Jake Harrison boarded the twin-engine Falcon at Sochi International Airport for the return trip to Reagan National. Now that Anatoly Bogdanov had been apprehended, flights had begun returning agency personnel to the U.S., and today’s flight was full. Upon boarding the aircraft, Khalila sat beside him as if nothing unusual had happened in Sochi.
As the aircraft took off, she pulled the trip report from her satchel and handed it to him for review. As in Damascus, the report omitted critical details. Obviously, nothing was included about almost killing him, nor did it mention impaling Bogdanov’s arm with her knife. Harrison signed and handed it back to Khalila, who filed it away before reclining her seat.
She pretended to sleep for most of the flight, presumably so they wouldn’t have to engage in conversation, but Harrison could tell she was still awake. His suspicion was confirmed while he was on the phone with his wife, who had just arrived in Baltimore for her annual visit with her mom. After informing her he was on the way back to the country, the topic had turned to arranging some time alone together, as there wasn’t much privacy in her mom’s one-bedroom apartment. Harrison had mentioned getting a hotel somewhere when Khalila spoke.
“The Hotel Washington in D.C. It’s an agency perk. Call Durrani. He can arrange a room for however many nights you need.”
Harrison wasn’t sure whether to thank Khalila or tell her to never talk to him again. He decided not to respond, then contacted Durrani, who made the arrangement. He called Angie back; she’d be waiting for him in the hotel lobby tonight.
Khalila said nothing more for the rest of the flight, and upon landing at Reagan National, grabbed her luggage and departed without a word.
The century-old Hotel Washington, located on 15th Street NW between Pennsylvania Avenue and F Street, was only a block away from the White House. Harrison pulled up to the entrance to the eleven-story hotel, which was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and had appeared in several movies, with its rooftop terrace featured in The Godfather: Part II and No Way Out.
Harrison tossed his keys to the valet and pulled his duffle bag from the backseat, then entered the historic hotel. Although the luxurious lobby was well appointed, his eyes were instantly drawn to Angie, seated across the lobby. Her face brightened when she saw him, and she smiled as she rose from the chair and walked toward him. She was wearing a raspberry-colored featherweight sweater that clung to her curves, low-slung jeans, and knee-high suede leather boots.
Angie’s smile turned mischievous as her pace increased, and Harrison quickly deduced what she was planning to do. He dropped his duffle bag on the floor and shifted one foot farther back, bracing himself. Angie sprinted the remaining distance toward Harrison and leaped into his arms, straddling his waist with her legs as she locked her lips on to his. When she pulled back, Harrison glanced at the lobby occupants—distinguished guests wearing suits and elegant dresses—some of whom were staring at the couple, but Angie seemed not to notice or care, her eyes locked on to his, an infectious grin on her face.
“You’re excited to see me, I take it,” Harrison said, charmed as always by her youthful exuberance.
Angie whispered into his ear. “If you think I’m excited now, just wait until we’re alone.”