Chapter 46
McLean, Virginia
Langston Overholt IV sat in his basement, stripped to his waist and lightly sweating inside his new infrared sauna. It was the latest addition to his elegant Tudor Revival estate located in proximity to both the Potomac River and CIA headquarters.
Unfortunately, both his long-suffering wife and his general practitioner had insisted he trade the delectable discipline of gin and tonic for a bout of nightly infrared therapy.
His primary consolation was the view through the sauna glass set directly across from one of the finest wine cellars in the area.
The other feature of the sauna making it slightly less unbearable was the excellent Bluetooth sound system. Overholt’s eyes were shut, his soul embracing Joep Beving’s hauntingly transcendent album Solipsism.
“I’m a great fan of the Dutchman,” a voice said over the sound system. “Though I prefer his Prehension album.”
Overholt’s eyes snapped open, as if waking from a sharp dream. Instinctively, he gripped the towel around his waist, and deeply regretted the absence of a weapon in his sauna.
“I once saw him play in a private home in Stockholm,” Overholt said. “He’s even more impressive in person.”
The voice continued. “I understand he’s quite tall.”
“Very.”
“You seem rather relaxed. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
Overholt glanced around the four-person sauna. He knew there were no cameras in there. His eyes turned to the window glass. Ah, yes. By the wine cellar. A CCTV camera. He lifted one hand and threw a jaunty wave.
“I would wave back at you but you wouldn’t be able to see me.”
“A pity, I’m sure,” Overholt sniffed.
“Do please accept my heartfelt apologies. I am extremely protective regarding my own privacy and consider it almost a religious tenet to never violate the personal privacy of others.”
“What, pray tell, has driven you to this self-proclaimed act of heresy?” Overholt wiped away a bead of sweat from the end of his nose.
“Time, unfortunately. I’m out of it.”
“In what regard?”
“In twenty-four hours, I’ll be dead.”
“And how is that my concern, dear fellow?” Overholt tried to place the man’s accent. His English was excellent, but clearly not his mother tongue. There were hints of clipped German consonants and rounded Slavic vowels. Moravian? Upper Danube? Pannonia Plain? It was impossible to tell exactly.
“In exchange for your services, I will hand you the greatest intelligence coup of the twenty-first century.”
“That’s quite an offer, depending of course on what services you require. Care to tell me the nature of that intelligence?”
“All I can tell you for now is that the world as you have known it for the last fifty years is about to be radically changed, and not for the better—unless you can stop it.”
“That’s not much of a clue. Sounds more like the plot of a dime novel.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Overholt. Despite your slightly glistening skin, you are one cool customer. You know, I could have contacted your counterparts in Moscow, Beijing, or even Tehran. They would eagerly pay enormous sums of money for the information I can provide.”
“Then why don’t you contact them?”
“Because I rather like America, and I would hate to see her destroyed.”
“You have my attention Mr., eh, what shall I call you?”
“You may call me Eidolon.”