Jake snagged his
single roll-aboard bag from the Dulles International airport luggage carousel, and
headed for the arrivals exit. Sam said he would pick him up in a gov’t car with
a bright red 8x10 inch card on the dash board. The bitter cold wind whipped the
light snow sideways into his face.
Jake muttered to
himself, “Jeez, I forgot how miserable D.C. could be in the winter.” He
remembered being stranded in town on a Friday because the snow-removal system
in our nation’s capital couldn’t handle even the six inches that fallen that
afternoon.
“Jake, over here!”
Jake shielded his eyes and turned to locate Sam’s whereabouts. Just then a big,
ugly Ford van skidded to a stop in front of Jake, splattering a mix of snow and
mud on Jake’s shoes.
“Shit,” Jake muttered.
“So much for the professional polish and shine I paid 20 dollars for at SFO
airport.”
Sam had rolled down
the passenger window and was waving the big red card at Jake. Jake slid open
the van’s side cargo door and threw in his bag.
“Doesn’t the FBI have
any decent, normal sedans Sam? This thing screams FEDS!..and you’re by yourself. That’s a bit unusual isn’t it?” Sam
had the heater-defroster at full blast, and Jake was rubbing his hands together
in front of a dashboard vent.
“Our work while you’re
our guest will remain very low-key. It will all soon become clear.”
