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Tom opens the center drawer of his desk, starts frantically going through paper clips, scribbled names and phone numbers on cocktail napkins and scraps of paper, expired MetroCards and dead pens, until he finds his business card, creased, stained, and held together by tape.
Seeing Amy’s familiar handwriting makes his chest feel as thick as freshly poured concrete. He puts the card down on his desk, picks up a landline handset nearby, dials the number with the District of Columbia’s 202 area code.
It rings once, twice, and then goes dead.
Chapter30
IN THEsemidarkness of his cluttered office, Tom shakes his head slowly and redials the number, carefully tapping in each numeral written in Amy’s clear handwriting.
Rings once, twice, and then goes dead.
Noblew-bleepfrom a disconnected line, no frantic busy signal, no bored robotic voice telling you the line is no longer in service.
He wipes at his eyes.
Really stares at Amy’s handwriting, so much better than his own. Takes a deep breath, uses nearly thirty seconds to dial in the number again. Knowing Amy so well, he realizes there’s no chance the numbers are wrong.
Same result.
“Damn it!” as he punches the cordless phone back into the cradle.
All right, then.
Tom pushes his chair back, reaches to the floor, picks up his soft leather satchel, and digs through the side pockets with shaking hands until he pulls out a small spiral notebook with a red cover. Inside are scribbled addresses, email addresses, phone numbers. It’s his first-draft notebook where he records raw info before formalizing it in his online address book.
On the inside cover is a phone number that took him a long time to get, involving lots of lunches and drinks he paid for himself, making sure there was no expense-account trail or any other record that could get him or his sources into trouble. After Amy had given him that earlier number, he wanted a backup. Just in case.
He dials this number, and it rings once before it’s answered by a very alert and crisp male voice on the other end.
“Four-two-four-six,” the man says, saying the last four digits of the phone number.
Tom hesitates. “Is this…is this one of the night desks for the CIA? Is it?”
“Four-two-four-six,” the man says again.
“Ah, my name is Tom Cornwall,” he says. “I’m trying to get a message to my wife, Amy Cornwall. She…she works for you, and I think she’s in trouble.”
“Four-two-four-six.”
“Ah, hold on, hold on,” he says, and back into his desk he burrows, coming up with a yellowed piece of cardboard—which he hopes he will never lose—that has Amy’s dress size, bra size, shoe size, and Social Security number.
He reads out her birth date and Social Security number, then says, “Look, I know this is the CIA, so don’t screw around with me, all right? My wife is Amy Cornwall, and this is her birth date and her Social Security number.” He repeats both sets of numbers. “She was previously in the Army, 297th Military Intelligence Battalion at Fort Belvoir, and she’s been working with you for the past year. Hell, I was there when she graduated at Langley, so stop screwing around with me!”
There’s no reply on the other end.
“Please,” Tom says, trying to ease the anger in his voice. “I just want to make sure she’s okay. That’s all. I don’t care where she is, or what she’s doing. I just want to know she’s fine.”
“Hold, please,” and the line goes dead.
He waits.
Thinks he hears something out in the hallway.
Waits.
Aclick.
“Sir?”
