There was a pounding on the door of the apartment that woke Clark from a deep sleep. He struggled to locate his glasses in the dark, finally finding them tangled in his blanket. As he put them on the pounding came again, only this time louder, as if by the heel of a balled up fist. He sat straight up and put his feet softly on the cold wood floor. Poised at the edge of his bed, Clark watched the shadows of two pairs of feet shift back and forth in the light that bled under the door. The two were men, he could tell by the pitch of their voices, but he could not make out what they were saying.
“Mr. Kent,” one finally announced at a reasonable volume. Clark did not answer, or breathe.
The voice came again. “Mr. Kent, we know you’re home. Please approach the door. We do not want to make a situation out of this.”
Clark looked at his watch on the nightstand. It was 4:53 a.m. For reasons only known to him, Clark was calm. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “I’m up. Hang on a minute.” He made his way to the door and peered through the peephole. “Who are you?” he asked. “This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where people go opening doors for strangers at five in the morning.”
“I understand,” replied the tall one with the goatee. “I am agent Daniel Lords of Central Intelligence and this is agent Grimes from the Department of Defense. We are working together on a matter of national security and feel like you may be able to offer us some insight into the case. This will only take about ten minutes, but we need to come in and talk.”
“Agents? Can you show me some identification guys?” He asked because it seemed to be the right thing to do, but he didn’t need proof that these guys were government employees. They looked like any agent he had ever seen: dressed in khaki and black, short hair, military posture, and sunglasses (even in a dimly lit apartment hallway.) They obliged his request and, as if choreographed, pulled back the right flap of their nylon jackets to reveal their respective tags. Clark pulled away from the peephole, methodically threw back the deadbolt and unlocked the handle of the door. He flipped on the kitchen light and invited them in.
“You guys want coffee?” asked Clark.
“Nervous, Mr. Kent?” Agent Lords removed his sunglasses and ran his thumb across the ends of the paper in the manila folder he was holding.
“No.” He smiled. “What makes you think I’m nervous?”
“You don’t own a coffee maker, Mr. Kent.”
“How do you know that?”
“We know.” Lords tossed the file folder onto the kitchen counter. On the tab was Clark’s name. “That file contains your life. Everything. Your childhood in Ohio, your college exam scores- all of them, your marriage, Elaine’s murder, all the bullshit you put your mother through because you’re a drunk and a drug-fiend… It’s all there.”
“But we don’t give two shits about any of that,” Grimes finally spoke. “We want to know what the hell you’ve been up to for the past two weeks.”
“Nervous now, Mr. Kent?” asked Lords as he took an authoritative step toward Clark.
“No, I’m not.” Clark turned to the cabinet above the stove. He turned back to the agents with a smile. “I know why you’re here. I was expecting this.” He removed the lid from the jar he was holding. There was no tremble in his hands, whatsoever. “So, do you want coffee or not? It’s instant but it’s cheap.”
_ _ _
Three and a half hours later, Clark walked into the usual bagel shop to meet James. The two men exchanged morning pleasantries and, upon Clark’s suggestion, placed their orders to go. They exited onto the city sidewalk and found a bench near the New Rep. James felt increasingly sick as Clark recounted the morning’s events.
“They know, James. They’re watching us.”
“Who?”
“The C.I.A. and the D.O.D. They paid me a visit this morning.”
“Watching us? Damn, man. I should have known better. I’m next.”
“I don’t think so. Something was strange about this morning.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I denied the whole thing. I said I heard about the suit being stolen from one of my sources and I figured I would be a suspect because of my name and recent visit to the museum.”
“They didn’t buy that, did they?”
“No. Trust me, they know. I could tell by the look in their eyes. But they made no attempt to find the suit. It was four feet away in the only closet in the apartment. And they never searched.”
“What do you mean, they never searched?”
“They asked if they could have a look around, but when I told them to ‘go ahead’ they just got up, thanked me for my time, and left.”
“What does that mean?” asked James, more confused than ever.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re waiting to see what my next move is. Whatever it means, there is no time to wait now. I’ve got to test that thing tonight and leave for the Middle East tomorrow. I understand if you decide to go home after work.”
“I think I am going to have to, Clark. I‘m sorry. I have kids to think of. Good luck.” The two men stood, shook hands and walked away from the bench. James expected Clark to head back toward the train station, but to his surprise he stayed close behind. James stopped and turned, “Where are you going?”
“To work. Got to keep up appearances.” Clark pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, smiled, then continued briskly past James into the first floor lobby of World Trade Center Two.
