The motel was old but not decrepit. Someone had obviously taken good care of it during the fifty-plus years it had stood outside McLean, Virginia. The family-owned place had been built long before the area became dotted with the Hiltons and Marriotts favoured by most travellers.
The gravel parking area was nearly devoid of cars, which suited Jack just fine. He parked his rental as far away from the motel office as possible. From the side pocket of the inexpensive suitcase he had bought at a Walmart that morning he extracted an accordion file. He went through the pockets methodically. Each held a different set of identity papers. Driver’s licence, passport, credit cards, library cards, house keys, the works.
He finally found the one he was looking for. He filled the pockets of a new wallet with the identification papers. Then he slid his own wallet under a lethal-looking semi-automatic pistol and locked the glove box. He pulled a cap over his head, locked his suitcase in the trunk and headed for the office.
Within five minutes he was checked into the motel as ‘Tony Cologne’, an industrial paper salesman.
He let himself into room thirty-two and checked the place over carefully. Closet, bathroom, and even under the bed. He examined the telephone and the television set for bugging devices and the ceiling for cameras.
Affluent McLean, Virginia, was the home of diplomats and politicos and all manner of persons having business with the Central Intelligence Agency. The Langley headquarters was a little over a mile away. It paid to be cautious in this area.
Satisfied finally, Jack brought his suitcase and his pistol into the motel and double-locked the door.
He hung up a navy suit and starched white shirt in the closet and placed highly polished shoes on the shelf. He then removed a plastic bag from the case and took it into the small bathroom. The bag held hair dye, scissors, makeup and various sundries which he placed on the shelf near the sink.
He examined himself in the mirror and then studied the passport photograph on the identity papers he had chosen. The photograph was of Jack but one would really need to study it to realize that. His colouring, his hairstyle, even his facial expression looked nothing like the Jack McCarthy that Margo once loved.
An hour later the face looking back at Jack from the mirror was altered. His tangle of sandy hair was gone, replaced by black hair, cut short and slicked down on either side of a precise side parting. His eyebrows had been darkened and he wore an unfashionable pair of steel-rimmed glasses.
He put on the three-piece suit that looked like a hundred other three-piece suits worn by mid-level executives all over Washington, DC. He studied his image in a distorted full-length mirror. He could have been an aide to a Senator or an accountant. But he was now Tony Cologne.
Satisfied, Jack went back into the bedroom and carefully hung up his jacket and waistcoat. He examined the Glock semi-automatic pistol which had been custom-made for him in the Georgia factory. He took a leather case from his suitcase, removing oil and rags and instruments which he carefully laid on the nightstand.
Jack propped himself up on the bed and began to carefully clean and oil the powerful weapon. He couldn’t help but think of Marcus. How many times had they completed this ritual together on the eve of a mission?
One too many times, he thought, for Marcus. He pushed thoughts of his friend away. There was no place for sentimentality now. Too much was at stake.
He was eager to begin but Jack knew he must wait until the time was right. That was fine with him. He was used to waiting.