At least the driver of the car that picked him up at the terminal was military'a regular army corporal with a stubbled dimple on the back of his head. In Georgetown the corporal gave him a snappy salute and indicated the door of a building Clark had never seen before. It was not the same building where he'd met with the Civilian the first time, nor was it anywhere near the Pentagon. There was no sign on the door except for the street number.
Inside he found what must have been a cheap hotel at one point in its life-cycle. It had been converted into office space, the rooms on the first floor broken down into cubicles, but it took Clark a while to find anyone inside. Finally a man in a buttoned-down white shirt lead him to a conference room and knocked on the door. Inside the Civilian sat silhouetted before dust-and fly-specked Venetian blinds, a fresh box of Marshmallow Peeps on the table in front of him. 'Mission creep,' he said, and stuffed one of the treats in his mouth.
Clark removed his cover and stepped forward. 'I have something I'd like to show you,' he began, but the Civilian's eyes didn't move at all. He looked deep in thought.
'Mission creep,' he said again. 'Powell Doctrine. A million Mogadishus.'
Clark stepped a half-step closer. 'Excuse me?' he asked.
'You'll have to forgive me, Bannerman,' the Civilian drawled. 'I'm coming down from my afternoon dose of hillbilly heroin. I have a bad back, you see. A really. Really. Bad back.'
He did not ask Clark to sit down, nor were there any extra chairs in the office.
'It's a shame about Los Angeles. And, uh, Colorado, right? Colorado. They had some nice scenery there. I really need to re-velocitize. Hold on. Marcy!' he shouted. 'Not even an intercom in this office. Marcy! I need my pick-me-up!'
A young woman brought in a tray and set it on the desk. It held a glass full of ice and a can of Red Bull. The Civilian ignored the glass and drank straight from the can. 'Good of you to come out, Bannerman. I appreciate the face time. Listen, there's someone I need you to meet. You ready? Need to freshen up?'
'No, I'' Clark looked down at his briefcase. 'With your pardon, though, there are some papers I need to show you. This is crucial material.'
'I know that, Bannerman. I heard what you said on the phone. Now come on. I'm counting on you for my dead cat bounce. Did you know you were the only military type to come out of Denver without losing a single troop?' He held up a hand for patience though Clark had not interrupted him. 'It's definitely a shame about Sanchez. Read all about her, wish I could have met her. Come on. The person we're meeting for lunch will want to hear about your papers.' The Civilian rose from the desk and headed out the door. It was all Clark could do to keep up.
He protested a few times that they should really talk in private first but the Civilian just smiled. Clark played along'he needed the man. He needed the authorization to put together the last two pieces of the puzzle. He needed satellite time.
And he needed to find the blonde girl. She would have information that he crucially needed. She would be the answer he sought. She had to be.
They moved quickly through the maze of the dilapidated office building, weaving through rows of cubicles and passing through two steel fire doors. Finally they arrived at a corner office in the third floor of the building. A keycard reader had been installed hastily next to the door, the plaster underneath broken and crumbling. The Civilian swiped a card through the slot and they stepped inside.
An aged woman in an immaculate business suit rose from behind a desk and hurried toward them. Her face was so slack and bloodless that Clark reached for the sidearm that he'd left in Florence.
'I'm not dead yet, Captain,' the woman said, her mouth an unmoving slot in the middle of her face.
'Botox,' the Civilian whispered behind his hand.