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Rapp stared up at Adams, awed that such a deep, booming voice had just come from such a little body. Adams could not have weighed more than one hundred fifty pounds, and the voice Rapp had just heard could have given James Earl Jones, Isaac Hayes, and Barry White all a run for their money.
“Are you Mr. Kruse?” asked Adams.
“Yes.” Rapp walked up the first two steps and stuck out his hand. “You must be Milt Adams.”
“That’s correct. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Adams motioned for Rapp. “Follow me, I’ve got everything set up inside.”
The two men walked into the house, the dog following at Rapp’s side. Adams continued straight ahead, down a long hallway to the rear of the house and the kitchen. The hardwood floors had been recently redone with a shiny coat of polyurethane, and the kitchen floor was tiled in a classic black-and-white checkerboard pattern. The trim was all restored to its natural wood finish with a light stain.
Adams opened a glass-paned cupboard and grabbed two mugs. “You look like the black type.”
“That’d be great.” The German shepherd parked his butt right next to Rapp and leaned his head against Rapp’s thigh. The proximity of the canine made Rapp increasingly uncomfortable.
Adams finished pouring the coffee and turned around. He took one look at Rapp’s stiff posture and said, “You don’t like dogs.” It was more a statement than a question.
“Ah . . . not really.”
Adams handed him a cup. “What’s the problem? You been bit before?”
“Several times.” Rapp winced as he thought of one time in particular.
Adams surveyed his guest; the longer hair and facial scar made him begin-to wonder if this man really worked for the Secret Service.
“Don’t worry,” Adams offered. “As long as you don’t hurt me, Rufus won’t hurt you.” The owner of the house started across the room. “Let’s go down to the basement. That’s where I have everything.”
Rapp watched Adams cross the kitchen and followed. The damn dog would not leave his side. Rapp was impressed with Adams, who hustled down the steep steps like a man half his age.
When Rapp reached the basement, he stopped and looked around the large room. It was a retired man’s wet dream. The floor was painted a spotless gray and looked clean enough to eat off. Tools of every kind hung from brown pegboard along one wall, and each spot was labeled to ensure optimal organization. Along the far wall, six metal storage cabinets were lined up, each of them again labeled with a laminated catalog of the items within. Two drafting tables and a computer dominated the wall to the right. In the center of the room several white sheets covered something roughly the size of a pool table. Cocking his head sideways, Rapp tried to sneak a peek under the sheets, but couldn’t see anything.
The wiry Adams stopped at the drafting table on the left and turned on a bright overhead lamp. He motioned down at the three-by-four-foot blueprint on the table. “This is an overview of the White House and its grounds. Director Tracy tells me you’re interested in finding a way to get into the mansion unnoticed.” Rapp nodded. Adams looked up questioningly, as if studying Rapp. After a moment, he said, “Something tells me you’re not Secret Service, Mr. Kruse.”
“Please call me Mitch, and no, I don’t work for the Secret Service.”
“Okay, Mitch, who do you work for?”
“I’m an analyst for the CIA.”
A wry smile creased Adams lips. In his deep voice he replied, “Analyst my ass.” Rolling up his left sleeve, Adams revealed a thick wormlike scar that sliced from his elbow almost down to his wrist. Holding it up for Rapp to see, he said, “Got this on Iwo Jima . . . bayoneted by some crazy Jap.” Adams pointed to Rapp’s face. “You’ve got a nice thin scar there. Can’t even see it unless you’re looking at you from the side. You’ve had some nice plastic surgery done on it, but my guess is it used to be a big ugly thing like this one here on my arm.” Adams studied him again. “You didn’t get it from analyzing satellite imagery, did you?”
Rapp played it cool, asking, “How’d you know I had plastic surgery?”
“My oldest daughter is a doctor over at GW. I can see the work of a talented surgeon, so let’s cut the shit. What do you really do for Langley?”
Rapp looked at Adams deliberately. He liked his cut-to-the-heart-of-the-matter style and decided the old man was a little too wily to play games with. So Rapp decided to give it to him as straight as he could.
“I can’t get into the details, but I’m more than a paper pusher.”
“Is Kruse your real name?”
Rapp shook his head.
Adams eyed him suspiciously and then shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’ll have to trust Director Tracy. If he says I should give you the information, I’ll give it to you.” Adams turned his attention back to the blueprint and ran his finger over it, tracing a line.
“There is one way to get into the White House belowground.” Adams flipped up the first blueprint and revealed another one. “It’s the most wellknown . . . the tunnel that comes over from the Treasury Building.” Adams stabbed his finger on the right side of the blueprint and drew a line showing Rapp where the tunnel was. “This is the tunnel that the terrorists used.”
