RainStorm

front of the entrance to the building,
    but I thought I might encounter a few inside. I wasn't going to
    have a chance to confirm these issues beforehand, though; I would
    have to assume their existence and prepare accordingly. If things
    turned out to be easier than I had planned for, I would be pleasantly
    surprised.
    The building was surrounded by thin suburban woods, through
    which there were some railroad tie stairs and trails leading to the
    street beyond. The West Falls Church Metro station was within
    walking distance from the building; presumably, the trails were used
    by commuters. They would do equally well for an unwelcome visitor
    bugging out after a failed op. There was a custodial entrance in
    back, a single, heavy metal door at the top of a short riser of concrete
    stairs. And, positioned over the door, as a deterrent to anyone
    who might want to break into the building through its less trafficked
    rear, a security camera.
    I found a Nordstrom in a nearby shopping mall and bought a
    pair of galoshes, a gray windbreaker, a nice pair of deerskin gloves-- thin enough to offer good tactile feedback; thick enough to avoid
    leaving fingerprints--a black wool overcoat, and a large leather
    briefcase. Then I stopped at a gas station near the mall, where,
    while engaged in a nonexistent conversation on the public phone,
    I tore out the listings for Chinese, Japanese, and Korean restaurants
    from the kiosk's Yellow Pages. I drove around until I found a place,
    Kim's Korean barbecue, that sold tee-shirts and baseball caps with
    the store's logo, a bright red box around red Korean lettering. I
    bought a shirt and a cap, along with a large lunch to go.
    I drove back to Crawley's apartment. There was a Whole Foods
    organic supermarket in the strip mall across the street. I went in and
    fueled up with a couple of vegan sandwiches and a fruit smoothie.
    I washed it all down with a large coffee. It was good to eat so
    healthy on the job--usually the available operational menu consists
    of McDonald's and, if you're lucky, some other fast food possibilities,
    typically consumed cold and congealing. I enjoyed the repast,
    knowing it might be a while before I had a chance for another meal.
    At two-thirty, I went to a pay phone and tried Crawley again at
    his office, ostensibly a State Department number but one I knew
    would in fact ring through to a CIA extension. He answered on the
    first ring.
    "Crawley," I heard him say.
    "Hello, I'm trying to reach the public affairs press liaison office?"
    I said, my voice a little uncertain. The title was sufficiently
    bureaucratic to make me confident that there would be dozens of
    similarly named working groups, at the Agency and elsewhere.
    "Wrong extension," he said, and hung up.
    I smiled and shook my head. People can be so rude.
    I got back into the car and drove to a nearby residential street. I
    pulled over behind a few other parked cars and took a moment to
    slip on the galoshes and transfer my shopping items into the briefcase.
    I changed into the Kim's tee-shirt and pulled my windbreaker
    on over it, leaving it unzipped so the shirt's logo would show. The
    windbreaker, which I had deliberately purchased two sizes too
    large, would make me look smaller by comparison, awkward inside
    its volume, diminished. I donned the wig, the glasses, and the Kim's
    cap. I checked in the rearview, and liked the unfamiliar appearance
    I saw there.
    I drove back toward Crawley's complex, parking in another strip
    mall parking lot that I would be able to reach on foot through the
    woods if things went sour and I had to leave in an unexpected hurry.
    I purged the contents of the car's GPS nav system and shut off the
    ignition. Then I spent a few minutes with my eyes closed, visualizing
    the next steps, getting into character. When I was ready, I got out and
    walked to Crawley's complex, carrying the Kim's bag with me.
    I approached through the large carport, opened one of the two
    sets of double glass doors with the backs of two fingers, and stepped
    into a vestibule defined by another set of glass doors opposite the
    ones I had just come through. As I extended my hand to try one of
    the inner doors, a buzzer sounded. I looked through the glass and
    saw a young Caucasian girl, shoulder-length brown hair and freckles,
    who looked like a college student working a part-time doorman's
    gig so she could keep hitting the books while she worked.
    Part-time would be good. She wouldn't know the