see that Culpeper Regional Airport was closed at that time of night, but the security man gave a small salute and let the car pass through the gates.
Gleaming under the airfield lights like some giant beetle, a large black helicopter sat on the runway, rotors already slugging into motion as the car pulled up. Roesler and one of the other agents guided Hoberman with irresistible courtesy beneath the swish of blades to where steps led up to the door. The man standing framed in the doorway was casually dressed in a black short-sleeve polo shirt, light-colored cargo pants and an overdone smile.
“Professor Hoberman?” He extended his hand and his smile. “Thanks for coming at such an ungodly hour. I’m Agent Bundy. Let’s get you comfortable.”
“Bundy?”
“No relation …” the secret serviceman said automatically, still smiling amiably, and stood back to allow Hoberman access to a small space between the pilot’s cabin and an opposing door, which Bundy slid open. Hoberman noticed that he was tanned and muscular: the professional muscles of someone whose job required brawn as well as brain. He also noticed that Bundy had the most striking eyes. Dual-colored: the irises banded bright blue on the outside and pale hazel-brown around the pupils.
“This way, Professor Hoberman,” said Bundy.
The passenger cabin of the helicopter took Hoberman by surprise. It was bright and luxurious, with cream leather armchairs unlike anything he had seen in any airliner, whatever the class of seating. There was another man in the cabin whom Bundy introduced as Bob Ryerson. Ryerson was wearing a dark, expensive-looking suit and was indecently well-groomed and fresh for the time of night. His physique came out of the same box as Bundy’s.
“Is this
Marine One
?” Hoberman asked. Bundy laughed.
“No sir, the main helicopter used as
Marine One
is a bigger craft than this. But
Marine One
is any helicopter that has the President on board, and
only
if the President is on board. But you’re right to think that this is an HMX-1 craft: Marine Helicopter Squadron One … Presidential executive transport. Please, take a seat and buckle up for takeoff, Professor Hoberman.”
“So you and
Bob
here,” said Hoberman without taking his seat. “What are you? CIA? NSA? FBI? DHS? Or have I missed something in our fine nation’s clandestine alphabet soup?”
“You could say all of the above,” said Bundy, smile still in place. “I am officially an FBI Special Agent, but my job description has become …
flexible
. Everything’s become a little more integrated post-nine-eleven. But Bob and I are both tasked with Presidential security and protection, if that’s what you mean. Please, Professor Hoberman, sit down and buckle up and we’ll get under way.”
“Under way where?” Hoberman remained standing as resolutely as he could manage. “And why? I have a right to know where the hell you’re taking me and for what reason.”
Bundy smiled indulgently. “I believe you received a note …”
“That only told me the
who
, not the
where
and
why
.”
“I can answer your first question, Doctor,” Ryerson answered. Hoberman noticed his demeanor was less convivial than Bundy’s car-salesman cheeriness. “We’re flying to Camp Davidin Maryland. As for your second question, neither of us know why you’ve been summoned, but we were told to give you this.” He removed a dossier from a black leather attaché case and handed it to Hoberman.
The dossier was fastened shut by an unbroken Presidential seal. Hoberman stared at it the same way he’d stared at the gun in his hand. Alien, out of place. Hoberman, standing in the luxury of a Presidential fleet helicopter with its immaculate cream leather seats, cherrywood drinks table and green curtains, felt alien and out of place himself.
“Now, Professor Hoberman …” said Bundy, extending his hand towards one of the seats. “If you don’t mind …”
7
JOHN MACBETH.
Gleaming under the airfield lights like some giant beetle, a large black helicopter sat on the runway, rotors already slugging into motion as the car pulled up. Roesler and one of the other agents guided Hoberman with irresistible courtesy beneath the swish of blades to where steps led up to the door. The man standing framed in the doorway was casually dressed in a black short-sleeve polo shirt, light-colored cargo pants and an overdone smile.
“Professor Hoberman?” He extended his hand and his smile. “Thanks for coming at such an ungodly hour. I’m Agent Bundy. Let’s get you comfortable.”
“Bundy?”
“No relation …” the secret serviceman said automatically, still smiling amiably, and stood back to allow Hoberman access to a small space between the pilot’s cabin and an opposing door, which Bundy slid open. Hoberman noticed that he was tanned and muscular: the professional muscles of someone whose job required brawn as well as brain. He also noticed that Bundy had the most striking eyes. Dual-colored: the irises banded bright blue on the outside and pale hazel-brown around the pupils.
“This way, Professor Hoberman,” said Bundy.
The passenger cabin of the helicopter took Hoberman by surprise. It was bright and luxurious, with cream leather armchairs unlike anything he had seen in any airliner, whatever the class of seating. There was another man in the cabin whom Bundy introduced as Bob Ryerson. Ryerson was wearing a dark, expensive-looking suit and was indecently well-groomed and fresh for the time of night. His physique came out of the same box as Bundy’s.
“Is this
Marine One
?” Hoberman asked. Bundy laughed.
“No sir, the main helicopter used as
Marine One
is a bigger craft than this. But
Marine One
is any helicopter that has the President on board, and
only
if the President is on board. But you’re right to think that this is an HMX-1 craft: Marine Helicopter Squadron One … Presidential executive transport. Please, take a seat and buckle up for takeoff, Professor Hoberman.”
“So you and
Bob
here,” said Hoberman without taking his seat. “What are you? CIA? NSA? FBI? DHS? Or have I missed something in our fine nation’s clandestine alphabet soup?”
“You could say all of the above,” said Bundy, smile still in place. “I am officially an FBI Special Agent, but my job description has become …
flexible
. Everything’s become a little more integrated post-nine-eleven. But Bob and I are both tasked with Presidential security and protection, if that’s what you mean. Please, Professor Hoberman, sit down and buckle up and we’ll get under way.”
“Under way where?” Hoberman remained standing as resolutely as he could manage. “And why? I have a right to know where the hell you’re taking me and for what reason.”
Bundy smiled indulgently. “I believe you received a note …”
“That only told me the
who
, not the
where
and
why
.”
“I can answer your first question, Doctor,” Ryerson answered. Hoberman noticed his demeanor was less convivial than Bundy’s car-salesman cheeriness. “We’re flying to Camp Davidin Maryland. As for your second question, neither of us know why you’ve been summoned, but we were told to give you this.” He removed a dossier from a black leather attaché case and handed it to Hoberman.
The dossier was fastened shut by an unbroken Presidential seal. Hoberman stared at it the same way he’d stared at the gun in his hand. Alien, out of place. Hoberman, standing in the luxury of a Presidential fleet helicopter with its immaculate cream leather seats, cherrywood drinks table and green curtains, felt alien and out of place himself.
“Now, Professor Hoberman …” said Bundy, extending his hand towards one of the seats. “If you don’t mind …”
7
JOHN MACBETH.
Similar Books
