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six-million-dollar payoff. Were they the same six million, and if so, was that significant or a coincidence?
    Only one thing was perfectly clear—the longer Storm stayed, the more he discovered, the more difficult it would be to walk away. Senator Windslow had just offered him an out. To the world, Derrick Storm was still dead. He could catch a flight back to Montana that afternoon and disappear. He could be fly-fishing at sunrise tomorrow. The big trout was still there waiting for him.
    It really could be that simple. That easy. All he had to do was walk away now, which is what anyone with any shred of common sense would do.
    “I’ll drive tonight,” Storm said.
    “What about Agent Showers?” Windslow asked. “Are you going to tell her about what’s happening—about the money and the four bags?”
    “No,” Storm said. “I’ll deliver the money tonight with Samantha Toppers on my own. Without backup—either from the FBI or Jones.”

Chapter Six
     
    Storm had gone about a mile from Windslow’s Great Falls estate, when the cell phone that Jedidiah Jones had given him began to ring.
    “Out on an early morning drive,” Jones said when Storm answered. “How’s our friend this morning?”
    Jones was tracking him. Was the FBI, too?
    “He’s a bit rattled,” Storm said.
    “Why don’t you drop into my office? The exit is clearly marked.”
    Jones was referring to a green exit sign on the George Washington Parkway that read: “George Bush Center for Intelligence CIA, Next Left.”
    So much for secrecy.
    Storm took the exit and soon reached a stoplight where Georgetown Pike intersected with the entrance to the CIA’s vast compound in Langley. Someone had placed freshly cut flowers next to two wooden crosses in the median. The sight of them brought back a memory.
    It had been cold in January 1993 when an Islamic fundamentalist from Pakistan stopped at this intersection and casually stepped from his Isuzu pickup. He’d lifted an AK-47 rifle to his shoulder and started shooting motorists and passengers in the vehicles that had stopped behind him at the stoplight, waiting to turn into the CIA compound. They were employees on their way to work. The shooter had spared the women because he’d considered murdering them a cowardly act. In all, the Pakistani killed two CIA employees and wounded three others before he returned to his truck and drove away. It had taken a special CIA team five years to track down the gunman. They’d caught him while he was asleep in a three-dollar-a-night Pakistan hotel. The terrorist had been brought back to the U.S., put on trial, and executed in Virginia’s electric chair. The flowers were a reminder of the nation’s many enemies out there.
    When the red light changed, Storm turned into the CIA entrance and out of habit stayed in the left lane as he approached a large guardhouse. Suddenly, he caught his mistake and swerved into the right lane. The entrance on the left side was for employees. As directed by signs, Storm stopped at a speaker and announced that his name was Steve Mason and he was coming to see the director of the NCS.
    “What’s your Social Security number?” a male voice asked.
    “You’ll have to ask the director for it,” he replied.
    For several minutes, Storm sat in his car at the now silent speaker, imagining what was happening in the guardhouse, which was about a hundred yards directly in front of him. It was unusual for someone to withhold their Social Security number.
    Finally, the male voice said, “Mr. Mason, drive forward slowly.”
    Two armed security officers stepped from the guardhouse, both cradling semiautomatic weapons. When he reached them, one of the officers compared his face to a picture. It was an old shot from Storm’s CIA files, only the name on it now was “STEVE MASON.” Satisfied, the officer let him pass.
    Storm drove the Taurus through a maze of waist-high concrete pillars designed to prevent motorists from speeding through the