Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

It felt as if something were crawling up his back. “Did you say ‘MacLean’?”

“Dylan…she is his daughter. Kenneth MacLean’s daughter.”

Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia

Monday, December 22, 12:05 p.m.

Dr. Carl Frankfurt led his client through the final security checkpoint, and then to the front doors. Parked near the sidewalk was an old white Chrysler with its four-way flashers on.

“That must be your sister. Why didn’t she just come into the lobby?”

“She’s afraid of prisons, Doctor. And who could blame her?”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. She didn’t even visit you since you’ve been here.”

“Well, she’s a good soul. She’s never denied me help when I’ve asked.”

“You’re fortunate. I wish that every other resident here had support like that.” Frankfurt faced the man and stuck out his hand. “This is a big step for you. Enjoy the next few days.”

His client took the hand and clasped it in both of his. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Merry Christmas, Adrian.”

“Oh, it will be that.”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Monday, December 22, 4:32 p.m.

She emerged from the Old Headquarters Building and pulled her coat tight around her, trying to shield herself against the frigid, buffeting wind. Snow was in the forecast. The thin bare limbs of the trees around the CIA campus clawed at the darkening sky like black, skeletal fingers. The clouds reminded her of dirty padding spilling from a torn mattress.

Head bent forward against the wind, she walked rapidly toward the lot where her car awaited her.

And her decision.

Of all the days of the past weeks, this one had been the most difficult. She had not been able to eat breakfast or lunch. She drank coffee only to relieve the headache from caffeine deprivation-and the stress. She avoided Garrett, hunkering down in her office, going through the motions of working, but accomplishing nothing.

All because she had been dreading this moment. This decision.

As she reached her car, she pressed the key fob button. The vehicle’s lights flashed twice in response. She entered, tossing her purse onto the passenger-side floor. Because there was a manila envelope on the seat itself.

She sat motionless for a moment, gloved hands on her lap. She listened to the wind rising and falling, felt it rock the car, almost imperceptibly.

She took off her thin gloves deliberately, one finger at a time. Placed them carefully on the seat beside her, next to the envelope. Looked at it for a moment, then picked it up and held it a few seconds.

She had to face this now. Once and for all.

She straightened the metal clasp on the envelope. Opened it. Withdrew the sealed plastic sandwich bag and held it before her, staring at its contents.

Eight small, dark, half-moon shapes.

Her gaze moved automatically to her fingertips. To the nails that she had clipped short on Sunday morning. At his place. Before she showered.

She looked at the clock on the dash. Cronin would be in his office until five. She could call him, right now. And when she told him what she had, he would wait.

She reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and caught her reflection. Just her eyes, imprisoned in a horizontal rectangle. They were like the sky: dull gray, bleak, empty.

You have to decide.

Who and what will you betray today?

She shut her eyes. Held them closed a moment more.

Decided.

She replaced the plastic bag within the envelope. Fastened the clasp. Placed the envelope on the seat again.

Then she keyed over the ignition. Backed out of her parking space. Headed for the exit.

She did not look into the rearview mirror again.

Bethesda, Maryland

Wednesday, December 24, 11:21 a.m.

Hunter stood in the middle of the living room, going over things in his head one more time, just in case he missed anything.

He’d never kept much here in the way of personal items, and he’d moved a lot of it out, a bit at a time, in recent weeks. What little was left now was in the trunk of the car downstairs.

He had already packed his bug-out bag and had Luna’s pet carrier ready to go. He’d shredded the files from the hidden drawer in the bookcase, stuck the other items in the bug-out bag. Though the computer was still up and running, he planned to take it with him. But just in case he couldn’t, the hard drive was ready to be pulled out and transported. Or destroyed at the touch of a button, if it came to that.

He had also moved his other vehicles late last night to one of his other safe locations before returning here by Metro. That left only the BMW downstairs, which they still didn’t know about, and which he’d use to make his escape.

Today, after rising before dawn, he packed the last towels and bed sheets. Then he scrubbed down everything, every surface, and followed up by vacuuming floors, curtains, rugs, and upholstery. He had a garbage bag waiting for Luna’s litter box and food dish, which he’d take with him tonight and dump somewhere.

This afternoon, the professional cleaning company would come in and do the whole thing again, including the carpets. Whistle-clean for the holidays-that’s what he’d told them he needed. And a big bonus if you do an absolutely immaculate job, everywhere. Don’t leave a crumb. I have a sister with life-threatening allergies, you see…

That about covered things. The rest, he could handle by phone and mail, from remote locations.

He took a seat on a wooden bar stool at the kitchen counter, making sure not to touch any surface with his hands. Now, to think about the hours ahead.

They were up to something; that was certain.

He had left the GPS tracker program open on the computer. She had not gone to work back at the Agency on Tuesday or today. In fact, her car had not left her driveway since Monday night. Nor had the police stakeout resumed here.

That made no sense. No sense at all. They were preparing something, and no doubt trying to lull him into lowering his guard.

But he was one step ahead of them. He would bail out of here before they arrived, and vanish again. Right after tonight’s mission.

The cat wandered in, stopping to look at him and sniff the air, wondering about the lingering ammonia smell. She made a small rrrrr noise; it sounded like an inquiry.

“I know, girl. I liked it here, too. But remember: There’s always Grayson’s place downstairs.”

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, December 24, 2:14 p.m.

He walked up to the front desk of the Hotel Royal Summit and smiled at the pretty young clerk.

“Hi. My name is Shane Stone, and I’m here regarding the MacLean function this evening. They told me to talk to Sarah in event planning.”

The girl smiled. “I’ll call her,” she said, reaching for the house phone.

After she made the call, he added, “Also, I believe you have a guest room key card for tonight, reserved for me by Mr. Wayne Grayson?”

“Let me check, sir… Here it is,” she said, handing it over. “Number 315. I see that it’s prepaid for you, Mr. Stone. I hope you’ll enjoy your evening.”

“I’m sure I will. Merry Christmas.”

Within moments, a thin, middle-aged woman with short, bleached-blonde hair marched across the lobby and up to them, her heels making clip-clop sounds on the marble floor.

“Yes, sir. I’m Sarah Wright. May I help you?”

He smiled at her, too. “Shane Stone. Wayne Grayson contracted with my company to prepare the multimedia video they’ll be playing tonight. I’m here to check out and augment the audio-visual system. He told me the two of you met and made the arrangements.”

“That’s right. I’m glad you’re here early. Let me show you to the Grand Ballroom.”