RainStorm

a
    tattered shape that might have been a scarecrow in a field grown
    over with weeds. All just physical graffiti, unintentionally scrawled
    by other solitary travelers, detritus deposited by random men on
    their way to that common destination, and not just the marks of
    someone else's passage, but portents of my own.
    The hours passed. A growing weariness finally suppressed my
    restless ruminations. I got back in bed, and, eventually, I slept.
    I took the train to the airport the next morning. I called Crawley
    at home shortly before boarding the 12:10 flight. It was 9:45 the
    previous night in D.C.
    Three rings. Then a nasal voice: "Yeah." It sounded as though I
    might have woken him.
    "Oh, I'm sorry," I said in a fake falsetto. "I think I've dialed the
    wrong number."
    "Christ," I heard him say. He hung up.
    I smiled. I would have hated to fly all the way to Washington,
    only to learn that he was out of town.
    The nonstop was a luxury. Ordinarily I prefer a more circuitous
    route, but this time I judged the imperative of catching Crawley
    while I knew where he was to be worth the risks inherent in a predictable
    route. Likewise, although business class was the usual compromise
    between comfort and anonymity, the constant travel was
    beginning to wear me down, and this time I flew first class. The
    east coast of the United States was over twelve hours away, and I
    wanted to be fresh when I got there.
    I had already conceived the broad outlines of my plan, and
    now I needed to visualize the details. Once the plane had reached
    its cruising altitude and the annoying safety and entertainment
    announcements had ended, I closed my eyes and began a mental
    dress rehearsal of the entire operation: approach, reconnaissance, entry,
    waiting, action, egress, escape. Each stage of this mental walkthrough
    revealed certain tools that would prove useful or necessary
    for the task at hand, and each tool became part of a growing mental
    checklist. Of course, additional items would be revealed during
    actual investigation of the target site, but those additional items
    would only properly present themselves in the context of an existing,
    organized plan.
    Twenty minutes later I emerged from a deeply reflective state,
    knowing as well as I could, in the absence of further intelligence,
    what I would need and how it would work. I put the seat all the
    way back, covered myself with the first-class down quilt, and slept
    for the rest of the flight.
    The plane touched down a little before ten in the morning local
    time. I found a pay phone at the airport and called Crawley's office
    line. There was no answer. No problem, he was probably in a
    meeting.
    I could have called his cell phone, but that wouldn't have told
    me what I needed to know--where he was. I tried him at his apartment,
    and was unsurprised to get his answering machine. It was a
    weekday and I hadn't expected to find him at home, but one of the
    things you learn in war and in this business is never to assume. The
    day you think a house is going to be empty is the one day the owner
    stays home sick, or is there to let the washing machine repairman
    in, or has relatives visiting from out of town. You learn not to leave
    things like that to chance.
    I rented a car with a GPS satellite navigation system and drove
    into D.C. for a little shopping expedition. At a hardware store, I
    bought twenty-five feet of clothesline, sheet plastic, Scotch tape, a
    roll of duct tape, and a disposable box cutter. Then a drugstore for
    a large tube of K-Y jelly, rubber surgical gloves, and a felt-tip pen.
    An optician for a pair of heavy black plastic, non-prescription eyeglasses.
    A wig shop for some new hair. At the Japan Information
    and Culture Center, I made off with a handful of flyers on upcoming
    JICC activities. And last stop, the Counter Spy shop on Connecticut
    Avenue, where I picked up a five-hundredthousand-volt
    Panther stun gun, about the size of a cell phone, for $34.95 and tax.
    I used the GPS nav system to pilot back to Virginia, where I did
    a preliminary drive-through of Crawley's apartment complex.
    There was a set of metal gates at the parking lot entrance. Although
    they were apparently left open during the day, their presence told
    me that I was dealing with a place that probably had decent security.
    I expected access to the building would require a key, and there
    might be a doorman, too. I saw no security cameras in the parking
    lot or under the large carport in