Darting into the hallway, I turn a quick corner and make a right at the elevators. I spot him about a hundred feet ahead. His arms are swinging at his side. Not a worry in the world. As his shoes tap against the terrazzo floor, I assume he’s headed for the underground tram that’ll take him back to the Capitol. To my surprise, he makes a sharp right and disappears down a short flight of stairs. Keeping my distance, I make the same right and follow the stairs down past a pair of Capitol police officers. On my left, the officers herd arriving staff and visitors through the X-ray and metal detector. Straight ahead, the glass door that leads out to Independence Avenue swings shut. Underground is faster. Why’s he going outside?
But as I shove my way through the door and hop down the outdoor steps, it makes a bit more sense. The sidewalk’s packed with fellow employees who are just now coming back from lunch. The September day is overcast, but the weather’s still warm. If he’s walking the halls all day, maybe he’s just after some fresh air. Besides, there’s more than one way to cut across to the Capitol.
I keep telling myself that as he heads up the block. Five steps later, he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a cell phone. Maybe that’s it – reception’s better outside – but as he presses the phone to his ear, he does the oddest thing of all. At the corner of Independence and South Capitol, all he has to do is make a left and cut across the street. Instead, he pauses a moment – and makes a right.
My Adam’s apple swells in my throat. What the hell is going on?
6
ON THE CORNER of Independence and South Capitol, the page turns back to see if anyone’s behind him. I duck behind a group of staffers, once again cursing my height. The page doesn’t even notice. I’m too far back to be seen. By the time I peek up again, he’s long gone. Around the corner.
Racing full speed, I fly up toward the corner, my shoes pounding against the concrete. From here, Independence Avenue rises at a slight incline. It doesn’t even slow me down.
I inch my head around the corner, and the page is halfway down South Capitol. He’s fast. Even though he’s on the phone, he knows where he’s going.
Unsure what to do, I go with my first instinct. Whipping out my own phone, I dial Harris’s number. Nothing but voice mail, which means he’s either on the line or out to lunch. I call back again, hoping his assistant will pick up. He doesn’t.
I try to tell myself it still makes sense. Maybe this is how the dungeon-masters play it – the last transfer gets dropped off campus. There’s gotta be someplace that’s the actual home base. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. But that doesn’t make the reality pill any easier to swallow. He’s got our money. I want to know where it’s going.
At the end of the block, the page makes a left on C Street and disappears around another corner. I take off after him, carefully angling behind every staffer I can find. Anything to keep myself out of his direct line of sight.
As he turns right on New Jersey Avenue, I’m at least 150 feet behind him. He’s still moving fast, yakking away on his phone. By now, fellow staffers and the congressional office buildings are long gone. We’re in the residential section of Capitol Hill – brick townhouse squeezed next to brick townhouse. I walk on the other side of the pothole-filled street, pretending I’m looking for my parked car. It’s a lame excuse, but if he spins around, at least he won’t see me. The only problem is, the further we go, the more the neighborhood shape-shifts around us.
Within two minutes, the brick townhouses and tree-lined streets give way to chain-link fences and broken bottles scattered across the concrete. An illegally parked car has a yellow metal boot on its front tire. A Jeep across the street has its back window smashed, creating an oval black hole at the center of the shattered glass. It’s the great irony of Capitol Hill – we’re supposed to run the country, but we can’t even keep up the neighborhood.
Diagonally up the street, the page still has his cell pressed against his ear. He’s too far. I can’t hear a word. But I can see it in his stride. There’s a new glide in his walk. His whole body bounces to the right with each step. I try to imagine the polished kid who quietly coughed his way into my office barely five blocks ago. He’s long gone.
Instead, the page bounces along, tapping the envelope – filled with our money – against his thigh. He moves without a hint of hesitation. To me, this is a rough neighborhood. To the page, this is home.
Up ahead, the street rises slightly, then levels off just below the overpass for I-395 that runs perpendicular overhead. As the page nears the overpass, he once again glances back to see if anyone’s following. I duck behind a black Acura, slamming my shoulder into the side mirror. There’s a loud chirp.