ribbon to show for it, and that beat a kick in the balls. Somewhere packed away were the mess jacket and black shoes of a chief bosun’s mate, along with the gold Budweiser badge of a Navy SEAL. In most Navy NCO clubs he wouldn’t have been allowed to buy his own beers, but Jesus, today the chiefs looked so damned young. Once they’d seemed like Noah himself.
But the good news was that he wasn’t dead yet. And he could look forward to honorable retirement, and maybe doing that autobiography, if Langley ever let him publish it. Not very likely. He knew a lot of things that ought not to be known, and he’d done one or two things that probably ought not to have been done, though at the time his life had ridden on that particular horse. Things like that didn’t always make sense to the people who sat at desks in the Old Headquarters Building, but for them the big part of the day was finding a good parking place and whether or not the cafeteria had spice cake on the dessert stack.
He could see Washington, D.C., out the window. The Capitol Building, the Lincoln Memorial, and George’s marble obelisk, plus the surpassingly ugly buildings that housed various government departments.
To John Terrence Clark it was just a whole city composed of headquarters pukes for whom reality was a file folder in which the papers were supposed to be properly filled out, and if a man had to shed blood to make it that way, well, that was a matter of only distant interest. Hundreds of thousands of them. Most of them had wives—or husbands—and kids, but even so it was hard not to regard them with distaste—and, on occasion, with outright hatred. But they had their world, and he had his. They might overlap, but they never really met.
“Glad to be back, John?” Sandy asked.
“Yeah, sorta.” Change was hard but inevitable. As far as where his life would go from here . . . time would tell.
The next morning Clark turned right off the George Washington Parkway, looping to the left and through the gatehouse, whose armed guard had his tag number on his list of “okay to admit” strangers. John was allowed to park in the visitors’ area just in front and to the left of the big canopy.
“So how long before they tell us to find new employment, John?” Domingo asked.
“I give it maybe forty minutes. They’ll be polite about it, I’m sure.”
And with that assessment, they exited his rented Chevy and walked to the front door, there to be met by an SPO, or security and protective officer, whom they didn’t know.
“Mr. Clark, Mr. Chavez. I’m Pete Simmons. Welcome home.”
“Good to be back,” John responded. “You are . . . ?”
“I’m an SPO, waiting for a field assignment. Got out of The Farm two months ago.”
“Who was your training officer?”
“Max DuPont.”
“Max hasn’t retired yet? Good man.”
“Good teacher. He told us a few stories about you two, and we saw the training film you did back in ’02.”
“I remember that,” Chavez observed. “Shaken, not stirred.” He had himself a brief laugh.
“I don’t drink martinis, Domingo, remember?”
“Not as good-looking as Sean Connery, either. What did you learn from the film, Simmons?”
“Keep your options open, and don’t walk in the middle of the street.” Those were, in fact, two good lessons for a field spook.
“So who’re we meeting?” Clark asked.
“Assistant Deputy Director Charles Sumner Alden, ADDO.”
“Political appointment?”
“Correct. Kennedy School, Harvard, yeah. He’s friendly enough, but sometimes I wonder if he really approves of what we do here.”
“I wonder what Ed and Mary Pat are doing now.”
“Ed’s retired,” Simmons told him. “Working on a book, I hear. Mary Pat’s over at NCTC. She’s a pistol.”
“Best instincts in a field spook I ever encountered,” Clark said. “What she says, you can take to the bank.”
“Makes you wonder why President Kealty didn’t keep her and Ed on the payroll,” Chavez observed.
Unclean, unclean, Clark thought. “How’s morale?” Clark asked on the way through the security card readers. Simmons handled that for them with a wave to the armed guard at the end of the gate line.
“Could be better. We have a lot of people running around in circles. They’re punching up the intelligence directorate, but mine was the last class through The Farm for a while, and none of us have field assignments yet.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Cop, Boston city police. I was hired under Plan Blue. My degree is from Boston