Gates of Hades by Gregg Loomis Page B

across a small table, produced a key, and unlocked the briefcase. He handed Jason a form for his signature. “I assume you know the rules: classified documents are not entrusted to persons without appropriate clearances, and all copies have to be signed for.”
    The agency employment profile did not require a sense of humor.
    Jason took a thin manila folder and quickly skimmed it. “This is the complete report of the incidents in the Bering Sea and Georgia?”
    The young man was already relocking the empty briefcase. “It was what I was given.”
    â€œAnd if I have further questions about something?”
    The agent’s face betrayed confusion. “No one told me. My instructions were to deliver that file and have you sign for it.”
    Originality of thought was not a requisite, either.
    Jason stood, stuffing the file under his belt at the small of his back and pulling his sweater down over it. “It’s been a real pleasure to meet someone as charming and witty as you. I don’t know what I would do without all your help. You want to leave first?”
    Clandestine meetings broke up one at a time because single departures did not advertise the fact that there had, in fact, been a meeting.
    The still-unnamed agent also stood, scooping a coat from the bed. “I’ll leave first. Give me five minutes.”
    Then he was gone.
    It was only when Jason picked up the remaining coat that he saw the young man had taken the wrong one. Instead of the tartan design of the Burberry’s lining, there was dark faux fur. The remaining raincoat also lacked the belt that gave Jason’s garment its distinctive shape.
    The guy had been in too big a hurry to get away to notice.
    Shit.
    Snatching up the coat, Jason rushed for the door.
    Screw procedure.
Jason wanted to retrieve his coat without having to drive all the way to Langley.
    The hall was empty, and the elevator seemed to take forever.
    As the doors sighed open, the vestibule containing the elevators was packed with a seething, shouting crowd, most of whom looked like they had come from the bar. A woman screamed; several men shouted.
    Jason edged his way toward the hotel’s exit, turning to a young woman. “What’s happening?”
    â€œSomeone’s been shot,” the man next to her said. “Shot right here.”
    The pulsating wails of police sirens were becoming increasingly audible above the crowd as Jason worked his way through the lobby. Near the revolving door that led onto the arrival porte cochere, the crowd had formed a rough circle.
    Jason felt as though he had stepped into a blast of arctic air as he peered over the heads of the people in front. He was looking at a man sprawled on the floor, a dark pool seeping into light carpet.
    The man was wearing an overcoat.
    Jason’s overcoat.

 
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C HAPTER E LEVEN
    Hay-Adams Hotel
    16th and H Streets, Washington
    An hour later
    Jason had made no effort to retrieve his rental car. Instead, he had again fought the crowds in the hotel lobby until he found his way to a side exit. Forcing himself to move at a normal, non-attention-getting pace, he took an irregular course for several blocks until he found an overhanging awning that afforded deep shadows.
    For a full five minutes he waited, watching the way he had come, before crossing the street to a Metro station. He really didn’t care where the train was headed. He simply wanted to put maximum distance between him and the overcoat-shrouded body in the hotel lobby.
    The bullet that had killed the young man from the agency had been meant for him. They could simply have traced his credit card, one issued by Narcom in the same name as his alternative passport, the same one used to rent the boat, the same boat with the key in Paco’s pocket. It would have led them straight to the hotel in CrystalCity. Then all they had to do was follow him embedded in the mass of Washington traffic, almost impossible to