Andrew Britton - The American

After all, if he was going to be unproductive, he would at least be comfortable in the meantime. Soon he was coming back up the street, warmer in the leather jacket that still bore the tears and scuff marks from the Kennedy-Warren, and ready to begin what was sure to be a long and pointless search.

Jared Howson didn’t have the benefit of a jacket over his uniform, and had been cold ever since his shift had started nearly two hours earlier. He would have welcomed the relative, and certainly heated, comfort of the 1st District Station on 4th, but knew it could have been worse. After all, he only had this one street to worry about, and it wasn’t hard work. Simply look at the car, call in the license plate, do a quick visual scan, and move on to the next one. That was all the information he’d been given, but Howson had been on the force long enough to realize that the extra security had something to do with the presidential boating trip and the terrorist attacks that had rocked the city less than a month earlier. He had been as outraged as any American over what had taken place, and even more so than most because he was a guardian of law in this particular city, and those bastards thought they could come here and blow up innocent people…

Just thinking about it always got to him, and he had to shake off the rising anger as he finished with a blue Toyota and moved on to the next vehicle. It was a large commercial van, and exactly the kind of thing he had been told to look for. A Ford Econoline, he could see, with Virginia plates and a dented exterior that had seen more than its fair share of fender benders. He was about to call in the tag number when he realized that the passenger door was open, and a man was retrieving something from inside the van.

“Excuse me, sir. Sir…?”

The man looked up, a notebook in his hand, wearing a big, friendly smile beneath the heavy beard. “Yes?”

Howson caught the accent right off the bat. “Is this your vehicle?”

“Yes, it is mine.”

Howson studied him carefully. In his pocket he had the same sheet of paper that had been distributed to the Secret Service agents at the marina, and he had taken the time to look at it back in the station. This man didn’t really resemble any of the superimposed photographs, although the general shape of the face was about right…

But that was true for at least 30 percent of the population, and the hair was all wrong. On top of that, the subject’s eyes were reportedly a vivid shade of green, and Howson was staring into flat brown eyes the color of oak. Not to mention the fact that the man was clearly French.

Still, just to be safe: “Do you have some identification, sir?”

The man hurried to comply, pulling his passport out of his heavy coat. “Of course, of course. Right here, monsieur.”

Howson accepted the burgundy booklet and peered at the cover: Communaute Europeenne, and beneath that, Republique Francaise. Inside, all the requisite information for one Claude Bidault and what appeared to be a U.S. entry stamp, although he wasn’t exactly sure what that was supposed to look like. Howson had never left the country, nor had he ever suffered from a burning desire to do so.

Satisfied, he handed the passport back to the man, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the officer’s inquiries.

“What is all this… activity? This is not usual, yes?”

“Actually, sir, your president is in town to meet with ours. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it.”

“Ah…” The man beamed as though suddenly recalling that little fact, but the light of epiphany never reached his eyes. “That is correct. A big meeting, n’est-ce pas?”

The young police officer had to smile in response. “Yes, that’s right.” He moved closer to the van, taking the time to look through the back windows. Electrical equipment. A lot of it. “You’re an electrician, sir?”

The man nodded enthusiastically. “ Oui. I am with the big project on M Street. There is a new restaurant they are building there. Work is not so easy to find in Paris, you know. So I come here to work, and send the money back to my sister. She looks after my little ones.”

“Your wife?”

Howson watched a look of pain cross the man’s grizzled features. “She… How do you say? Passed away? When giving birth to my girl, my little Mirabelle. Four years ago next week.”

“Oh.” Howson could have kicked himself. Better to shut your mouth now, a little voice told him, before you do any more damage. “Well, sir, thanks for your time. You have a good afternoon, okay?”

The smile reappeared. “Merci, monsieur. Et vous aussi.”

The police officer watched as the man closed the passenger-side door, then walked back toward the stairs leading up to the hotel’s main entrance. Howson hadn’t seen him emerge in the first place, but now he looked up at the building’s facade and frowned. The Marriott in this part of town was at least 180 dollars a night. Why would a construction company, even for a major project, pay that kind of money to put up an independent contractor? It didn’t make any sense, and the thought lingered on the edge of his mind as he resumed his task.

The concern remained, though it was soon overshadowed by what seemed like a distant memory of a heated building and a full pot of hot coffee. The convergence of these two trains of thought left little room for anything else, and Howson failed to realize that he had not called in the plates on the Frenchman’s Econoline van.

She had never bothered asking Harrison for one of his agents, instead settling for the use of one of the vehicles in the staging area. As a result, Naomi Kharmai, midlevel analyst in the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center, had no more authority in northern Virginia than that of a private citizen.

She was in the restroom of a gas station directly opposite Milbery Realty. Looking in the mirror, she saw a woman who might have just emerged from a car wreck, except that she would have looked much better had that been the case. Her borrowed blue cargo pants were torn and dirty from lying in the field for hours on end, and the pullover was noticeably singed in several places. Her hair was matted and dirty, and the clothes she wore were thoroughly damp with melted snow. Her nose was totally stuffed up because she had a cold coming on, but she guessed that she probably didn’t smell that great either.

Worst of all were her eyes. They reflected what she had recently seen, made her look scared when she needed to be confident and assertive, at least for the next few hours. Then she would be free to have her breakdown, which she was actually beginning to look forward to. After several minutes of scrubbing and adjusting, she emerged from the restroom looking just marginally better. She purchased two large cups of coffee from the attendant and tried to avoid his curious gaze.

She left the car where it was and crossed the street, simultaneously glancing at her watch. It was almost 11:30, much later than she would have liked for this conversation to occur, but tracking down Lindsay Hargrove had proven to be an incredibly time-consuming task. Naomi had finally managed to get hold of Hargrove’s sister in Clarksburg, West Virginia, where Lindsay had apparently been staying for the week. She was now heading back to Virginia, and unfortunately didn’t carry a cell phone. The sister had informed Naomi, however, that Lindsay fully intended to stop by the office on her way home.

And that was why she was here. The woman she wanted to talk to was a long shot for additional information, but better than nothing at all. Hargrove, whose name had been on the Missing Persons Report faxed to the TTIC, had seemed like a better bet than the realtor’s husband, who wouldn’t have had any reason to meet his wife’s clients. Hargrove, on the other hand, had been working for Nicole Milbery for the past four years. Naomi was guessing that the woman might know more than she thought she did, despite the fact that she had already talked to the sheriff’s office. At this point, all Naomi could do was hope that they might have been asking the wrong questions.