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Two other security officers—Alec and Walter—take their places up front.
The garage door opens, the Suburban starts up, and on the cobblestoned driveway, the second CIA Suburban—the blocking car—moves forward. The metal gate at the end of the driveway slides open.
In her years in the CIA, Hannah has driven hundreds of times to Langley or other government locations, but she knows this trip is going to be a memorable one, and she’s not disappointed.
The lead Suburban—flashing red and blue lights in the radiator grille and on the top of the windshield—goes to the left, and the Suburban she’s in follows. As the gate behind her starts to close, DC police officers in tactical gear step out, hands up, in front of her Suburban.
“Ma’am?” comes the voice of Alec, the driver.
“As we discussed,” she says.
“Very well.”
Her Suburban stops.
The lead one ahead also stops.
One of the armed DC cops steps forward, gestures for the window to be lowered. Alec does so.
“Alec,” Hannah says. “Lowerallthe windows. I don’t want any misunderstandings.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And put your hands on the steering wheel.”
He doesn’t say anything but Hannah can tell from his tense neck and shoulders that he’d rather not do that.
But Alec follows her orders, and his large hands are now on the steering wheel.
Another armed DC cop approaches the Suburban, but he’s dressed in black uniform pants, white dress shirt, and a uniform cap. A ballistic vest is over his torso, and Hannah thinks he’s overreacting, but then recalling the firepower in this Suburban and the other, maybe he’s being cautious.
He takes his time approaching, peering into the open windows, and when he comes close enough, Hannah calls out, “Is there a problem, officer?”
He doesn’t take the bait. He’s wearing lieutenant bars on his collar and his name tag saysBROOKS.
The police lieutenant says, “I’m looking for Noa Himel.”
Hannah slowly pulls out her ID. “I’m Hannah Abrams, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
His face is drawn but red, like he’s trying to control his temper. “I know who you are.”
“Thanks,” Hannah says. “I guess those Sunday morning talk shows have paid off for me. This is my deputy, Jean Swantish. Jean, show him your identification.”
“Absolutely.” She reaches into her soft leather case, pulls out herCIA identification, and passes it to Hannah, who in turn gives it to Lieutenant Brooks. He gives it a close look, passes it back, and then he peers again into the Suburban.
“Lieutenant, if you’d like, I have no objection to you looking into my two vehicles, but I promise you that Noa Himel is not with us.”
Lieutenant Brooks says, “Noa Himel is wanted for questioning regarding a hit-and-run yesterday, leaving the scene of an accident, threatening a resident with a handgun, and about a half dozen other violations.”
“As I said, feel free to look through the Suburbans, but make it quick, if you can,” Hannah says. “I need to get to Langley as soon as possible. I’m sure you’ve heard the news this morning, of the Chinese embassy burning their diplomatic papers?”
He says, “Yes, I’d like to take a quick look in your vehicles.”
“Alec,” Hannah says, “be a dear and help out Lieutenant Brooks, will you?”
Her driver gets out and walks up to the first Suburban, to talk to that driver, and the doors and the rear hatchback pop open. Alec returns and in a moment, Hannah’s vehicle mirrors the first one.
The tactical-clad cops do make a quick search—one whistling in appreciation at the weapons mounted in racks at the rear—and when the searches are over and the doors and hatchbacks close, the police lieutenant comes back. A number of Hannah’s neighbors are standing on the narrow sidewalks, looking on.
