Page 92 of Edge of Honor

As Friday loomed and the crisis was set to explode, he didn’t know what his schedule was going to look like. He wanted every moment he could get with Claire before then.

With the canceling of the NATO cocktail reception tomorrow night, he had thought he could get an extra evening with her, but his donorshad called, tasking him with a series of meetings they wanted set up in its stead. He was going to be occupied very late. Whether he could convince her to come by once he was finally done was yet to be seen. At least they had tonight.

They would watch the presidential address and have a few laughs, all while enjoying some fabulous champagne, caviar, and oysters. Then their real fun would begin.

But no sooner had Blackwood begun thinking again of what Claire might have planned for him than he received a text from her, which read:Got pulled into a meeting. Going to be late. Start without me.

He texted back, asking how late, but she didn’t reply.

Disappointed, he opened the Ruinart, poured himself a glass, and turned on the TV. At least he could hate-watch the President’s address.

The old, rent-controlled apartment was in a neighborhood in Northwest D.C. called Woodley Park. From Claire’s office near the Treasury Annex, it was a fifteen-minute ride via taxi or twenty-five minutes by public transportation. When the weather was especially nice and she wanted to get her steps in, the walk was at least an hour.

None of the aforementioned times included the surveillance-detection routes her handler had drilled into her to take.

One of the benefits of the Woodley Park neighborhood was that it was sandwiched between two popular D.C. attractions—the National Cathedral and the National Zoo. Weather and time of day notwithstanding, they were both normally packed with tourists and provided excellent opportunities for her to ascertain whether she had a tail. And if someone was following her, she could easily use the crowds to her advantage and disappear.

Nighttime meetings, like this one, were of a different kind and provided their own challenges, as well as opportunities.

There were darkened alleys and backyards and gangways. There were also motion-activated lights, excitable dogs, and police cruisers that weren’t obvious until they were practically on top of you. She had to be exceedingly careful and always thinking three steps ahead.

Past faded blue and green garbage cans, narrow garages, and cracked concrete parking pads, she made her way along until finally arriving at her destination.

It was an ugly, three-story brick building pockmarked with window air-conditioning units decades old. The key for the service door was taped behind a large dumpster. Removing it, she opened the rear entrance and slipped inside.

There was no reason for Claire Bennet to disguise herself or avert her face. The barely maintained property had no cameras to worry about. Nonetheless, she followed her training and kept her head down, profiting where she could by staying in the shadows.

As the building’s ancient elevator was never in service, she headed for the stairs, which smelled like urine and weeks-old garbage.

The apartment she wanted was on the third floor at the end of the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she pulled out her phone, opened her messaging app, and sent a text. Seconds later, she received a response.

Stepping out into the hall, she walked quietly to the apartment and opened the door, which had been unlocked for her.

On a table, just inside, was a small, metallic box. She knew the drill. Closing and locking the door behind her, she removed her phone and placed it inside the box.

Her handler was waiting for her in the living room.

Despite the AC unit grinding away, the apartment smelled as it always did—like stale cigarettes and even staler air. She wondered if it was used for anything other than their meetings.

The blinds were drawn and only one cheap lamp was on. He was sitting in the same chair he always sat in. Looking at the plastic ashtray on the table in front of him, she saw that it was empty. He must have only just arrived.

“Did you bring it?” he asked as he motioned for her to take a seat.

She nodded and removed one of the cufflinks from her French cuff shirt as she sat down across from him. Popping it open, she withdrew the tiny memory card and handed it over.

Holding it up in the semidarkness, he examined it in the way a jeweler might look at a diamond. The difference, however, was that what he heldbetween his thumb and forefinger was more valuable than any precious stone.

Satisfied, he pulled out his keys, secreted the memory card in a specially made door fob, and returned the keys to his pocket.

“You’ve done a good job,” he stated. “We are pleased with your work.”

She was glad to hear that and couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride.

“Thank you,” she replied. “As to the next phase, I think that—”

Raising his hand, her handler cut her off. “There has been a change of plans.”

“A change of plans? I don’t understand.”

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