His desktop was spotless as he placed the photograph on the upper right-hand corner. Putting the telegram and medal back in the drawer, Bill stood, walked to the door of his office, locking the door behind him. Waiting for the elevator, he considered the notebook hidden in his apartment. Pasha, he thought. Tied together for so long.
Bill Fisher stepped out from the elevator at basement level two, the level reserved for the agency elite. A driver was standing at the open door of a Lincoln Town Car. “Good evening, sir.”
“Take the scenic route, Jennings. I need some time to think.”
“The scenic route it is, sir.” Jennings was assigned to Bill Fisher seven years ago, and took the on ramp, heading to Wolf Trap. He knew his passenger liked to walk through the empty amphitheater, eventually sitting in the last row. It was his place for thinking, the driver believed.
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