He stopped when he ran out of asphalt; right in front of him he saw water. He stood on Drummond Point, still a few miles to the southwest of Harvey Point, which lay on the opposite shore of the Yeopim River.
Court climbed out of the Bronco, ran around to the back, and opened the swing-out tailgate. He retrieved his newly purchased gear, then he changed clothes, going head-to-toe in dark brown, with a black watch cap on his head. He then donned a black rain suit, covering his body in lightweight waterproof lining. He cinched short lengths of bungee cord around his waist, his ankles, and his wrists, to further waterproof his outfit, and he used black silicone waterproof tape down the middle of the rain jacket to seal it more, even wrapping a long strip around his neck.
Court had no scuba gear, nor did he have a boat, but he had spent literally hundreds of hours in the waters of the Albemarle Sound, an estuary that led to the Atlantic, and the Yeopim River, which flowed into the sound. And he knew how the currents moved here. All he would need to do to get where he was going was to stay relatively buoyant and to float out into the river, let the water take him east, and then work his way across to the other shore.
The rain suit wouldn’t remain perfectly watertight, but the air pockets created by it would increase his buoyancy markedly.
He only needed to float past the security fence that cut Harvey Point off from the mainland, avoid the Coast Guard and base security patrol boats, and make his way to land. From there it would be a long walk through cypress swamp woods to the road that led to the CIA’s Special Activities Division Autonomous Asset facility.
Court loaded his suppressed pistol into a small waterproof backpack, along with his cash, wallet, phone, a flashlight, and other small odds and ends. After he sealed the bag up, he slung it around on his chest, and then he walked down to the water’s edge at the tip of Drummond Point. Looking at his watch, he saw it was eleven p.m.
He waded out until he felt the current, then he knelt down and began swimming along with the natural flow of the estuary, drifting him eastward, as the brackish water attempted to return to the sea, carrying along with it broken branches, trash, and a lone man with a vague mission to find out why his past was trying to kill him.
—
Suzanne Brewer left the exit of the Old Headquarters Building at eleven p.m., rushing through the south lot to her car.
It had been a long day that was, ultimately, just the most recent in a string of long days, but a new lead had presented itself, and she decided to go check it out personally.
She hadn’t planned on going alone, but she was having trouble getting in touch with Jordan Mayes. Carmichael was at his safe house in Alexandria, of course, and Brewer had just called looking for Mayes, but Carmichael said he wasn’t returning his calls to him, either, and a security team had been dispatched both to his house and to check the route from Alexandria to Langley.
She arrived at her BMW and put her hand on the door latch, unlocking the doors because her Bluetooth key fob sent an unlocking code to the vehicle letting it know it was in the possession of the person at the driver’s door.
“Suzanne?” She jumped when she heard her name called. She turned around to find Jordan Mayes walking towards her in the parking lot. He was alone, which was odd, because this was the first time she’d seen him without the security men since Violator had arrived in the States.
Brewer said, “I’ve been calling you for the past hour. So has Denny.” His tie was loose and his eyes were wide and rimmed with red. Everyone in the Violator Working Group was utterly exhausted, but Suzanne got the impression Jordan Mayes was more than tired; it appeared as if he had been drinking. “What’s wrong?”
He walked around to the passenger’s side of her BMW. “Let’s go for a ride.”
Brewer looked around in confusion. “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere specific. I need to talk to you.”
“If it’s confidential, why can’t we just go back in the office?”
Mayes just shook his head.
After a moment Brewer understood he did not want to talk inside the building. She did not understand, but she climbed behind the wheel nevertheless.
Mayes reached into his coat and pulled out a case just larger than a cell phone. Suzanne recognized it immediately. It was a Faraday cage, a protective case that blocked radio frequency waves. Placing a phone or other device that emitted radio signal inside would make the device untraceable. The CIA used Faraday cages for smartphones, primarily, which had difficult-to-remove batteries.
He handed her the small case. “Put your phone in this.”
“Come on. Really?”
“Really.”
She took the case, locked her phone inside, then placed the case in the storage compartment under the armrest between the front seats. Mayes questioned whether she had an iPad or other device with GPS enabled in the vehicle. She knew her BMW itself surely transmitted location info through its computer, but she didn’t mention this.
With a hint of sarcasm she said, “We’re off the grid, Jordan. What’s up?”