The Innocent (5 page)

Several times Robie had thought about approaching her. Yet he had left the party without doing so. As he was walking out he’d glanced back at her. She was laughing at a comment made by someone, and never looked his way. It was probably better that way, he’d thought. Because really, what would have been the point?

Robie rose and stared out the window.

It was fall now. The leaves in the park had started to turn. The evenings were chilly. The humidity of summer was sometimes still with them, but its intense edge had measurably eroded. The current weather was not bad for a city that was built on a swamp—and still was a swamp by many people’s estimation, at least the part where the professional politicians nested.

Robie had done his recon in the abbreviated time allotted. The run-throughs, logistically harder in this situation, had still been performed.

And he still didn’t like it.

But it was not his call.

The location would not involve Robie stepping on a plane or train. But the target was different as well. And not in a good way.

Sometimes he went after people intent on global menace, like Rivera or Talal. Or sometimes he simply went after a problem.

You could take your pick of labels, but in the end they all meant the same thing. His employer decided who among the living and breathing would qualify as a target. And then they turned to men like Robie to end the living and breathing part.

It made the world better, was the justification.

Like flinging the planet’s most potent army against a madman in the Middle East. Military victory was ensured from the start. What could not be wholly predicted was what came after victory. Like a morphing chaos you couldn’t escape.

Trapped in a trap of your own making.

The agency Robie worked for had a clear policy on operatives who were caught during a mission. There would be no acknowledgment that Robie even worked for the United States. There would be no steps taken to save him. It was the opposite of the U.S. Marines’ mantra: Everyone in Robie’s world was left behind.

Thus on every mission Robie had employed an exit plan known only to him, in case the operation went awry. He had never needed to employ his personal backup plan, because he had never failed a mission. Yet. Tomorrow was simply another day for something to go wrong.

Shane Connors was the one who had taught Robie this. He had told Robie that he had to use his backup plan once, in Libya, when the operation, through no fault of his, had imploded.

“You’re the only one out there who really has your back, Will,” Connors had told him. That advice had stayed with Robie all these years. He would never forget it.

Robie surveyed his apartment. He’d been here four years, liked it for the most part. There were restaurants within walking distance. The area was interesting, with many unusual shops that were not part of homogeneous national chains. Robie ate out a lot. He liked to sit at tables and watch people go by. He was a student of humanity in a way. That was why he was still alive. He could read people, often after observing them for only a few seconds. It was
not a natural talent. It was a skill he had built up over time, as most useful skills were.

In the basement of his building was a gym where he would go to work out, hone his muscles, ratchet up his motor skills, practice techniques that needed practicing. He was the only one who ever used the facility. For training involving weapons and other necessary tools of his trade there were other places he went. Other people he worked with.

At forty years of age it didn’t come any easier.

He toggled his neck back and forth and was rewarded with a satisfying pop.

He heard a door open and close in the hall. He stepped to his peephole and watched the woman walk her bike down the hall. This was the woman from the party, the one who worked at the White House. She sometimes wore jeans on the way to work and then presumably changed into her official duds when she got there. She was always the first to leave the building in the morning, unless Robie had already departed for some reason.

A. Lambert.

That was the name on the mailbox downstairs. He knew the A stood for Anne. His background briefing on her had told him that.

His own mailbox simply said
Robie
. No first initial. He had no idea if people wondered about that or not. Probably not, though.

She was in her late twenties, tall, long blonde hair, thin. He once had seen her in shorts when she first moved in. She was somewhat knock-kneed, but her face was elegantly structured, with a mole under her right eyebrow. He had heard her during a discussion in the hall with a fellow tenant who did not support the current administration. Her replies had been sharp and informed. Robie had been impressed.

He had started referring to her in his own mind as “A.”

Robie stepped back from the door when she disappeared into the elevator with her bike. He moved back to another window overlooking the street. A minute later she left the building, shouldered her knapsack, swung onto her bike, and was off. He watched her until she turned the corner and the reflector strips on her backpack and helmet disappeared from view.

Next stop: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

It was four-thirty in the morning.

He turned back from the window and surveyed his living space. There was nothing in his apartment that would tell anyone searching it what he did. He had an official position that would be backed up to the fullest in case anyone questioned anything. But still, his apartment was nondescript and contained almost nothing of personal interest. He preferred that to having others invent a past for him, placing photos of people he didn’t even know around his apartment and passing them off as relatives or friends. “Hobbying” a residence with tennis rackets or skis or stamp collection books or a musical instrument was standard procedure. He had turned all such offers down. There was a bed, a few chairs, some books he’d actually read, lamps, tables, a place to eat, a place to shower and use the toilet.

He reached up to the pull-up bar he kept over the doorway leading to his bedroom and did a quick twenty. It was good to feel his muscles in motion, pulling his weight up to the bar with relative ease. He could run most twenty-somethings into the ground. His strength and motor skills were still excellent. Yet he was forty now and clearly not what he once was. He could only hope to counter the inevitable erosion of skills and physicality with increased field experience.

He lay down in the bed but didn’t put any covers over him. He kept the apartment cold. He needed to sleep.

The coming night would be busy.

And
different.

R
OBIE WAS IN
the basement gymnasium of his building. It was nearly nine p.m., but the place was open twenty-four/seven for the residents. All you needed was your key card. In one respect Robie’s workout routine never varied: He never did the same workout twice in a row. He focused not on strength or stamina or flexibility or balance or coordination or agility. He focused on them all. Every exercise he did required at least two and sometimes all of those elements.

He hung upside down on the pull-up bar. He did stomach crunches and then worked his oblique muscles while holding a medicine ball. The U.S. Army had devised a functional fitness regime that mimicked what soldiers did in the field, the sorts of muscles and skills required on the battlefield.

Robie held to the same concept and worked on things he needed to survive
out there
. Lunges, thrusts, explosiveness from his calves up. He worked everything in synergy. Upper body and lower body at the same time that he was pushing his core past the breaking point. He was chiseled but never took his shirt off. No one would ever see him strolling along displaying his six-pack unless he needed to as part of a mission.

He did a half hour’s worth of yoga until he was drenched in sweat. He was holding an Iron Cross on the pull-up bar when the door opened.

A. Lambert stared over at him.

She didn’t smile or even acknowledge him. She closed the door behind her, went over to a corner, and sat down cross-legged on an
exercise mat. Robie held the cross for another thirty seconds, not to impress her, because she wasn’t even looking at him. He held it because he had to push his body past what it was used to. Otherwise he was just wasting his time.

He let go and dropped lightly to the floor. He snagged his towel and wiped off his face.

“I think you’re the only one who uses this room.”

He slid the towel down to find her now looking at him.

She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. The shirt and jeans were tight. No place to conceal a weapon. Robie always checked that first, male or female, young or old.

“You’re here,” he said.

“Not to work out,” she replied.

“What then?”

“Tough day at the office. Just chilling.”

He looked around the small, ill-lighted room. It smelled of old sweat and mold.

“Must be nicer places to chill than this,” he said.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone else here,” she answered.

“Except me, maybe. From what you said, you knew I used this room.”

She said, “I just said that because I saw you here tonight. I’ve never seen you down here before, or anyone else, for that matter.”

He knew the answer but asked, “So, tough day at the office. Where do you work?”

“The White House.”

“That’s pretty impressive.”

“Some days it doesn’t feel that impressive. What about you?”

“Investments.”

“Do you work at one of the big firms?”

“No, I’m on my own. Always have been.”

Robie draped the towel around his shoulders. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to your chilling.” However, he didn’t really want to leave just yet. Perhaps she sensed this. She rose and said, “I’m Annie. Annie Lambert.”

“Hello, Annie Lambert.”

They shook hands. Her fingers were long, supple, and surprisingly strong.

“You have a name?” she asked.

“Robie.”

“First or last?”

“Last. It’s on the mailbox.”

“And your first?”

“Will.”

“That was harder than it should have been.” She smiled.

He found himself grinning back. “I’m not the most outgoing guy you’ll ever meet.”

“But I saw you at the party on the third floor the other night.”

“It was a little out of character for me. First time I’ve had a mojito in a long time.”

“Me too.”

“Maybe we can go out for a drink sometime.” Robie had no idea why that offer had come out of his mouth.

“Okay,” she said casually. “Sounds good.”

“Good night,” said Robie. “Have a nice chill.”

He closed the door behind him and took the elevator back up to his floor.

He immediately made a phone call. He didn’t really want to do it, but any contact like that had to be reported. Robie didn’t think there was anything to be worried about with Annie Lambert, but the rules were clear. Annie Lambert would be investigated to a greater degree. If anything turned up Robie would be notified and appropriate action would be taken.

As he sat in his kitchen Robie wondered if he should have made the call at all. He could not look at anything normally ever again. Someone being friendly to him was a potential threat. It had to be reported. A woman “chilling” and saying hello to him had to be called in.

I live in a world that isn’t remotely normal anymore. If it ever was. But it won’t always be like this. And there’s no agency rule against having a drink with someone.

So maybe he would. Sometime. He left his building and walked across the street. The high-rise there had a perfect view of his,
which was the point. On the fourth floor was an empty apartment. Robie had a key for it. He entered the apartment and went directly to the corner of the front room. Set up there was a surveillance scope that was rated as one of the best in the world. He powered it up and turned its muzzle toward his building. He pushed and pulled on dials, making corrective adjustments until a certain part of his building came into sharp focus.

His floor, down the hall three doors. The lights were on, the shades raised three-quarters. He waited. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. It was all the same to Robie.

Annie Lambert’s front door opened and closed. She moved down the hall. He swung the scope in measured movements, following her trek. She stopped at the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a Diet Coke. With his scope he could read the label clearly. She closed the fridge with a swipe of her hip. She filled a glass halfway up with the soda and the other half with rum pulled from a cupboard over the stove.

She walked down the hall. Before she got to her bedroom she unzipped her jeans, slipped them off, and tossed them into a laundry basket. She set her drink down on the floor while she pulled her top over her head. Her underwear was pink. She was not the thong type; her underwear fully covered her bottom.

Robie had not seen this. He had turned his surveillance device off when she had started to unzip her pants. The scope cost nearly fifty grand. He was not going to use it for pathetic voyeurism.