WASHINGTON, D.C.
Malachi carefully studied the iconic building at 910 Sixteenth Street, just two blocks from the White House. The unusual building was constructed entirely of exposed concrete and was shaped like a tall, octagonal prism, with a flat roof and no windows or doors facing the street. From Malachi’s vantage point at the corner of Sixteenth and I, the building looked like a bunker from the Cold War era—drab and imposing, almost menacing in its appearance.
And this was not by accident.
The octagonal building at 910 Sixteenth Street was, in fact, a veritable monument to the Brutalist school of architecture, a harsh style that had flourished in this city in the late 1960s before dying a quick, and largely unmourned, death. As an architectural philosophy, Brutalism sprang from a socialist, utopian view of the world. Regimented, domineering, downright totalitarian in form, Brutalism envisioned an urban society of complacent workers and residents, all neatly compartmentalized into low-cost, über-efficient fabrications of unadorned functionality. The concept of Brutalism was to dominate the urban landscape, forcing residents to conform to a new, progressive way of living: modern, functional, supremely efficient, and, above all, intelligently designed.
The result of this style, however, was anything but utopian. The naked concrete exteriors weathered poorly, turning ugly over time. The tall, fortresslike walls attracted graffiti, and their shadowy angles provided sanctuary for junkies, vagabonds, and criminals, eventually transforming many Brutalist-inspired neighborhoods into urban combat zones.
As Malachi knew, the Brutalist prism at 910 Sixteenth Street was not an apartment building or a residential project of any kind. Nor was it an office building, a library, a post office, or any other sort of government building. Instead, this structure had a much different purpose—one that most people found astonishing given the building’s stolid appearance.
On one side of the octagonal structure, a large square slab of concrete jutted out perpendicularly about ten feet, as if an entire piece of the building had been pulled out by force and left to dangle precariously above the brick walkway below, supported only by one vertical edge. Affixed to this giant slab of concrete were twenty bronze bells.
Malachi crossed the intersection at Sixteenth and K and continued north on Sixteenth Street until he could read the full message that was written along the east side of the building. The words were formed by large black metal letters, bolted directly to the building’s concrete facade. They read:
Third Church of Christ, Scientist
“The Third Church,” Malachi whispered. His heart began racing as he realized, without a doubt, that this was his destination. Here he would fulfill his destiny.
He also knew that he’d been here before . . . with her. Although, judging from the condition of the building, his last visit must have been many, many years ago. He gazed up at the building’s windowless facade, which loomed high above Sixteenth Street, and noted that the concrete was badly stained at the top. Long, triangular splotches streaked down like tears along the sides of the building, the result of decades of dirty storm runoff from the building’s flat, and poorly conceived, octagonal roof. Malachi could remember distinctly when the concrete walls of this building were sleek and clean, its walkways flat and weed free, its twenty bronze bells gleaming brilliantly in the sun. Now, those same bells were black with grime, and the entire building seemed dingy and neglected. What happened to this place?
Malachi continued farther up Sixteenth Street until he was able to turn left into the church’s courtyard. Like the rest of this austere building, the courtyard was stark and angular, paved nearly entirely with bricks except for a few soft planting areas along the sides and a single leafless tree in the middle. The landscape was minimalist to the extreme, bordering on harsh.
Malachi passed through the courtyard and slowly approached the wide, rectangular entryway adjoining the courtyard, on the east side of the building. Above the entryway was the building’s sole window, with nearly the same rectangular dimensions as the entryway. He glanced all around the courtyard and confirmed that he was still alone. Then, just as he was about to enter the building, he paused and took note of the date that was pressed deeply into the concrete wall near the entryway: 1970. The year of the building’s completion.
Malachi repeated this in his mind, 1970. When everything was new. He took one last look around the courtyard. Then he quickly entered the building through one of the tinted glass doors and disappeared inside.
“He’s inside the building,” said Mike Califano, who had been observing Malachi from across Sixteenth Street. His words were broadcast via secure satellite radio to Ana Thorne, who was a few blocks south, and to Bill McCreary at CIA headquarters.
“What building?” asked McCreary, who was still struggling to keep track of this operation from his office.
“Nine ten Sixteenth Street, Northwest,” said Califano quickly. “It’s the Third Church of Christ, Scientist. Can you tell us anything about it?”
“Stand by,” said McCreary. Back at CIA headquarters, he and Steve Goodwin began furiously looking up information about the address.
“Mike, where are you?” asked Ana over the radio.
“Just crossing Sixteenth Street, heading into the courtyard behind the building. Where are you?”
“Southwest corner of Seventeenth and I,” said Ana. She paused for a moment. “Hey, I think I can get to the courtyard from here. I see an alleyway across the street. I’m heading there now.” Ana terminated her transmission and quickly crossed over I Street and made her way to what appeared to be a narrow passage that ran along the west side of the octagonal church.
“You’re correct,” said McCreary a few seconds later, his voice crackling over the radio. In his office at Langley, he was already looking at a detailed satellite image of the church on his computer screen. “The alleyway goes straight through to the courtyard.”
Ana entered the dark alleyway on I Street and was immediately struck by the smell of urine and human filth. “Jesus,” she whispered, shaking her head. Apparently, this alley was popular with the homeless. And she could see why. It was nearly covered along its entire length by a concrete overhang with long strands of vegetation hanging down from above. Perfect shelter. Because of this odd feature, the gray sky was visible only through a narrow slit between the overhanging planter and the west side of the octagonal building. Strange design, Ana thought as she quickly made her way through the tunnel-like passage toward the courtyard on the other side.
As she neared the end of the passageway, she could see more of the sparse courtyard as it gradually came into view. She saw a leafless tree in the center, surrounded by a large expanse of uneven brick pavers. She saw several concrete benches near the planting areas. But one thing she did not see was Mike Califano.
“Hey, I’m coming up on the courtyard now,” said Ana through her concealed microphone. “Where are you?” Those words had no sooner left her lips than she sensed a commotion in the vegetation above her head. At first, she thought it was a rat or some other urban animal. But it wasn’t.
A man dropped through the narrow opening above the alleyway without warning, landing a few feet in front of her with impressive acrobatic skill. He wore a black ski mask pulled over his face and carried a suppressor-enhanced pistol in one hand, which he was now leveling at her chest.
Ana flinched, but her instincts quickly kicked in. Three options immediately coursed through her mind, none of them good. Fleeing would not work because she was stuck in the middle of a narrow passageway facing an armed man. Charging forward wouldn’t work, either. The man had a pistol aimed at her chest, and she could tell his finger was resting on the trigger. Her third option wasn’t any better. She could try to draw her weapon, but she knew she wouldn’t be fast enough. Nothing left to do but stall.
“What do you want?” she asked. “You want money? I’ve got—”
“Shut up,” said the man through his ski mask. He stiffened his firing arm, then slowly lifted the barrel until it was level with her forehead. “Hands up.”
Ana blew out a long, frustrated breath. Then she slowly raised her hands.
The man whose code name was Malachi passed through the church lobby and took a left at the interior stairwell that circumscribed the building’s massive atrium, known as “the sanctuary.” He climbed the steps to an intermediate platform and approached the first door on his right and gently tugged on its handle. Locked. Undeterred, he proceeded several feet down the hallway and checked the next door. It, too, was locked.
“Can I help you?” called out a woman from behind.
Malachi spun and observed a thin, silver-haired woman in a white dress and a large beaded necklace draped around her neck. She looked to be in her midseventies or perhaps early eighties.
Malachi hesitated. “I’m . . . looking for Qaset.”
The woman approached slowly, her eyes widening with each deliberate step. At a distance of several feet, she stopped and squinted at Malachi’s face. “Daniel?” she said tentatively.
Daniel. That name eased slowly and comfortably into Malachi’s brain, and he found himself nodding in agreement.
The woman slowly closed the remaining distance between them. “My God,” she whispered. “You’ve barely changed.” She reached out and gently touched his unshaven face. “Just a few wrinkles.” Then she glanced at his hair. “But your hair . . . it’s gray.”
Malachi smiled slightly and nodded. “Yours, too.”
“Oh,” said the woman, shaking her head. “I’m so old, I’m surprised you even recognize me.” There was a long, awkward pause. “You . . . do recognize me, don’t you?”
Malachi started to say something but stopped short. He still did not trust his memory.
“Go ahead,” said the woman reassuringly. “Say it.”
Malachi studied the woman’s face for several more seconds, tilting his head from side to side. Then, in an unsure tone, he said, “Opal?”
The woman smiled and nodded. “Yes, Daniel. It’s me.”
Ana Thorne watched in disbelief as the man in the black ski mask approached and put the barrel of his gun just inches from her forehead. With his free hand, he began patting her down for weapons, starting at her shoulders and working his way down. He hadn’t quite made it to her underarm holster when his hand groped crudely across her breasts. For a split second, his eyes darted downward to see what he was grabbing.
And that was all the time she needed. Ana’s right knee exploded upward into the man’s crotch, landing with a satisfying thud. Simultaneously, she smashed her right forearm into the man’s firing arm, knocking it violently out of place.
A noise-suppressed round whizzed past Ana’s head and ricocheted off one of the concrete walls of the passageway.
The man keeled forward, wincing in agony. Ana was tempted to deliver a downward thrust kick to the back of his skull, which, given her martial arts training, probably would have killed him. But protocol required otherwise. She had no idea who this man was, and like it or not, deadly force was not authorized in this situation.
Not yet anyway.
Ana quickly pulled her Glock 9 millimeter from its holster beneath her jacket and aimed it at the top of the man’s head. As he arose slowly from his bent-over position, she adjusted her aim until her weapon was trained at the center of his chest. Center of mass, per her CIA training. “Don’t move,” she warned.
The man locked eyes with her through his ski mask. A tense moment passed, and his eyes began to narrow slightly. Then, in a flash, he raised his weapon to fire.
Ana beat him to it. She fired twice in rapid succession, placing a noise-suppressed 9-millimeter round in the man’s chest and another in his forehead before he hit the ground. The CIA’s “double tap” technique, just as she’d been trained. Now deadly forced was authorized. She watched as the man collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap.
Moments later, the dark outline of another man appeared at the north end of the alleyway, blocking out the light. Ana saw the unmistakable shape of a pistol in his hand. She immediately raised her Glock to fire.
“Ana!” said a voice.
Ana’s heart skipped a beat. It was Califano.
“Shit!” she exclaimed angrily. “Don’t ever do that again. I almost shot you.”
“You all right?” Califano asked as he jogged toward her and gawked at the dead man on the ground.
“I’m fine, but we’ve got company. Come on.”
The crackly voice of Bill McCreary came on the line. “What the hell’s going on?” he asked.
Ana tapped her microphone as she jogged. “I’ll explain later.” She didn’t have time for Q and A right now.
Seconds later, Ana and Califano emerged from the passageway and quickly made their way to the church entrance. “Where the hell were you?” Ana whispered angrily as she holstered her weapon. She nodded for Califano to do the same with his pistol.
Califano looked confused. “What? I was right here. Waiting for you.”
Ana looked annoyed. “Never mind. Let’s go in.”
The two of them entered the church and found themselves standing alone in a small, unlit lobby with a polished terra cotta floor. Ana pressed her index finger to her lips and listened carefully for several seconds. The building was eerily silent.
“Where is everyone?” Califano whispered.
Ana pointed to a sign on the wall, which read:
Third Church of Christ, Scientist
Sanctuary Closed for Repairs
9:30 A.M. Sunday Services Next Door
in the Reading Room
“Ah,” Califano whispered.
Ana again pressed a finger to her lips and pointed emphatically with her other hand toward the hallway beyond the lobby.
Califano heard it now, too. The unmistakable sound of high-heeled shoes clicking loudly across a hard floor. Califano reached instinctively for his weapon, but Ana stopped his arm before he could withdraw it. She slowly shook her head no. Protocol.
A moment later, a petite, middle-aged woman in a bright blue dress rounded the corner and came into the lobby. “Oh,” she said, looking a bit startled. “I thought I heard someone in here. God’s love to both of you.”
“And to you,” said Ana.
“Are you visiting us for the first time?” asked the woman in a gentle voice. As she spoke, she dropped her car keys into her purse.
“Um, yes,” said Ana. “We just moved to the area, and we’re looking around for a new church.”
An idea suddenly popped into Califano’s mind. “Actually, we’re newlyweds,” he said with a crooked smile. “Just got married last week.” He glanced down at his ring finger. “We’re, uh . . . still waiting for our rings to get sized.”
Ana shot him a sideways glance.
“Oh, how wonderful,” said the woman in blue. She gave Ana a big smile. “You must be so happy.”
Ana forced a smile. “Thrilled.”
“Well, may God bless your marriage with boundless love.”
“Amen,” said Califano. At the same time, he wrapped his arm tightly around Ana’s waist and planted a kiss on her cheek. Ana blushed and forced another smile.
The woman in blue laughed nervously. “Oh, my. Well, I’m sorry our main building is closed due to some storm damage. But we’ll be holding services next door at nine thirty. I’m heading over there now to set up if you’d like to join me.”
“Thanks,” said Ana. She wiped her cheek and gave Califano a none-too-subtle jab in the ribs. “But we’d like to look around here a bit, if that’s okay. It looks like such a cool building.”
“Uh, sure. I guess that’d be okay. Just be careful wherever you see buckets on the floor. We’ve got a very leaky roof.”
“We will,” said Ana. She thanked the woman and then quickly turned and proceeded toward the wide, angular staircase on the left side of the lobby.
Califano caught up with her halfway up the stairs.
“What the hell was that?” Ana whispered over her shoulder as she climbed the steps two at a time. It was an unusual staircase, angling clockwise at even intervals as it hugged the octagonal contours of the building. The stairwell was dark, with just a bit of indirect natural light filtering down from the skylights above.
“Just playing my part,” Califano replied, still two steps behind her. “Trying to be a little creative.”
Thorne stopped abruptly on the steps and turned to face him. “Stop trying to be ‘creative.’ It’s going to get us both killed. Just follow protocol, got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.” Califano mumbled these words with something close to sincerity.
Ana swiveled her head. The sound of low voices could suddenly be heard through a slightly open door at the top of the stairs. She slowly withdrew her weapon and approached the door. Califano followed close behind.
Ana reached the door first and eased it open a few inches, holding her breath as she did. When it was cracked open just wide enough, she slipped through and found herself standing on a wide balcony, gazing down into a cavernous octagonal sanctuary with no windows and very little light. In the semidarkness she could see dozens of long metal pews arranged in horizontal rows facing the pulpit. About half of them were covered with blue tarps, apparently to protect them from the leaking roof above. Other metal pews were arranged in three long balcony sections, including the one on which she now stood. The pulpit below was situated on a raised stage at the front of the sanctuary, which was dominated by sleek, geometric shapes of cement and metal, all in keeping with the Brutalist design of the church. Behind the pulpit, in large metal letters fastened directly to the naked cement wall, was the following quotation:
If Science is not God,
then truth is but an accident.
Ana suddenly heard the voices again and her eyes were immediately drawn to a dark corner of the sanctuary near the pulpit. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, two figures gradually came into view, a man in a black coat and a shorter, elderly woman in a white dress. Why did that woman look familiar?
The man and woman were facing each other, speaking in hushed tones. Because of the angular design of the sanctuary, Ana could hear some of what they were saying, although their words were fading in and out in waves.
“. . . did you see . . . is he alive. . .?” asked the woman.
“Yes,” said the man. “. . . wounded. I helped him . . . then we got separated . . .”
“. . . the stone?” asked the woman.
The man’s response was garbled.
Ana wanted to hear more, but she knew it was time to move in. They couldn’t take any more chances, especially given what had happened outside. She quickly turned to signal Califano through the open door.
But he was gone.
Shit, Ana mouthed. Just then, her earpiece crackled to life and she heard Califano’s voice speaking very softly in her ear. “Look up,” he said.