Terminal Run

“I can neither confirm nor deny, sir.”

“It’s John Patton, isn’t it? He ordered this?”

“Again, sir, I can neither—”

He waved the man to silence and waited for them to arrive wherever it was they were taking him. As the plane descended, he asked permission to move to a window seat, surprised when they let him shift over. The jet made a night approach toward nothingness, the absence of lights odd, as if they were landing in a deserted cornfield. This might not be the East Coast at all, he thought. Eventually the jet turned and flared out, the heavy airframe touching down gently and braking at the end of the darkened runway the aircraft turning at the end and taxiing back to where they’d touched down. The agents pulled him out of his seat as the forward hatch opened. He stepped out into warm, humid night air, insisting on taking a look around at the top of the steps at an unlit compound of aging huts and derelict outbuildings. By this time he wasn’t surprised by the lack of a greeting party.

He walked down the stairs to the runway. Immediately his escorts pulled away the rolling stairway and the big jet rolled down the still-darkened strip, its navigational beacons only coming on after it had flown away into the distance. The night was eerily quiet after the plane left.

“Where in God’s name am I?” he asked, knowing he would have no answer.

He was led to a decrepit cinderblock building’s rusted steel door. The interior was lit by a single hooded, dim lightbulb, the building some kind of garage or storage area in a state of severe disrepair, one of the vehicle bay doors broken and hanging from a hinge. He was led to a staircase, down to a dusty cobwebbed subbasement, which led to a cinderblock walled hallway. One narrow door was opened, the broom closet cluttered with cleaning gear, a stained sink, and another rusted door. The suit shut the closet door behind them and opened the second door, revealing the gleaming stainless-steel interior of an elevator. The agent shut the steel door, put his ID card on a scanner, then pressed his thumb to a second scanner. The inner door glided shut, and the elevator descended silently for some time. When the door opened, Ericcson was led down another cinderblock hallway past several steel doors, the double door on the end opening to a Spartan conference room furnished with only a generations-old oak table and ten wooden chairs, the kind that looked like they’d come from a courtroom. He was directed to take a seat. He poured himself a black cup of coffee from the service in the middle of the table.

When it was half gone the door creaked open, and he stood to greet the newcomers. He didn’t recognize one, but the other was very familiar. It was John Patton, the boss.

When Kelly McKee opened the door of his house in the sprawling Virginia Beach suburbs, he found his chief of staff standing there in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a bottle of Mer lot. It was nearly midnight on Saturday, and she was two hours late. She said nothing, handing him a note that said:

Don’t say anything. Invite me in and turn on music in the den.

He looked at the note uncertainly, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. He waved her in, took the wine to the den, and turned on a mellow disk. She frowned and produced her own music and inserted it. It was vintage head-banging rock’n’roll. She cranked the volume until he was about to complain, when she handed him the next note:

Don’t argue. Lie on the floor and fake a heart attack. This is all coming from the highest levels and will be explained to you.

He gave her a look of disbelief. Her expression was deadly serious, and he had known her for too many years and through too many battles to doubt her. He was no actor, but he handed back the note without a word, turned to look at the wine bottle, and suddenly grabbed his chest. With an expression of agony he sank to his knees, the wine bottle falling to the carpeting, McKee joining it. Above him she stood and calmly dialed her cell phone. When she spoke her voice sounded panicked, but her expression never changed.

“This is Karen Petri at 227 Hightower Road. The homeowner, Kelly McKee, is having a heart attack. He’s collapsed and in terrible pain. Yes! Please hurry. Yes.”

“Was that 911?” he asked.

“Quiet, sir,” she said, kneeling above him.

He waited, feeling absurd.

McKee was a slight figure, slightly shorter than Petri. He had a handsomely rugged face, beloved by the press, and which looked much too young to be worn by a man so senior, and it would look even younger without the trademark bushy eyebrows.