THE DAUGHTERS OF ONOTO

Prologue:

The trip to CIA, Langley, took three hours, two more than usual. Eighteen inches of freezing slush ground to the color of last year's garbage tied-up traffic crawling along the beltway. The car's tires groaned against ice buildups in the wheel wells. Dan Hill pulled over, climbed out into the fog and sleet and kicked the black icebergs into the street. Back in, his glasses fogged. Holding them over the defroster vent, he almost tail-ended a bread truck. It was that kind of February morning. A Monday. What could be worse?

As he turned onto the down ramp and entered the parking garage he tried to brake. The car slid. The bundled security guard jumped out of the way. Hugging himself and stamping his feet to keep warm, the angry gatekeeper waved him through without checking his credentials.

"I'm a terrorist! You just let in a car full of explosives." He can't hear me with the windows up.

Condensing air and exhaust fumes almost obscured the barrier in front of his parking section. A sign drifted in the vapors:

AREA CLOSED. PARK NEXT

 TO MAINTENANCE BLDG 3.

Dan swung the rusting Corvair around, found the EXIT signs, and followed them. Leaning over the steering wheel he tried to wipe a peephole with the cuff of his overcoat. As he passed the security station a chunk of filthy ice let go. The security guard jumped back as an avalanche of slush sprayed his feet. Dan floored the pedal. He has orders to shoot anyone who runs the barrier. He won't shoot, the weather's too nasty.

He made a one-eighty around the secured parking area gunning the little convertible toward Maintenance. As the engine revved, hot air forced from the rear engine compartment defrosted a wider area of the windshield. Peering through, he saw the flashing blue light of a snowplow windrowing slush into two-foot high ridges, effectively sealing parked cars in place. Good thing I'm late. I'd have been trapped in the parking area. The damned union wants time-and-a-half for clearing snow before or after their eight-to-four workdays.

Dan parked near the maintenance building. Briefcase in hand, he entered the lobby and passed through the first guard station. He clamped one limp wet glove firmly in his teeth and drew his overcoat over his left arm. His furry hat glistened with droplets. His picture badge was buried in his coat. Even with his face obscured by hat, scarf, and fogged glasses, security waved him through. In the foyer mirror, he saw the reflection of the thing passing. It bore no resemblance to himself. Some security system, you dumb bastards. The headlines will read: The mad bomber from hell, Dan Hill, second-rate analyst, sailed into one of the most secure buildings in the western world as if it were a shopping mall.

Down the hall by the elevators the backup security officer was busy. Filling out forms? No, the dumb ass is doing a crossword puzzle!

He got the nod.