house. A man and woman were walking a large golden retriever, and Dennis nodded to them as he got out.

The two men got out of the car, but Marty stayed inside.

“Be in my office at nine a.m.,” Marty said.

“OK,” Dennis said.

Dennis waited for them to open the back for his bags, but the men just stood there.

He leaned in through the open door.

“Marty, can I have my bags, please?”