CHAPTER 100 Sampson
Sampson
IT TOOK ME ANOTHER half an hour to pry myself out of Gina Maine’s house.
It wasn’t easy.
When the supervising sergeant first arrived, he was just as suspicious as Officer Neal was.
It took an encrypted call to Ned Mahoney at home to convince the sergeant that I knew what I was talking about and that we had a serious fugitive situation on our hands.
Two fugitive situations, counting J. T. Polermo. Both men armed and dangerous.
By the time Neal put out the APB for Polermo’s truck, the Virginia State Police had already found it. It was abandoned near a water tower in Stratford, about halfway back to DC. No sign of Aiden Phillips. No weapons in the vehicle. Just some bloodstains on the driver’s seat.
Either Phillips is on foot or he’s found alternate transportation—probably by stealing a vehicle. We know that he’s highly trained and heavily armed.
He could also be bleeding to death.
Once the cops were convinced that Gina had been nothing more than a Good Samaritan, she let me borrow her Subaru to join the search. Before I got into the car, she grabbed my arm. “Find him,” she said. “Don’t kill him.”
I told her I’d do my best.
Two and a half hours later, I’m driving through a residential neighborhood just outside of Georgetown.
The street is lined with pole lights that look like nineteenth-century gas lamps.
The houses are sturdy brick Colonials with huge yards, separated from one another by thick hedges.
The cars in the driveways are Mercedes, Audis, and BMWs.
It’s the kind of enclave where well-paid government workers raise their kids and enjoy their cocktails. A bedroom community, sleepy and secure.
I’d gotten the address from Mahoney. He’d asked if I wanted help. I told him I’d call if I needed it. For now, I told him, I was just looking for a conversation.
What I really want is some answers. If Polermo is the real bomber, then somebody framed Phillips—and did a good job of it.
Sure fooled me.
I lean out the window and scan for the house number. There! I pull up in front of an elegant residence with a red door and white shutters. I wasn’t expecting a senior CIA officer to have his name plastered on his mailbox, but there it is, plain as day: R. PERKINS.
It’s time for a one-on-one with my supposed partner at Langley.
If Phillips is right, the CIA is wrong.
About everything.