The American by Andrew Britton Page A

dented black mailbox marked only by the house number. Hale’s driveway had been recently paved, but was still almost as overgrown as the main road. The branches scraped against the side of her vehicle as she drove deeper into the dense vegetation.
    Suddenly the trees were gone and Naomi’s rented Explorer broke into a vast field of wild grass. At the very center stood a large ante-bellum mansion. The front was dominated by a white portico that reflected the red light of the fading sun. The portico was held above the ground by four towering Doric columns, which led in turn to a gabled roof sweeping down to end chimneys that occupied both sides of the house. High windows were shadowed by a trellis overrun with fading vines of blue wisteria, Confederate jasmine, and Lady Bankshire roses. Despite the onset of winter, the pleasant smell of the flowering plants was heavy in the air as Naomi parked the Explorer and walked up to the front door.
    Her first knocks went unanswered, and trying the door, she found it locked. Moving around to the rear of the house, she noticed a mud-caked red Chevy pickup parked on a bare patch of ground. Walking over to the vehicle, she placed the palm of her good arm on the hood and felt that it was warm, the engine ticking as it cooled.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    She whirled at the voice. Standing before her was a large man wearing a faded-red flannel shirt, brown corduroy pants, and muddy hiking boots. His hair was white and his shoulders stooped with age, but his vivid blue eyes seemed to compensate for the physical toll the years had obviously taken on his body.
    â€œI said, what are you doing?” he asked again.
    She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Hi, my name is Naomi Kharmai. I’m looking for General Hale.” The man looked her up and down quickly, and then swallowed her small hand in his. She could feel rough calluses running over her own smooth knuckles.
    â€œWell, you found him. What can I do for you?” he asked.
    Naomi held out her credentials, which Hale quickly examined.
    â€œI’m with the Agency, and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about some soldiers that were under your command at Fort Bragg,” she said.
    Immediately, his face clouded with suspicion.
    â€œI understand completely if you want to call for verification. The number for the switchboard is—”
    â€œI’ll get the number. Follow me.”
    He walked around to the rear of the house, a shaded, white wooden porch coming into view. Naomi trailed awkwardly behind, the spiked heels of her knee-high leather boots sinking into the muddy ground.
    Hale noticed and laughed heartily. “You picked the wrong shoes for Georgia, Ms. Kharmai.” He reached the screen door of the porch and, to her amusement, held it open for her.
    â€œWhy don’t you have a seat here? I’ll be back in a few. Can I get you anything?”
    â€œNo, I’m fine, thank you,” she said. Holding her identification by his side, he walked into the main house, disappearing from sight. She turned her attention to the view before her. The sky was something to see after the heavy clouds moving over Washington; ripples of purple, red, and gold were smeared across the orange sky, the sun dipping low on the horizon. The fields behind the house were empty, but far in the distance she could make out several low-slung clapboard buildings framed against a line of gnarled, ancient trees.
    She was startled by the sound of the screen door squealing open on rusty hinges. Hale reappeared with a bottle of beer in one hand. He handed Naomi her credentials and eased his weight into a chair of wrought iron across from her.
    â€œWell, you checked out, young lady. I’m a little confused, though. Seems like you could get any information you needed from John.”
    â€œYou know Deputy Director Harper?”
    â€œOh, sure,” Hale responded, an easy grin spreading over his worn features.