Gates Of Hades

Chapter Ten

Hilton Hotel K Street, Washington

That evening

Dressed in a new sweater and slacks as well as a warm and moth-free coat, Jason had cruised the Kalorama District, an area of restored mansions bordering Dupont Circle known locally as Embassy Row. Despite a number of sudden and unsignaled turns that brought the blasts of angry horns, he was still not sure he was not being followed. There was simply too much traffic to be certain.

Checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes, he was aware he was likely to be late for a rendezvous Jason considered useless at best. In typical CIA fashion, the phone number Mama had given him was answered only by the countersign, a time, and the bar of this Hilton as a meeting place. Simple courier delivery of the material Jason wanted would have served. The organization frequently reminded Jason of a group of kids playing at being spies, secrecy and stealth their own rewards. That love of the cloak-and-dagger mystique meant that if Jason were late, he'd miss his contact and have to go through the elaborate process of setting up another clandestine meeting.

He pulled to the curb in front of one the embassies, this one flying a flag he didn't recognize. As expected, a D.C. cop cruiser was behind him in less than a minute. In a world where alliances shifted like sands in a windstorm, the municipal government of the District made every effort to ensure that international antagonisms took only verbal form in its jurisdiction.

One cop stood just outside the driver's window of Jason's rental car. Another was checking the license plate.

The one beside the car made a motion to roll down the window. "You got a problem, mister?"

Jason shrugged. "Lost, I'm afraid. Can you direct me to the Hilton?"

The policeman shook his head in disgust. "Take a look to your left. And remember, visitor to the city or not, we enforce the no-stopping signs in front of these embassies."

During the brief encounter, Jason had seen no other vehicle stop to observe. It was the best he was going to do.

He was reluctant to hand over the rental car to the hotel's valet. Not having the keys in his possession eliminated one means of escape if something went wrong. That made him nervous.

Get a grip, he told himself. What could possibly go wrong with a simple delivery of papers, material Jason had requested?

But then, he knew Murphy had been an optimist.

His overcoat slung over his arm, he followed the sound of a piano mingled with voices. Just before the bank of elevators, he found a large, crowded room with an oak bar at one end. The sole entrance was clogged with customers coming and going. Tables surrounded by upholstered captain's chairs shared the rest of the space with a baby grand and banquettes against the wall opposite the piano. Jason skimmed the room with a glance. Drum, the voice on the phone, had given no clue as to how he might be identified.

Groups formed and re-formed like swarms of bees; no one seemed to be accompanied by anyone else. It was only after noting that there were roughly equal numbers of men and women that Jason realized it was Friday evening and he was witnessing that uniquely American mating rite, a singles bar. Had he given it any thought at all during the last several years, he would have guessed AIDS, herpes, and other unpleasant possibilities had culled the herd of unmarrieds seeking companionship, if not a relationship, in a saloon. Had he been asked, he would have assumed the ritual had joined the tea dance and church social on society's ash heap.

Jason grinned at snatches of conversation he could not help but overhear, words and phrases he had heard during his bachelorhood fifteen years ago: No woman ever came to such places except tonight, when she had simply agreed to accompany a friend. No man was driving anything less than a Porsche.

He smiled again, this time returning one from a shapely woman, her face surrounded by pageboy curls. It was too dark to distinguish all her features, but it would have been hard to miss the flat stomach that peered with a single eye over pants glued to her pelvic bone, or cleavage that threatened to spill out of a blouse utilizing less than half its buttons.

Undressed to kill.

Her interest looked a lot more personal than Kim's had been. She started in his direction, and for an instant Jason wished he were not here oil business.

"Fife?" The voice came from behind him.

Jason reluctantly turned his head to see a man who, at least in the bar's dim light, looked no older than a college sophomore. More and more people seemed younger and younger, a sure sign Jason was experiencing what the advertisements euphemistically described as the maturing process.

Mature or not, he gave the low-riders another look. She was already talking to someone else.

"I have a room upstairs," the stranger announced.

Wordlessly, Jason followed him out of the bar and onto an elevator. The bright light confirmed Jason's impression that the guy was young. The heavy horn-rimmed glasses and dark suit did more to make him look out of place than older.

Still without speaking, the two men got off and trudged down a hall, stopping in front of one of a series of doors while the young man inserted his plastic key. Other than an overcoat draped across one of the beds and a briefcase on a table, there was no sign the room had been occupied.

"Wouldn't it have been easier to simply courier over the reports?" Jason bantered, throwing his coat beside the other and taking a seat in one of the two chairs. "You could have saved a pair of code names and the time you took to study my picture."

The other man sat in the remaining chair across a small table, produced a key, and unlocked the briefcase. He handed Jason a form for his signature. "I assume you know the rules: classified documents are not entrusted to persons without appropriate clearances, and all copies have to be signed for."

The agency employment profile did not require a sense of humor.

Jason took a thin manila folder and quickly skimmed it. "This is the complete report of the incidents in the Bering Sea and Georgia?"

The young man was already relocking the empty brief, case. "It was what I was given."

"And if I have further questions about something?"

The agent's face betrayed confusion. "No one told me. My instructions were to deliver that file and have you sign for it."

Originality of thought was not a requisite, either.

Jason stood, stuffing the file under his belt at the small of his back and pulling his sweater down over it. "It's been a real pleasure to meet someone as charming and witty as you. I don't know what I would do without all your help. You want to leave first?"

Clandestine meetings broke up one at a time because single departures did not advertise the fact that there had, in fact, been a meeting.

The still-unnamed agent also stood, scooping a coat from the bed. "I'll leave first. Give me five minutes."

Then he was gone.

It was only when Jason picked up the remaining coat that he saw the young man had taken the wrong one. Instead of the tartan design of the Burberry's lining, there was dark faux fur. The remaining raincoat also lacked the belt that gave Jason's garment its distinctive shape.

The guy had been in too big a hurry to get away to notice.

Shit.

Snatching up the coat, Jason rushed for the door.

Screw procedure. Jason wanted to retrieve his coat without having to drive all the way to Langley.

The hall was empty, and the elevator seemed to take forever.

As the doors sighed open, the vestibule containing the elevators was packed with a seething, shouting crowd, most of whom looked like they had come from the bar. A woman screamed; several men shouted.

Jason edged his way toward the hotel's exit, turning to a young woman. "What's happening?"

"Someone's been shot," the man next to her said. "Shot right here."

The pulsating wails of police sirens were becoming increasingly audible above the crowd as Jason worked his way through the lobby. Near the revolving door that led onto the arrival porte cochere, the crowd had formed a rough circle.

Jason felt as though he had stepped into a blast of arctic air as he peered over the heads of the people in front. He was looking at a man sprawled on the floor, a dark pool seeping into light carpet.

The man was wearing an overcoat.

Jason's overcoat.