various adventures that Jonathan Grave had gotten him into over the years. Looking back, he wouldn’t change a thing.
His mission this afternoon was to meet with Wolverine—Jonathan’s code name for FBI Director Irene Rivers—to get a handle on the Bureau’s version of this situation in Mexico. Historically, Irene had been as staunch an ally to Jonathan and Security Solutions as anyone could hope for. The fact that the FBI was one of the agencies calling for his arrest was beyond concerning. It was downright scary.
Irene had run interference for Jonathan’s adventures for years, helping to manufacture plausible deniability, and in at least one case intervening personally with the law enforcement process to keep the heat off Jonathan’s extra-legal activities. While her intentions weren’t always pure—often as not, she and her Bureau got credit for Jonathan’s successes—she’d always been a straight shooter. That she’d ordered his arrest without so much as an inquiring phone call had left them all baffled.
Dom traveled empty-handed as he always did for meetings like this. With nothing committed to paper, there were no records to steal or subpoena. As far as the world would be concerned—and in this case, the world consisted of curious passersby and nosy investigators—this would be a meeting between a woman and her priest. That the woman was the chief law enforcer in the United States wouldn’t matter. Official Washington might reject the utterance of God’s name, but they still respected individuals’ rights to commune with Him through his human emissaries.
He felt himself sweating through his black shirt as he climbed the subway station’s broken escalator into sunlight, and finally out into the stifling city air. Back in the day, Washington had been considered a hardship post for foreign diplomats, and it didn’t take more than three minutes in the August sunshine to understand why. Ninety-eight humidity-soaked degrees hung on his skin like a wet wool coat.
Like any summer afternoon in the District, the Mall teemed with tourists, moving in swarms toward the various museums that defined that part of the city.
He hadn’t walked twenty steps when he saw Irene on the far side of Jefferson Drive, SW, rising from a bench outside the Ripley Center, which sat adjacent to the Smithsonian Castle. Dom thought it an appropriate meeting place, given the nature of their conversation. The Ripley Center was itself a structure out of a spy novel, with an entrance that looked like a large information kiosk. The average tourist would have no idea that the kiosk led to cavernous gallery and teaching spaces underground.
Irene wore a Hillary Clinton pantsuit and sported a wide hat that sheltered her from the sun. Truthfully, it was an unusual look for her. In fact, she looked different in other ways, too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. On either side, but separated by fifteen or twenty feet, two members of her security detail stood watch. If Irene was doing her best to remain unnoticed, the guards, with their business suits, high-and-tight haircuts, and curlicue earpieces, weren’t helping.
As Irene stood, the security guys moved in closer, and a third one materialized out of the crowd to form a kind of phalanx to escort her away from Dom and toward the black Suburban that doubled for executive limousines in these days of heightened security in Washington.
Dom stopped as he saw her leaving, and checked his watch. He was right on time. Two minutes early, in fact. She’d never stood him up before.
He raised his arm to call after her.
He stopped, though, when he was blindsided by a tourist who pushed him to the ground. Dom caught himself with his hands, but there was a good chance that he’d put a hole in the knee of his trousers.
“Oh, God, Father, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Dom looked up to see what could only be a vacationing computer programmer. Maybe forty years old, he guy wore
His mission this afternoon was to meet with Wolverine—Jonathan’s code name for FBI Director Irene Rivers—to get a handle on the Bureau’s version of this situation in Mexico. Historically, Irene had been as staunch an ally to Jonathan and Security Solutions as anyone could hope for. The fact that the FBI was one of the agencies calling for his arrest was beyond concerning. It was downright scary.
Irene had run interference for Jonathan’s adventures for years, helping to manufacture plausible deniability, and in at least one case intervening personally with the law enforcement process to keep the heat off Jonathan’s extra-legal activities. While her intentions weren’t always pure—often as not, she and her Bureau got credit for Jonathan’s successes—she’d always been a straight shooter. That she’d ordered his arrest without so much as an inquiring phone call had left them all baffled.
Dom traveled empty-handed as he always did for meetings like this. With nothing committed to paper, there were no records to steal or subpoena. As far as the world would be concerned—and in this case, the world consisted of curious passersby and nosy investigators—this would be a meeting between a woman and her priest. That the woman was the chief law enforcer in the United States wouldn’t matter. Official Washington might reject the utterance of God’s name, but they still respected individuals’ rights to commune with Him through his human emissaries.
He felt himself sweating through his black shirt as he climbed the subway station’s broken escalator into sunlight, and finally out into the stifling city air. Back in the day, Washington had been considered a hardship post for foreign diplomats, and it didn’t take more than three minutes in the August sunshine to understand why. Ninety-eight humidity-soaked degrees hung on his skin like a wet wool coat.
Like any summer afternoon in the District, the Mall teemed with tourists, moving in swarms toward the various museums that defined that part of the city.
He hadn’t walked twenty steps when he saw Irene on the far side of Jefferson Drive, SW, rising from a bench outside the Ripley Center, which sat adjacent to the Smithsonian Castle. Dom thought it an appropriate meeting place, given the nature of their conversation. The Ripley Center was itself a structure out of a spy novel, with an entrance that looked like a large information kiosk. The average tourist would have no idea that the kiosk led to cavernous gallery and teaching spaces underground.
Irene wore a Hillary Clinton pantsuit and sported a wide hat that sheltered her from the sun. Truthfully, it was an unusual look for her. In fact, she looked different in other ways, too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. On either side, but separated by fifteen or twenty feet, two members of her security detail stood watch. If Irene was doing her best to remain unnoticed, the guards, with their business suits, high-and-tight haircuts, and curlicue earpieces, weren’t helping.
As Irene stood, the security guys moved in closer, and a third one materialized out of the crowd to form a kind of phalanx to escort her away from Dom and toward the black Suburban that doubled for executive limousines in these days of heightened security in Washington.
Dom stopped as he saw her leaving, and checked his watch. He was right on time. Two minutes early, in fact. She’d never stood him up before.
He raised his arm to call after her.
He stopped, though, when he was blindsided by a tourist who pushed him to the ground. Dom caught himself with his hands, but there was a good chance that he’d put a hole in the knee of his trousers.
“Oh, God, Father, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Dom looked up to see what could only be a vacationing computer programmer. Maybe forty years old, he guy wore