CHAPTER
52
OLD.
Architecturally impressive.
Efficiently run.
These were the thoughts running through Puller’s mind as he walked toward the Army and Navy Club on 17th Street N.W. in downtown Washington, D.C. He nodded to the men working the valet zone as he headed inside. He took the short flight of steps up and looked left and then right. He was in his dress greens. The Army was phasing out the green and the white uniforms in favor of the blue. They were in essence going back to their roots. Blue was the color chosen by the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War to distinguish the colonial fighters from their British redcoat counterparts. And it was also the color of the Union army during the Civil War.
Two big wars. Two big victories.
The military didn’t mind building on past successes.
Puller would ordinarily only wear his dress uniform to a special military occasion. He would never wear his rank uniform when interrogating someone. He recalled that when he’d been a sergeant first class, commissioned officers would look down their noses at him while he was questioning them. That no longer happened now that he was a warrant officer. And military personnel lower in rank could have their legal counsel argue that you had intimidated their clients by shoving your rank in their face. So Puller largely stuck to civilian clothes. But tonight something told him to dress up a bit.
To the right was the club’s main dining area. To the left was the reception desk. Puller eschewed both and headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
He had gotten here early for one purpose. He didn’t like other people finding him. He liked to find them first.
He reached the second floor and looked around. There were meeting rooms here and small dining areas. On the third floor was a library where there was a table with bullet holes from being overturned and used as a shield by American soldiers during a skirmish in Cuba over a century ago.
There was also another establishment on the second floor that caught Puller’s eye.
A bar. If you were looking for a soldier off post and during his off hours, you would probably matriculate to a bar.
He looked through the glass doors into the bar. There were four people in there, all male. One Army, one Navy, and two men in business suits. The suits had their ties loosened. They were looking at some papers with the guys in uniforms. Maybe a meeting that had carried over to the bar.
They clearly weren’t his mysterious texter.
He next looked around for a surveillance post and found it almost immediately. A restroom down the hall had a small anteroom with an open doorway leading back into the hall. There was a large mirror there. Puller took up position in front of it and found that it made an excellent vantage point for viewing the bar entrance.
Whenever someone came to the restroom Puller pretended to be exiting it. When they came back out, he pretended to be either adjusting his clothes in the mirror or yakking on his cell phone.
He checked his watch.
Seven on the dot.
That’s when he saw her.
She was in uniform. He had assumed that from the military time used in the text. Military folks were punctual; it became ingrained by your training.
She was in her early thirties, slender, medium height, with short dark hair framing a nice face. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and a set of dress blues; her official cap was in her right hand. He noted the silver bar on her shoulder denoting her rank as a first lieutenant. There were two types of officers in the U.S. military, commissioned and warrant officers. She was commissioned and therefore higher-ranking than Puller. Her commission came from the President of the United States, while Puller’s came from the Secretary of the Army. If he achieved the rank of chief warrant officer 2 he would receive a commission from the President. But in the military pecking order he would still be below the true commissioned officers. They had gone to West Point or ROTC or OCS. He had not. He was a specialist. They were generalists. In the Army the latter ruled the day.
She peered through the glass into the bar.
It took Puller only four long strides to reach her.
“You want to do this in private, Lieutenant?”
She whirled around and it was probably only her Army training that turned a scream into a gasp.
She gazed up at him. Female regulation shoes could have no heel higher than three inches. She had chosen the full three and still looked like a kid next to him.
When she didn’t say anything he let his gaze wander to the right side of her uniform and saw her nameplate.
“Lieutenant Strickland? You wanted to talk to me?”
His gaze wandered to the left and he studied her ribbon rows. Nothing there that would knock anyone’s socks off, and he wouldn’t have expected there to be. The Army’s combat exclusion for females limited what they could earn in the field. No blood, no glory.
He saw her gaze go to his rows of ribbons, and her eyes widened as they took in the enormity of his combat experience and military achievement.
“Lieutenant Strickland?” he said again, more gently. “You wanted to talk?”
She met his eye and changed color. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting, I mean…”
“I don’t like to be found, Lieutenant. I’d rather do the finding.”
“Yes, of course, I can see that.”
“How did you know how to text me?”
“Friend of a friend.”
He pointed to the stairs. “They have some private areas up there.”