18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter eighteen
Sam checked the slim gold Rolex on her wrist. The watch had been a birthday present from her father.
Since her miraculous resurrection from the dead, mom and dad had been showering Sam with affection, and much of that affection came in the form of material gifts.
Turning up again after almost four years, trying to explain to her parents that she’d been in hiding, had been a difficult conversation.
Her mother and father had been informed by the state department that Sam died in the commission of her duties as a Central Intelligence Officer.
They’d believed she was dead, until she turned up again, alive and well.
Sam expected anger, instead there had been mostly tears.
In a way it would have been easier if they’d been angry, outraged even.
She wanted them to yell, to curse, to be livid at the pain and hurt she had put them through.
But they had wrapped her up in their arms and cried. And then came the gifts.
First it was a Mercedes Benz, because mother didn’t like the idea of Sam driving around Washington in an unreliable car.
Then a Rolex watch, and designer handbags, none of which Sam wanted but graciously accepted.
It was as if mom and dad thought they could somehow keep her alive and safe with enough material affection.
But the gifts were as much a curse as they were a blessing.
A junior officer driving a Mercedes Benz on a government salary was suspicious at best. Add in designer handbags and expensive gold watches, and people started to think Sam was still in the pocket of the Israelis.
She knew for a fact there were several people in her section who believed she either worked directly for Mossad, or she was on the take.
It meant her coworkers were extra careful what info they shared with her.
Try doing your job when nobody is willing to share intel.
Sam shook her head.
The Rolex told her in was nearly nine-thirty. Past time for a few hour’s sleep. The thought of a forty-seven-minute drive across the bridge to her apartment didn’t appeal to her. Sam decided to see if she could find an unoccupied sofa.
CIA keeps sofas scattered around the various departments because intelligence never sleeps.
That means many intelligence officers never sleep either.
Langley runs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
It’s not uncommon for employees to catch a few hours on a sofa before going right back to work.
Rumor had it the head of the office of research and development’s car had been parked in the same spot in the garage for two years straight.
Some people even questioned if he had a house, or if he lived at Langley. Neither would surprise Sam.
She covered a yawn with the back of one hand. Her eyes slipped closed and it was a moment before she realized she’d been sitting at her desk with her eyes shut. Another look at her Rolex told Sam five minutes had slipped past.
She gave her self a little shake. Definitely time for sleep.
She closed her computer, stuffed a stack of folders in the file cabinet and locked it, then got up and stretched.
Her hair felt greasy and tangled, her lower back ached from sitting too long, and her eyes felt like they were wrapped in wool.
She crossed the office to the break room and stuck her head in, but Cal Halprin snored on that sofa.
Sam gently closed the door and went in search of another option. She was headed toward the elevator when Kearns emerged from her office with a paper in one meaty fist. Sam thumbed the button for the elevator, hoping Kearns wouldn’t see her.
“Gunn,” Kearns barked. She held up the page and her eyes bulged from her piggy little face. “What’s this flight request?”