He stopped at a hot dog cart on the mall, bought a bottled water, and drank a few sips while he stood there, allowing himself one last glance at the U.S. Capitol. This was his first real look at the building since he’d been back in town, the first time he took the opportunity to take in any of the sights here in D.C.
For five long years he’d been outside of the USA, and each and every day during that time he’d thought something of home. Now that he was back he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of devoting any real time to enjoying himself, to relaxing, or to appreciating his triumphant return, such as it was. But for just this moment he gazed upon one of the greatest structures in America, and he felt the power of the symbol and the love for his country in his heart, deep in his bones.
He shook away the moment. Despite the emotions welling inside him, it would not do to stop and stare. He was in cover, and his cover wasn’t some wide-eyed foreign tourist.
And if he blew his cover now, agents of the America he loved so much would find him and shoot him dead in the street.
But his cover was solid, because unlike all of his other operations, in this rare case his cover identity matched his true identity. He was American. He’d been gone for a while, but he was still American, and now he was home.
Court tossed the empty water bottle in a garbage can, turned, and headed back to his car, still wondering what the hell Babbitt was planning on doing in the Capitol.
—
Leland Babbitt stormed through the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol, his Burberry coat whipping along with his brisk gait. He waved his credentials to make his way towards the congressional offices. It was just after eight thirty a.m. and he had no idea who would be here this early, but Congress was in session, so at least legislators were in town.
His mind raced as he tried to decide where to go for help.
He knew Mike Avery, a Republican senator from Utah and the president pro tem. Avery was one of the most powerful personalities in Congress, and Babbitt liked the man. But Avery wasn’t particularly interested in matters involving the intelligence community and Homeland Security, so Babbitt eliminated him from his list of potential recipients of his bombshell.
He also knew Joel Landers, the Democratic congressman from New Mexico who chaired the House Permanent Select Committee on intelligence. Landers was a firebrand, always looking for something to bitch about when it came to the CIA. Babbitt thought about everything he knew concerning Carmichael and his five-year-long hunt to kill an American citizen.
Yeah, Representative Landers would love to hear his story.
Of course, Babbitt knew what he was doing was professional suicide; he’d never get another government contract if he sold Carmichael out, even if Carmichael was led off to Club Fed in chains, but Babbitt knew he could still write books and give lucrative seminars on corporate security.
He’d never work in this town again, as the saying went, but he would find work, and, more importantly, he’d take down Denny Carmichael.
Babbitt continued towards Representative Landers’s office. Even if Joel wasn’t in yet, he could camp out in his outer office till he showed and ask for five minutes as soon as he came in, and in those five minutes Babbitt knew he would blow the congressman’s mind.
He pushed through a group of legislative aides standing in the hall and found himself just fifty feet from the representative’s office when a young man in a gray suit passing on his left in the corridor turned suddenly into his path.
“Sir, may I speak with you a moment?”
“What about?” snapped Babbitt.
“Director Carmichael has asked me to intercept you before you do anything you will regret.”
Immediately Babbitt’s pounding heart skipped a beat. His eyes narrowed. “You tell your boss that he had his chance to make this right. Now it’s my move.”
“You should tell him yourself. He’d like you to come to Langley. Now.”
“Would he? I bet he would. No thanks. I—”
A second man appeared from nowhere; he loomed behind on Babbitt’s left, put a hand on Babbitt’s shoulder, and leaned in uncomfortably close.
“We can take my car. We’ll have you right back here in no time.”
Another hand squeezed his right shoulder now. Babbitt turned to look, and a third man had materialized from thin air. They were all under thirty, all wearing suits, and they looked at him with pleasant smiles that, Babbitt knew, would disappear quickly if he did not do exactly what Carmichael wanted him to do.
“Fine,” he said, shaking the hands off his shoulders. “Let’s go talk to Denny.”
21