pop.
He heard a door open and close in the hall. He stepped to his peephole and watched the woman walk her bike down the hall. This was the woman from the party, the one who worked at the White House. She sometimes wore jeans on the way to work and then presumably changed into her official duds when she got there. She was always the first to leave the building in the morning, unless Robie had already departed for some reason.
A. Lambert.
That was the name on the mailbox downstairs. He knew the A stood for Anne. His background briefing on her had told him that.
His own mailbox simply said Robie. No first initial. He had no idea if people wondered about that or not. Probably not, though.
She was in her late twenties, tall, long blonde hair, thin. He once had seen her in shorts when she first moved in. She was somewhat knock-kneed, but her face was elegantly structured, with a mole under her right eyebrow. He had heard her during a discussion in the hall with a fellow tenant who did not support the current administration. Her replies had been sharp and informed. Robie had been impressed.
He had started referring to her in his own mind as “A.”
Robie stepped back from the door when she disappeared into the elevator with her bike. He moved back to another window overlooking the street. A minute later she left the building, shouldered her knapsack, swung onto her bike, and was off. He watched her until she turned the corner and the reflector strips on her backpack and helmet disappeared from view.
Next stop: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
It was four-thirty in the morning.
He turned back from the window and surveyed his living space. There was nothing in his apartment that would tell anyone searching it what he did. He had an official position that would be backed up to the fullest in case anyone questioned anything. But still, his apartment was nondescript and contained almost nothing of personal interest. He preferred that to having others invent a past for him, placing photos of people he didn’t even know around his apartment and passing them off as relatives or friends. “Hobbying” a residence with tennis rackets or skis or stamp collection books or a musical instrument was standard procedure. He had turned all such offers down. 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.
She walked down the hall. Before she got to her bedroom she unzipped her jeans, slipped them off, and tossed them into a laundry basket. She set her drink down on the floor while she pulled her top over her head. Her underwear was pink. She was not the thong type; her underwear fully covered her bottom.
Robie had not seen this. He had turned his surveillance device off when she had started to unzip her pants. The scope cost nearly fifty grand. He was not going to use it for pathetic voyeurism.
Robie returned to his building and rode the elevator to the top floor.
An access door that was locked led to the roof. The lock was not a complicated one for him. Robie took a short flight of steps up to the very top of the building. He ventured to the edge and looked out over the city.
Washington, D.C., looked back at him.
It was a lovely city at night. The monuments looked particularly magnificent when mood-lighted against the darkness. In Robie’s mind, D.C. was the only city in the United States to truly rival the great cities of Europe when it came to official decoration.
But it was also a city of secrets.
Robie and people like him were one of those secrets.
Robie sat down with his back to the wall of the building and gazed upward.
A. Lambert had officially become Annie Lambert. Knowing it from the briefing paper wasn’t the same as hearing it in person.
And he had reported her for nothing more than probably just being friendly.
Tough day at the office. Just needed a place to chill.
Robie could relate to that. He had some tough days at the office. He could use a place to chill.
But that would never happen.
He showered and changed into fresh clothes. Then he gunned up. It was time to go to work.
CHAPTER
9
ANOTHER FOSTER HOME she did not want to be in. How many now? Five? Six? Ten? She supposed it didn’t really matter.
She listened to the screams coming from the downstairs of the duplex she had called home for the last three weeks. The man and woman downstairs yelling at each other were her foster parents. Which was more than a joke, she thought. It was criminal. They were criminal. They had a string of foster kids through their home and made them pickpocket people and deal drugs.
She had refused the pickpocketing and the drug dealing. So tonight would be her last night here. She had already packed her backpack with her few belongings. There were two other foster kids living in the one bedroom with her. They were both younger and she was loath to leave them here.
She sat them on the bed and said, “I’m going to get you guys help. I’m going to let Social Services know what’s going on here. Okay? They’re going to come and get you out of this place.”
“Can’t you take us with you, Julie?” asked the girl tearfully.
“I wish I could, but I can’t. But I’m going to get you out of here, I promise.”
The boy said, “They won’t believe you.”
“Yes they will. I’ve got proof.”
She gave them each a hug, opened the window, climbed out, wriggled down the drainpipe to the flat roof of the attached carport, worked her way down a support pole, reached the ground, and ran off into the darkness.
She had one thought in mind.
I’m going home.
Home was a duplex even smaller than the one she had just left. She took the subway, then a bus, and then she walked. Along the way she pulled out an envelope, walked up the steps of a large brick government building, and pushed the envelope through the mail slot in the door. It was addressed to the woman who was handling the foster care placement for her and the two other kids back at the duplex. She was a nice lady, she meant well, but she was completely swamped with children no one seemed to want. In the envelope was a photo card with pictures capturing the couple in the middle of abusing their foster kids, engaging in clearly illegal activity, and sitting stoned out on the couch with crack pipes and piles of pills in full view. If that didn’t do the trick, she thought, nothing would.
She reached the house an hour later. She didn’t go in the front door. She did what she always had done when getting home this late. She used a key she kept in her shoe to go in via the back door. She tried to turn on a light, but nothing happened. This did not surprise her. It merely meant that the electricity had been turned off because the utility bill had not been paid. She felt along the walls and used the moonlight coming in through the windows to see well enough to reach her bedroom on the second floor.
Her room was unchanged. It was a dump, but it was her dump. A guitar, sheets of music, books, clothes, magazines were piled everywhere. There was a mattress on the floor that served as her bed, but it wasn’t easily visible under all the other stuff. She rationalized that her parents had not cleaned up her room because they knew she would be back.
They had problems. Many of them.
They would be regarded by most people as pathetic, drugged-out losers.
But they were her parents. They loved her.
And she loved them.
She wanted to take care of them.
At age fourteen, she was often the mom and dad, and her parents were often the kids. They were her responsibility, not the other way around. But that was okay.
They should be asleep by now, she knew. Hopefully not stoned.
Actually things were looking up. Her father was working on a loading dock and had been gainfully employed there for a whole two months. Her mother labored as a waitress in a diner where a two-dollar tip was the exception rather than the norm. It was true that her mom and dad were recovering addicts, but they got up every day and went to work. It was just that the drug problems and the stints in jail had led the city to sometimes deem them unfit to have custody of her.
Hence the banishment to the foster care system.
But not for her. Not anymore. Now she was home.
She fingered the piece of paper in her jacket pocket. It was a note from her mom. It had been sent to her school and left at the office. Her parents had plans to move away from the area and start over afresh. And they, of course, wanted their only child to go with them. Julie hadn’t been this excited in a long time.
She went to their bedroom across the hall to check on them, but it was empty. Their bed was like hers, simply a mattress on the floor. But the room wasn’t messy. Her mother had tidied up. Clothes were put away, albeit in baskets. They had no dressers or armoires. She sat on the bed and removed a photo of the three of them that was hanging on the wall. She couldn’t see it that well in the dark, but she knew exactly who was in it.
Her mother was tall and thin, her father shorter and even skinnier. They looked unhealthy and they were. Years of drug abuse had left permanent scars, chronic problems, lives that would be significantly