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No need to turn around.
Noa gets to the metal call box set into the brick.
She presses the buzzer.
Again.
Again.
A car breaks to a halt.
Quick glance.
DC police cruiser, of course.
“Yes?” a tinny male voice comes out of the speaker.
Noa takes a breath. “This is CIA Officer Noa Himel. I need to get in here.”
“Director Abrams isn’t home.”
Noa says, “I don’t care if she’s orbiting Jupiter … she gave permission for me to come here.”
From behind her, a strong male voice. “Ma’am, freeze, right there. Don’t move. Don’t you dare move!”
Over the static coming from the little speaker mounted on the gate, two males seem to be talking over one another, and then a second male voice says, “Okay, the gate’s opening now.”
Noa looks back at the male cop, who’s joined by a female companion, both with service weapons in hand.
To the call box Noa says, “I need somebody here. The cavalry has arrived and they’re not happy.”
A buzzing sound and aclank,and the gate starts rattling to the left.
“Ma’am, don’t you dare move!”
Two tall and hard-looking security men step out and Noa brushes past them, going up the cobblestoned driveway.
More shouting from behind her—
“… hey, we’re all on the same team …”
“… she’s walking away from an accident scene …”
“… we can sort it out later …”
“… the hell we will …”
The small front lawn of Director Abrams’s home looks so green and luxurious. Noa sits down and stretches out. She feels like some Cold War refugee, gaining sanctuary at some church or embassy.
The voices lower.
It’s quiet.
The gate starts rattling shut.
Even her various pains and aches seem to fade out.
Safe.