Harry adjusted the night-vision goggles to his eyes as he made his way through the subterranean darkness. The tunnel was the second reason he had stayed in Cypress, in the old family house. Judging by a date chiseled into a limestone rock near the manor house entrance, the tunnel had been constructed in the early days of the Civil War, as a means of traveling unseen between the manor and the stables. When the barn had been renovated in the 1960s, the exit had been covered up by rubble and never uncovered during the lobbyist’s occupancy.
Harry had finally secured the second property following the death of the owner and used it as his own personal safehouse, registering the deed in the name of a close colleague at the Agency.
Wooden stairs appeared, their outline a dark green through the lens of the goggles. He paused at their bottom to unzip his jacket, withdrawing the.45 from its holster. Time to roll…
“Where are we at, Vic?”
Vic sighed in exasperation. “Do I have to answer that question every five minutes?”
“Just nervous, I guess. Nichols still hasn’t left this bogus property and no lights have been turned on. It’s like he’s waiting for something.”
“He’s a career operator. Cautious. Can you blame him? Believe me, that caution extends to his computer security. It’s one of the most thorough jobs I’ve ever seen.”
“Nice to know my work is appreciated,” a new voice cut in. Vic whirled on heel to find himself staring into the muzzle of a.45 Colt. The man behind the gun was tall, his height seemingly accentuated by a pair of NVGs perched atop his head. Cold blue eyes stared down the barrel of the Colt at Vic. But he knew the face well, from a dozen surveillance photos taken over the last week. Harold Nichols.
“Take off the wire and give it here,” Nichols instructed carefully, his voice even. Determined. The look on his face told Vic he would shoot without hesitation if his orders were not followed.
The CIA man took the microphone from him and crushed it against the floor, his gaze never wavering. “Now, I don’t need to know who you are. Names are irrelevant and I know you’re the man who was following us at the service station five days ago. What I want to know is who you’re working for.”
Vic took a deep breath. “My ID is in my wallet-may I?”
A smile crossed Nichols’ face and he cocked his head. “Left hand, and do it slowly. Very slowly.”
Harry watched the man as he reached into his back pocket, moving awkwardly with his left hand. The wallet came back out and fell open, disclosing a blue shield. The man smiled suddenly. “Special Agent Victor Caruso. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation…”
Carter came bustling through the door of the op-center with his jacket over his arm, a cup of steaming coffee in his right hand and a bagel clenched firmly between his teeth.
“I’ve got a call for you, Ron,” Michelle announced, looking up from her terminal. “Harold Nichols, on your secure line.”
He rolled his eyes and gestured toward her with the cup of coffee. “I’ll transfer it to your workstation,” she replied.
He mumbled something that might have been “thanks” and hurried to his cubicle, punching the speaker button as he bit off a chunk of bagel and deposited his coffee beside the computer. “Good grief, Harry,” he began with his mouth full, “do you suppose you could have picked a busier time to call? I haven’t been here five minutes and we’re already running damage control on an international situation. Everything’s gotta be tight before the intelligence briefing in an hour. Is this important?”
“I’m sitting here in my den with a gun pointed at a burglar who claims to be working for the Bureau. So, no, to answer your question, it’s not important,” Harry retorted acidly. “Not important at all.”
Harry looked from the picture on his TACSAT’s screen to the handcuffed man sitting in front of him and back again. “You check out,” he announced finally.
The FBI agent smiled. “What did I tell you? Now safe that blamed pistol before you hurt somebody with it.”
“We’re not done yet,” Harry announced, rising from his chair, the cocked.45 still leveled at the agent’s mid-section. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here, in my house.”
Caruso looked back at him, unruffled. “As a federal agent without powers of arrest, you don’t have the authority to interrogate me regarding the nature of my warrant.”
Taking him by the collar of his jacket, Harry pulled the agent to his feet, propelling him toward the door. “For now, it’ll suffice that I’m the guy with the gun. Come on, we’ve got a trip to take.”
The first faint traces of dawn were creeping over the Piedmont as the pair exited from the side door of the house. Harry pushed the FBI man toward the large outbuilding that served as his garage.
