women usually have."
"She works for the CIA. They don't allow people to keep diaries."
"It's not just that. There was nothing male in the place. No keepsake from a boyfriend, nothing. That's strange for a good-looking woman like her. There has to be someone."
"There is."
"I mean from before. Something didn't seem right to me."
"Frankly, I don't find this as strange as you do. She's a professional career type, not a bimbo. Did you have any problems getting in or out of the place?"
"None."
"Way to go, Jack. I owe you one. I mean that."
"A Minox would have been perfect to bring with her to ... the camp," Powers said. Even over a secure line, he didn't want to risk mentioning Camp David.
"I agree. But, unfortunately, the fact that she owns a miniature camera doesn't add up to much. We need her to make some unmistakable move. You'd better stay on her."
"If I sit here on Scott Circle much longer, someone is going to get wise."
"For now, continue to march."
"You're the boss."
The phone clicked.
Powers set the receiver back on the hook and headed across the lobby to the entrance. He pulled open a glass door and exited.
A taxi had pulled up in front of the apartment house. Marilyn got out of the back seat and walked to the front door. Thank God he hadn't stayed inside the apartment any longer!
The rest of the day went by slowly, and Powers listened to talk radio: the Brad Crocker Show. The topic for the evening was Crocker's proposal for Congress to allocate a portion of the New Mexico desert as a national penal colony to solve the DC prison shortage. Because Crocker selected which callers to put on the air, they all agreed with him.
Shortly after 10 P.M. a man wearing a suit walked across the street toward the apartment house from the direction of the Gramercy Hotel. As he crossed under the streetlight, Powers recognized him: CIA agent Bob Miller.
Miller walked past the front door of the apartment house and continued about fifty yards down the block. He stopped, returned to the entrance, and loitered about in front for a minute or so. Finally, he moved to the door and took a key ring from his pocket. He opened the door, entered the lobby, and stepped into an elevator.
Powers, sensing an increase in his own heart rate, noted the observation, and the time, in his log.
Nine minutes later, Miller walked out the front door of the apartment house and headed down the street.
At 11:30P.M., a sedan pulled up behind Powers's car. The lights were turned off and the door opened. It was Landry. He walked to the passenger side and climbed in.
"What's up?" Landry said.
"Get this: One of the CIA agents I met at Rehoboth showed up here earlier. A guy named Miller."
"No shit."
"He goes in, stays nine minutes, and splits. I would have followed him inside, but I didn't want to chance burning the caper. He knows me."
"He was in there long enough to drop something off ... or pick something up," Landry mused.
"On the other hand, maybe he knocked on her door and she refused to answer."
"Maybe Nassiri decided to tell the CIA about Stryker. Maybe they're conducting an investigation like we are."
"Did you find anything out at the House?" Powers asked.
Landry took out his reading glasses and some note cards. "Marilyn Kasindorf is a CIA employee assigned to the National Security Council as an analyst. The Special Projects unit is a National Security Council study group-high-level foreign strategy stuff. She's never married, has a master's degree in international relations, and plays on the CIA women's softball team. She uses a desk in the Special Projects Office when she comes to the White House but reports to a permanent office somewhere else-but not Langley. Her name is on the Oval Office log. The reason for her visits is always listed as 'briefing.'"
"Any CIA employee allowed to brief the President would be at staff level. Patterson must have picked her for the job himself."
"Patterson's known for dirty tricks."
Powers loosened
"She works for the CIA. They don't allow people to keep diaries."
"It's not just that. There was nothing male in the place. No keepsake from a boyfriend, nothing. That's strange for a good-looking woman like her. There has to be someone."
"There is."
"I mean from before. Something didn't seem right to me."
"Frankly, I don't find this as strange as you do. She's a professional career type, not a bimbo. Did you have any problems getting in or out of the place?"
"None."
"Way to go, Jack. I owe you one. I mean that."
"A Minox would have been perfect to bring with her to ... the camp," Powers said. Even over a secure line, he didn't want to risk mentioning Camp David.
"I agree. But, unfortunately, the fact that she owns a miniature camera doesn't add up to much. We need her to make some unmistakable move. You'd better stay on her."
"If I sit here on Scott Circle much longer, someone is going to get wise."
"For now, continue to march."
"You're the boss."
The phone clicked.
Powers set the receiver back on the hook and headed across the lobby to the entrance. He pulled open a glass door and exited.
A taxi had pulled up in front of the apartment house. Marilyn got out of the back seat and walked to the front door. Thank God he hadn't stayed inside the apartment any longer!
The rest of the day went by slowly, and Powers listened to talk radio: the Brad Crocker Show. The topic for the evening was Crocker's proposal for Congress to allocate a portion of the New Mexico desert as a national penal colony to solve the DC prison shortage. Because Crocker selected which callers to put on the air, they all agreed with him.
Shortly after 10 P.M. a man wearing a suit walked across the street toward the apartment house from the direction of the Gramercy Hotel. As he crossed under the streetlight, Powers recognized him: CIA agent Bob Miller.
Miller walked past the front door of the apartment house and continued about fifty yards down the block. He stopped, returned to the entrance, and loitered about in front for a minute or so. Finally, he moved to the door and took a key ring from his pocket. He opened the door, entered the lobby, and stepped into an elevator.
Powers, sensing an increase in his own heart rate, noted the observation, and the time, in his log.
Nine minutes later, Miller walked out the front door of the apartment house and headed down the street.
At 11:30P.M., a sedan pulled up behind Powers's car. The lights were turned off and the door opened. It was Landry. He walked to the passenger side and climbed in.
"What's up?" Landry said.
"Get this: One of the CIA agents I met at Rehoboth showed up here earlier. A guy named Miller."
"No shit."
"He goes in, stays nine minutes, and splits. I would have followed him inside, but I didn't want to chance burning the caper. He knows me."
"He was in there long enough to drop something off ... or pick something up," Landry mused.
"On the other hand, maybe he knocked on her door and she refused to answer."
"Maybe Nassiri decided to tell the CIA about Stryker. Maybe they're conducting an investigation like we are."
"Did you find anything out at the House?" Powers asked.
Landry took out his reading glasses and some note cards. "Marilyn Kasindorf is a CIA employee assigned to the National Security Council as an analyst. The Special Projects unit is a National Security Council study group-high-level foreign strategy stuff. She's never married, has a master's degree in international relations, and plays on the CIA women's softball team. She uses a desk in the Special Projects Office when she comes to the White House but reports to a permanent office somewhere else-but not Langley. Her name is on the Oval Office log. The reason for her visits is always listed as 'briefing.'"
"Any CIA employee allowed to brief the President would be at staff level. Patterson must have picked her for the job himself."
"Patterson's known for dirty tricks."
Powers loosened
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