John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

“Welcome to our very small club,” he said.

Jonathan arrived ten minutes early.

The Maple Inn on Maple Avenue in the heart of Vienna, Virginia, had been a meeting place for spies and miscreants for decades. Known locally for its chipped floors and do-it-yourself coffee station, the Inn poured more beer than restaurants three times its size, and hauled cash in by the bucketful, one chili dog at a time. Actually, it was two chili dogs at a time, because no one had the willpower to stop after one.

Situated six and a half miles south of CIA Headquarters, the Maple Inn provided neutral ground, where known sworn enemies could occasionally sit down and discuss matters that would forever remain off the record, even as they changed the course of history. Jonathan had first come to know the place back during his days with the Unit, when his own duties occasionally required him to eavesdrop on conversations that weren’t as off the record as the participants might have thought.

He loved the food and the cheerful atmosphere, and appreciated the unofficial role it played in shaping policy and strategy. Dozens of such hangouts existed throughout the world, but this was the closest one to Fisherman’s Cove, and it was therefore a common place for him to break bread with his contacts.

As he approached across the packed parking lot, he noted the unmarked black government vehicle backed into a spot close to Maple Avenue, and knew that Wolverine had beaten him here. The beefy guy sitting behind the wheel with the pigtail wire in his ear looked none too pleased to be excluded. Jonathan thought about offering him a friendly little wave, but in the end opted for discretion. Venice would have been proud.

Jonathan pulled the door and entered, unleashing the wall of noise that was typical at lunchtime, which at the Inn ran from noon to midnight. Even though he knew where he’d find Wolverine, he made a cursory scan of the inhabitants to reassure himself that it was safe to proceed. His concerns had little to do with violence-given the clientele, if you pulled a gun in this place, you’d be torn in half by the cross-fire. What he really worried about were nosy observers with cameras.

It would advance no one’s agenda for Jonathan and Wolverine to be spotted together. They never spoke on the record, which was why Dom D’Angelo always made the arrangements for them to make contact.

Confident that his anonymity would be maintained, he navigated through the first line of booths, and then around to the far side of the bar, where he saw Wolverine nestled into the farthest, darkest corner on the left. Whether by happenstance or design, the acoustics of the corner made it ideal for clandestine conversation. You didn’t have to shout to be heard, yet the ambient noise of the room made casual eavesdropping virtually impossible.

When she saw him, she smiled. And what a smile it was. Wolverine was a holdover code name from years ago, when Uncle Sam had been a client. While they’d occasionally found themselves on opposite sides of certain tactical decisions, Jonathan had always liked her. Now that she was the Irene Rivers, director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he admired her even more. Not only was she the first female to hold the seat, she was the only director in history to actually step out for occasional field work.

He leaned in for the cheek-peck that would sell their cover, and as always, he sensed that she kind of liked it. “Hi, Irene,” he said as he sat in the seat that placed his back to the room. He much preferred to be oriented the other way, but if anyone could cover his back-literally-Irene would be as good a choice as any.

“Hi, Digger. Long time, no see.”

He smirked, “Well, with you being a rock star and all, I figured you didn’t have time for us little guys anymore.” The last time they’d worked together-if that’s what you could really call it-Jonathan’s discovery of a cache of chemical weapons had brought a lot of great press to the Bureau in general, and to Irene in particular.

“Alas, fame is such a fleeting thing. Things are changing since the new sheriff came to town.” He knew she was referring to the new president. “The way we used to do things doesn’t fly anymore.”

“You mean that part where we used to fight to win?”

Irene gave a wry smile and shook her head. “We still win,” she said. “It’s just that the strategy has changed. We pretend that our enemies like us now, so that takes all of the pressure off.” She sighed and took a long sip of water. “Speaking of pretending, that was a clever bit of work this morning. George Washington’s birthplace, for God’s sake.” The chuckle became a laugh.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jonathan said, but he made no effort to bluff with his eyes. Given what these two had on each other, neither had any cause to play that game.

“Did you get any good information from him?” Irene asked.

A waitress approached from the area of the kitchen, but when she saw Jonathan shake his head, she turned on her heel to become scarce.

Jonathan leaned on his elbows and beckoned with his fingers for Irene to lean closer. “We’ve had a lot of interesting times, Wolfie. Please don’t start gaming me now.”

She recoiled, offended. “What do-”

“They came into the school I built,” Jonathan said. He felt his temper fraying. “They shot the place up, critically wounded one of the most decent men on earth, and they took two boys in the middle of the night. Don’t. Play. Games with me.”

Irene’s veneer of disgruntlement faltered just long enough that even she knew that her bluff had been called.

“You know who did this,” Jonathan said.

Irene glared at the table as she considered her options. “No,” she said. “We think we know who planned it. And we definitely know why.”

“Are you squeezing Arthur Guinn?” Jonathan asked, cutting straight to the heart of it all.

This time, her face showed genuine surprise. “Wow,” she said. “You’re good.”

Part of him worried that she would lose respect in him if he ’fessed up to how ridiculously easy it had been to figure out. “Is it Sammy Bell?”

Irene’s eyes darted around the room, no doubt searching for eavesdroppers. “Honestly, Digger, no one’s supposed to know any of this.”

“And Evan Guinn and Jeremy Schuler are supposed to be in English class now. Funny how things don’t always turn out the way you want.” He was careful to imply that Jeremy was still missing. “Sammy Bell?”

Irene sighed. “We think it’s him. Obviously, if we had evidence to that effect, we’d have him in custody. But yes, we’ve reached a deal with Arthur Guinn that would get him a new identity if he came clean with his activities for the old Slater operation. On the second day of questioning, the kidnapping happened. We’ve already received a picture of Evan in custody holding today’s Washington Post.”

“I want a copy,” Jonathan said.

“I’ve got the best photo analysts in the world-”

“I want a copy,” Jonathan repeated, this time more forcefully.

She took a second. “Fine.”

“And I want to speak with Arthur Guinn.”

“Not possible.” She raised a finger as he inhaled to argue. “Don’t bother. That is one thousand percent off the table.”

Jonathan had expected that to be the case. When people went into witness protection, the secrecy had to be absolute, or else what would be the sense? “I want transcripts, then.”

Irene shook her head. “No.” Her eyes were hard as obsidian. Another nonnegotiable point. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want your help.”

“On the record or off?”

Her expression said, “Don’t be an idiot.”