Scarecrow Returns

WASHINGTON, D.C. 2355 HOURS 1255 HOURS ON DRAGON

DAVE FAIRFAX sped through the streets of Washington, D.C., with Marianne Retter by his side in a little Toyota Prius.

After they had opened Marius Calderon’s classified CIA plan to use Russia to destroy China—appropriately named Operation Dragonslayer—they had given away their position and so had had to run.

Which was why they were now driving in the Prius. It was actually part of the Zipcar network—an eco-friendly car-sharing network that Dave belonged to; Zipcars were parked at various sites around the city and if you had a Zipcard, you could access them. Dave guessed—correctly—that not long after he used his swipe-card to access the car, someone somewhere would detect the ensuing deduction on his credit card and flag the car for immediate detention by the D.C. police. But it was worth the risk, because he didn’t plan on being in the car for long.

“Where are we going?” Retter asked.

Dave looked determinedly forward. “There’s only one place we can go: the one place they don’t want you to go.”

They swung onto the north-west arm of Pennsylvania Avenue and beheld the famous mansion at the other end, lit up by floodlights, glowing in the night.

“We have to get you to your appointment at the White House,” Dave said.

“The CIA will be watching it for sure,” Retter said as they cruised down Pennsylvania Avenue with the gentle flow of nighttime traffic. “They’ll have people stationed all around it.”

“I imagine they will,” Dave said, “so we’re gonna need a little luck.”

They came to the corner of Pennsylvania and West Executive Avenue, the road that gave access to the West Wing Entrance. They turned onto West Executive Avenue.

Dave’s eyes fell on the West Wing Entrance and its boom-gated guardhouse.

Retter scanned the wider area, searching for CIA agents: Lafayette Square was filled with the usual crowd: tourists, cops and . . . four pairs of men in suits positioned at strategic points, several of whom were touching their ears and whispering into their cuffs as they surveyed the area.

“You see ’em?” Dave said.

Retter said, “They could just be Secret Service—”

Suddenly, one of the men pointed at their Prius and started running.

“Shit!” Retter said. “We’ve been spotted!”

Dave snapped to look at the West Wing Entrance.

“Aw, fuck it,” he said as he floored the gas pedal and yanked left on the steering wheel.

The little Prius squealed as it swung off the road, jumped the curb and sped toward the West Wing Entrance.

As Dave had expected, uniformed Secret Service guardsmen in the gatehouse opened fire on the little car immediately—although he didn’t think many terrorists charged toward the White House in hybrids. He and Retter ducked as their windshield shattered.

The Prius veered wildly and smashed into a reinforced gatepost, coming to a crunching halt. Its hood crumpled and Dave and Retter were flung forward in their seats as the car’s air bags inflated with a sudden whoosh!

Hissing steam, the little car was quickly surrounded by no fewer than six Secret Service guards, all with their pistols raised.

The CIA men in the park who had briefly given chase on foot hung back now—Dave and Retter were now in the Secret Service’s jurisdiction and when it came to the security of the White House, the Service guarded their turf jealously. They didn’t hand over anyone to anyone until they had done their own investigation.

“Get out of the vehicle with your hands up!” the lead Secret Service agent yelled furiously.

Dave and Retter exited the vehicle as instructed, and were promptly shoved to the ground, faces rammed into the dirt. They were then handcuffed while the car was searched.

“No devices in or under the car,” a guard reported.

The lead guard shook his head. “Check their IDs.” He lifted Dave to his feet. “You just landed yourself in big trouble, buddy.”

As he came to his feet, Dave said in a loud voice that every guard could hear, “Sir, my name is David Fairfax, Defense Intelligence Agency. This is Marianne Retter, also DIA. Please check your visitor’s log. You’ll find that Ms. Retter has an urgent appointment with the President.”

It took twenty minutes—time which Dave and Marianne spent in the back of a prison van parked just inside the West Wing Entrance—but eventually word came through.

The senior Secret Service guard opened the van himself. With him was a presidential aide in a suit.

“Turns out the lady does have an appointment,” the senior guard said. “And you, Mr. Fairfax, have a distinguished record. I’ve been told that if the lady wants you with her, you may accompany her inside.”

Retter said, “You bet I do.”

“Next time,” the guard said, “just stop at the gate and wait your turn.”

“Sorry,” Dave said. “Couldn’t do that. This place was surrounded by people who wanted to prevent us getting in. If we’d stopped, we’d have been dead.” He gave the guard a weak smile. “Sorry about your gate.”

And with those words, Dave Fairfax and Marianne Retter hurried inside the White House.