Page 55
“Is your diary in your computer system?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“What about your home address?”
“Everything is in our system.”
“Then maybe you should go to a motel. Or the office, after all. I’m changing my opinion. If they know where you’re supposed to be first thing in the morning, they’ll know where you are tonight.”
“My house is secure. All kinds of locks and sensors.”
“Did the NSA install them?”
She didn’t answer.
“Go to the office,” he said. “Please. Right now. Jump in the car. You need to get out of there. Do it for me.”
He could hear her thinking about it.
She said, “OK, I’ll call you when I get there.”
—
Turner combed out her wet hair and got dressed. The tan shirt, the taupe pants, the green necktie, the green coat. She sat on her bed and tied her shoes. She got a shoulder bag from her closet. Fine leather. Not military issue, but it matched her heritage walnut belt exactly. She dabbed numbers on her gun safe door and it clicked open. She took out her service pistol. A carry-size SIG Sauer M18. Seventeen nine-millimeter NATO rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Current standard issue for people like her. Not usually carried inside the Pentagon, but the rules were different for her, because she was law enforcement. She put it in her bag and hooked the strap over her shoulder. Better than a briefcase. It left her hands free. She walked through to the kitchen and picked up her car key from the bowl where she kept it.
Her doorbell rang.
She froze.
She took her pistol back out of her bag.
The bell rang again.
There was an iPad on her kitchen wall, showing all her cameras. Part of the installation. She dabbed the screen to life and saw a man at her door. Beyond him at the curb was a black unmarked car, with blue lights strobing urgently behind the grille. It looked empty. No one at the wheel. The man at the door was wearing a black suit. He looked taller than her, but not by much. He was wiry, not heavy. He had cropped black hair and a black beard buzzed just as short. He could have been a special forces operator. She knew plenty, and he had the look.
She hit the talk button on the screen and said, “Yes?”
She saw the man at the door move his lips and the audio from the iPad said, “Ma’am, my apologies for disturbing you at this late hour, but I’m with DIA and we urgently need to check something with you.”
The Defense Intelligence Agency.
She said, “Show me.”
The guy at the door took out a black wallet and flipped it open. He held it close to the camera. On the left flap of the wallet was a gold shield with an eagle at the top, an eagle in the middle, and in black letters the words Special Agent above and Defense Intelligence Agency below. On the right flap behind a plastic window was an ID in the name of Mark Shaw, with a thumbnail photograph that matched the face.
She said, “Rank?”
“Retired first sergeant, ma’am, now a civilian employee.”
“What do you need to check with me?”
“We have a situation out in Summertown, Colorado. We know you do too, so we don’t want to tread on your toes, or vice versa.”
Turner paused a beat.
She said, “Why aren’t we doing this by phone?”
“Ma’am, we believe our comms have been penetrated by persons unknown. The undersecretary for intelligence has mandated all interagency discussions must be face to face only, until the issue is resolved.”
