Outside the Duquesne Club on Sixth Avenue, with cocktail hour looming, I search for a spot of recon.

Where would office workers around this part of downtown go for an afterwork drink?

The answer is just around the corner on Liberty Avenue.

Morton’s Steakhouse.

Morton’s is the only other game in town offering sophistication.

Pamela Rowe seems a discriminating sort. Only Morton’s could offer the right ambience, service, and professionally prepared cocktails. And it’s conveniently close to her work.

Back in my room, a shower and a change. Then I return to Morton’s, park myself on a stool at its slick modernistic bar and order a Negroni.

And wait.

Sure enough, just past six o’clock, when the bar is beginning to fill with steel executives and lawyers, Pamaro strolls in with another gal, a stylish petite blonde.

I focus on my drink, noting her movements with peripheral vision.

There is no recognition at first.

But after ordering a pair of lemon drop martinis, Pamaro saunters toward me.

“Nice to see you again so soon!” she bubbles.

The prospect of vodka after eight hours in an office has that kind of effect on people.

I squint, as if trying to ascertain who this might be.

“Oh,” I say. “Pamela, right? Yes, not a lot of choice in this town. The Fairmont’s bar is a bore.”

“I can see why you need our club,” says Pamaro with a laugh. She waves over her friend, younger than she. “This is our newest prospective member, Jay…?”

“Sanford. Thanks again for today.”

“My pleasure.”

“May I buy you a drink in appreciation of your grand tour?”

“Thank you but no. The bartender already has my card. But thank you anyway.”

She returns to her companion.

When Pamaro’s glass is nearly empty I instruct the bartender to shake her another on my tab.

When it is delivered, Pamaro turns to look at me in surprise.

“Thank you,” she mouths.

The other gal gathers her things, readying to depart.

I could not have planned it better.

As her friend exits, I mosey over. “Mind if I sit next to you?” I gesture at the now-empty stool.

“Not at all.”

I sit, order a glass of Chablis. “Tough day at the office?”

Pamaro shakes the bangs away from her green eyes. “I enjoy my work.”

“I can understand why. Your club is so elegant.” I smile. “Maybe the perfect place to meet the gentleman of your dreams.”

At this point, I’m fishing. She wears no wedding ring.

Single? Boyfriend? Gay?

Pamaro’s cheeks flush an endearing rubescence. “All very professional.”

“I know, just kidding.”

“Tell me,” she says. “How did you know Mr. Chester?” She throws me a fleeting look of sadness.

With such expressive facial features, Pamaro could have been an actress. Or a spy…

“You do know,” I whisper, “he was in the CIA, don’t you?”

It’s bold, but fascinating enough to be an effective conversation enhancer, maybe even create a bond.

“I did not!” Her eyes widen. “How intriguing!”

I say nothing, giving her room to expound.

“It certainly explains his reticence,” she fills the silence, lowering her own voice to reflect reticence. “He liked a quiet martini in the library. More than one.” She catches my eye. “Is that how you know him?”

“At bars drinking martinis?” I ask.

“No, silly!” She slaps my wrist.

Touchy-feely affection. Couldn’t be better.

She lowers her head and whispers, “The CIA,” in mock secrecy.

“It’s like that overused cliché,” I say. “I’d tell you but I’d have to kill you.”

Pamaro giggles. “I love spy novels,” she says. “I even belong to an espionage book club.”

“Really?”

She nods enthusiastically.

Getting better and better.

Looking up at the ceiling, I pose rhetorically, “What really happened to Warren Chester?”

Now her face expresses horror. “You don’t think…?”

I shake my head. “I don’t mean about his death on the operating table.”

“Then… what?”

“What happened to him that brought him to Pittsburgh.”

“You just said he was in the CIA.”

“Yes, he was a recruiter for them.”

I have Pamaro’s rapt attention, though her expression is now one of bewilderment.

“He did the college circuit,” I explain. “Recruiting students for a career in intelligence.”

She remains enthralled. “What kind of students?”

“Would’ve mostly been those fluent in foreign languages, like Chinese, Russian or Arabic,” I say. “But more recently,” I add, “Warren returned on his own.”

I want Pamaro to fill the silence, but she doesn’t.

“Just wondered what he was doing in retirement,” I toss in.

“He must have had a job of some kind,” she says helpfully.

Thank you for the opening.

“Why do you think so?”

“Well, he would leave the club every morning and not return until late afternoon.”

The vodka is doing its job, loosening Pamaro’s tongue. But her words do not fit my hypothesis that Warren’s job was inside the club.

“Did he keep a car here?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow.

I’m moving too fast, better slow down.

“Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered if wherever he went was walking distance,” I say with honest nonchalance, swirling Chablis in my glass.

“Why does it matter?”

I take a moment to collect my thoughts, knowing I may not get another shot at this, may as well go for broke.

“After Warren left Pittsburgh as a recruiter…” I pause, carefully measuring my words. “Well, he returned to CIA headquarters near Washington and became the agency’s historical archivist. Some say…” I pause to sip from my glass of wine. “Some say he whisked away the most troublesome files.”

“Whisked away… to where?” asks Pamaro.

I nod. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” After allowing that to sink in, I add with utmost gravity, looking directly into her eyes, “I seriously hope you can help me.”

So now she realizes there is an ulterior motive for my interest in the Duquesne Club.

Head it off.

“Might you,” I say, “feel a greater loyalty to your country than to your employer?”

Her eyes widen a tad. After all, this kind of scenario—intrigue—is every spy novel lover’s dream.

“What,” she asks cautiously, “might that entail?”

“For a start,” I say, “I’d like to know what happened to whatever personal belongings he might have left behind. You know, after his unexpected death.”

Pamaro considers this. “You think the files were in his room?”

I shake my head. “No. I believe the files are locked away somewhere. But something among Warren’s personal effects, say, an address book or a diary, could reveal where that somewhere might be. Did someone collect Warren’s stuff—and, if so, who? I’m hoping there would be a record of it.”

“I suppose I could check,” says Pamaro.

Her eyes say she’s struggling with how she can remain loyal to her employer while also being loyal to her country.

I smile. “That would be amazing.”

“So,” she says slyly. “You’re not really interested in applying for membership, are you?”

“No. My interest is locating the files Warren removed so I can return them to their rightful owner.” Then, to head off any indignation she may feel, I come up with another request. “And, to do that, I would be very grateful for your expertise about Pittsburgh.”

This throws her slightly off-track. “How so?”

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

“Since college,” she says. “Born and bred in Beaver Falls, not far from here.”

A true lady never gives away her age. But I gather she must be just shy of forty.

“If you wanted to create a secret archive in this city,” I say. “Where would you put it?”

“Cathy,” she replies without a moment’s hesitation.

“Cathy?”

“It’s a part of Pitt.”

I try to hide my astonishment. “Pit?”

“The University of Pittsburgh, where I went to school. It’s in a part of the city called Oakland, about two and a half miles from here. Cathy is what everyone calls the Cathedral of Learning.”

But of course. How poetic.

“Did Warren… let me rephrase that. Are you aware of any connection between Warren and the Cathedral of Learning?”

“Didn’t you just say yourself that Mr. Chester recruited students to join the CIA from Pitt?”

She’s good.

“Silly me,” I say. “What time in the morning does it open?”

“Cathy,” says Pamaro, “is always open. Twenty-four hours a day.”

I smile my most charming smile. “You are very good at giving tours. Any chance you could introduce me to her?”

“When?”

“As soon as we finish our drinks.” I drain mine. “No time like the present.”

“Hello,” I say in my most charming voice. “Can you connect me to the membership secretary?”

“Yes, sir. Please hold.” Only the politest of the polite work in clubs such as this. Then, “I’ll connect you to Ms. Rowe.”

A few beats later, another cheerful voice. “Membership office.”

“Hi there,” I say, introducing myself as Jerry Sanford. “I’ve just been transferred to Pittsburgh and I’m looking to join a private social club. Are you accepting new members?”

“Currently, membership is full,” she replies, pausing a moment before continuing. “But if you’d you go through our application process, I’d be happy to place you on the wait list. My I mail you our package?”

“I’m staying at the Fairmont, nearby. Would it be possible for me to pick it up in person?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Great!” I wait a few seconds. “Oh, is there any chance I could take a quick tour of the facilities, make sure it’s the right fit for me?”

“Of course.”

“I suppose I need an appointment for that.”

“Usually, yes,” she says. “But if you’re free today, I actually have some time to show you around myself.”

Bingo.

⁂

Dressed in the suit and tie I’d brought along for Porter Hatch’s memorial, I manifest myself at the Duquesne Club’s imposing limestone archway at precisely three o’clock.

The doorman—an officious threshold guardian—intercepts me below the red canopy. He knows who are members—and who aren’t. “May I help you, sir?”

“Thank you. I have an appointment with the membership secretary.”

“Very good.”

The heavy oak door opens and I’m in.

The next hurdle is a pair of suited receptionists behind a discreet counter, on the right, doubling as a cloakroom. All very refined. Just like Porter’s Chevy Chase club.

The doorman announces my business.

One of the receptionists comes around. “This way,” he says, “I’ll take you there.”

Non-members do not freely roam.

The grand rooms through which we pass rival any fancy club I’ve been in—a masterpiece of Gilded Age design: marble floors, mahogany paneled walls with intricate crown moldings, heavy brocade curtains, large portraits in oil, bronze chandeliers.

Down a longish corridor to the administrative offices, the membership secretary has already been notified. She stands just inside her office.

“Pamela Rowe,” she says with a smile, offering a handshake. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sanford.”

I take her hand in mine. Soft but professional. She has a mischievous glint in her eye, causing my mind to buzz with paramnesia.

Pamela Rowe? Where have I heard that name before?

And then it hits me: Pamaro.

Pamela Rowe—the Pamaro of my dreams—leads me out of her office and back into the very grand halls of the Duquesne Club.

Her stride is confident, as if she owns the mission. She is, after all, its threshold guardian/gatekeeper.

Our first stop is the main dining room. Polished wood, white tablecloths, only the finest cutlery and glassware.

Overhead, elegant chandeliers sparkle.

Conversation around me is a discreet hush.

“Our menu is truly exceptional,” Pamaro explains. “We pride ourselves on offering the finest dining in Pittsburgh. As a social club, we don’t encourage business, but our members tend to utilize our dining room as a favored hub for business lunches.” She winks. “We turn a blind eye.”

I nod, reflecting her enthusiasm.

“Our hallmarks,” she adds, “are discretion and comfort.”

We move into the library, a cavernous space filled with leather-bound volumes and antique furnishings.

Pamaro turns to me. “What will bring you to Pittsburgh, Mr. Sanford?”

As in my dream, I am taken by her expressive smile, dark wispy bangs and rosy cheeks.

“I’m a management consultant for a nationwide firm,” I say. “They send me to large corporations for indefinite stays that sometimes turn into years.”

“Excellent,” says Pamaro. “Perhaps the executives of your local client-company will assist you with professional references. You’ll need two.”

The opening I’m looking for.

“I was hoping,” I say, “to use Warren Chester as a reference.”

She is surprised, if only momentarily. Then says, mournfully, “Mr. Chester was such a gentleman. One of our favorites—and dearly missed.”

“Dearly missed?” I echo as a question.

Pamaro nods. “I’m sorry, you don’t know?”

I look at her blankly.

“Mr. Chester passed away a few months ago,” she continues “Unexpected and very sudden.”

“So sorry to hear,” I say. “Warren told me this club was where he lived while in Pittsburgh. That’s how I first learned about its existence.”

Hesitant to respond at first, Pamaro opens up, I guess because member confidentiality is no longer be an issue. “That’s correct.” Her expression suggests surprise I would know this, as if it were some kind of club secret. “We have forty-four beautifully appointed rooms in our hotel for the exclusive use of members and their guests,” she explains. “Mr. Chester kept one of them on a long-term basis. It’s not common. There’s a thirty-day maximum stay limit. But the board made a special exception for him.”

“Really” I say. “Why?”

Pamaro shrugs. “I don’t know—above my paygrade.”

“He must have loved it here,” I say, looking around at the numerous bookshelves. “History and reading were his passions.”

Pamaro nods, seeming to know this, and also confirming for her—in case she had any doubt—that I knew him.

“He was a true gentleman,” she says solemnly. “And very gracious to the staff.”

We descend into the basement level.

On heightened alert for locked spaces, I feel my pulse quicken. I also can’t help but wonder—based on his reputation—if Warren had ever hit on my tour guide.

Pamaro’s focus, meanwhile, is the wine cellar, a dimly lit labyrinth of brick archways and oak barrels.

“Do you appreciate fine wine, Mr. Sanford?”

“Very much so.”

“We are extremely proud of our collection.” She pauses. “Are you also interested in health and fitness?”

“I am.”

“Ours is the finest facility in Pittsburgh—and also one of the best in the country. Come, I’ll show you.”

On our way over, I note an arched Tuscan-style wooden door with a forbidding and unusual padlock.

I’m tempted to ask where it leads, but decide not to press my luck, save it for later.

The gym is beyond impressive.

Private dressing rooms. Hot tubs. Sauna and steam. Plush towels.

A restaurant of its own offers a heart-healthy spa menu.

“Amazing,” I say, truly in awe. “I can see why Warren would want to make this his home. Did he,” I quickly insert, “have an office here of some sort?”

“I think one could fairly say,” Pamaro winks mischievously, “Mr. Chester made the bar his office.”

I chuckle in appreciation of this inside joke. “So, he didn’t spend his days here?”

Pamaro shakes her head. “I don’t know where he went each morning.” She does not say this with coldness, but now chooses to convey to me—a prospective member—that the club respects its members’ privacy—even in death. “But he always returned in time for the cocktail hour.”

We arrive back where we began, at her office.

Tour concluded.

Pamaro hands me a large manila envelope. “Here’s the application,” she says. “If you have any questions about it or the club, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

In my Pittsburgh hotel room, I awaken with a vision from a dream. But it has nothing to do with a key to any kingdom.

In it, I meet a woman who looks to be in her thirties. Her raven black hair is a textured bob with wispy bangs, her tone cheeky: rosy and playfully flirtatious. An odd accent, which she claims is Irish. She is apparently amused by me. Her name is Pamaro and her wise-ass teasing reminds me of... me.

This draws me to her.

The woman of my dreams?

Pamaro quickly fades from my mind as it becomes occupied with the mission at hand.

Settling behind the wheel, I input Braddock PA post office into Maps.

Voice navigation guides me from Iron City into the burbs and beyond.

A 24-minute drive lands me in Braddock, a bleak conclave of worn-out houses and old cars littered along the Monongahela River. If this is where The Pit is located, Warren Chester chose well. No one would ever come here if they didn’t have to; those who live here would leave if they could.

I look at boarded up shopfronts and vacant lots with overgrown weeds. On show everywhere: crumbling infrastructure and post-industrial decay.

And just like everything else in sight, the post office has seen better days, its faded exterior brick walls stained with neglect.

I pull into a cracked and uneven parking lot.

Inside, a fluorescent light flickers over scuffed linoleum floor. The service counter runs along one side, protected by a scratched plexiglass barrier. Outdated flyers and missing person posters plaster a corkboard.

A lone clerk seems surprised to see me—or anyone, for that matter.

“Hi there,” I say cheerfully.

He does not reflect my cheerfulness. “What can I do for you, postage stamps?” he says in a one breath burst.

“I’m trying to find a friend who uses a PO box here.”

He tilts his head, as if trying to comprehend the nature of my inquiry.

“PO box 133,” I say. “It belongs to Warren Chester.”

Mr. Personality bumbles around looking for something, finds it, an old file box. He plucks out an index card. “Not no more,” he says. “Expired.”

“What address does it link to?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure I’m allowed to give that out.”

“I believe you are, when requested,” I say. “But let me make it worth your while.” I pull out my wallet, hand him a Federal Reserve note, settle any possibility of an argument in advance.

His eyes bulge. Alexander Hamilton goes a long way in Braddock.

He pockets my sweetener and pushes the card across the counter for me to see.

I’ve barely snapped a photo of it when the door bursts open with enough force to rattle the plexiglass barrier.

A formidable presence barges in.

I tense up and pocket my phone before whipping around, readying for trouble.

“Is it here yet?!” a disheveled geezer hollers.

“Check your box!” the postal worker snaps, then shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Same damn question every month. Ain’t no one gonna steal his social security check. Not on my watch, no how.”

⁂

The return drive to Pittsburgh seems shorter than the ride out.

That’s because my mind is buzzing over the address Warren Chester used to obtain a PO box: Duquesne Club, 326 Sixth St., Pittsburgh, PA.

Back in my hotel room, a view of Market Square directly below, I tuck into my laptop, bring up the site.

The Duquesne Club, I quickly discover, is Pittsburgh’s answer to old-world civility. An exclusive sanctuary from Iron City’s rusty streets for the elite, occupying an entire historic building.

Not only would Warren Chester have been a member, I deduce, but maybe even a regular guest of its overnight accommodations. They certainly look a damn sight better than my “five-star” hotel room.

This kind of privacy is precisely what Porter Hatch and his accomplice would have wanted: not too far from The Bog, much less expensive than big city country clubs. And access to members only. Discreet and secure.

Is this where The Pit is located?

And it’s just around the corner from where I sit.

I close my laptop and head out on foot.

Minutes later, I’m doing a slow pass, taking measure of its ivy-covered stone structure, a grandeur synonymous with top-notch East Coast universities.

A uniformed valet stands at the ready, bolstered by a uniformed doorman.

As I walk back to the hotel, a plan for breaching the club’s premises begins to formulate.

Sure enough, Wayne Gardner’s number flashes on my phone at 5:03. He, the historical archivist at CIA.

“I have something of yours,” he says in a voice ringing with bewilderment, trying to assess the implications. Clearly, he hopes I will enlighten him.

“Here’s where to overnight it,” I say, not mincing words. “Text me the tracking details.”

I provide Sarah McGuffin’s mail accommodation address. It’s posted on her Substack platform for whistleblowers to provide tips. Maybe it’ll give Gardner a cheap thrill when they trace it to the reporter who called Langley looking for him.

And since she used my info to sniff out a story, I’m repaying her.

I call from my car and tell her to expect a package, ask that she put it on a high shelf in a closet and keep it safe for me.

She chuckles nervously. “You sure this won’t get me in any trouble?”

“Don’t worry, it won’t explode,” I say, pausing briefly. “At least I hope not.”

I don’t need my old laptop. So let them track it to someone from the media who lives to expose their butts, provide a jolt.

A gloaming darkens to night as I join the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

I can’t be bothered with the radio and stick to my thoughts for accompaniment—an opportunity to take stock of all that has occurred since attending Porter Hatch’s memorial while surrounded by the agency’s best and brightest—current and retired. Even the director was present, with a pair of protection officers—maybe the same goons who ransacked my hotel room looking for the key Porter wanted me to have.

I tried duplicating the key—no dice, because of some kind of ultra-rare, security-protected cut. So I duct-taped it under a seat in a darkened AMC theater. Then I met Sarah McGuffin in Adams-Morgan. She confirmed whispers of a rogue CIA archive—location unknown—where all the inconvenient truths are buried.

My next stop was with Rick Hanley, Porter’s old assistant director of ops. That didn’t reap as much as I’d hoped, but at least I walked away with a name: Warren… something, a former agency archivist.

Elizabeth Grayson from AFIO filled the blank: Warren Chester. But he’s dead. His replacement? Wayne Gardner. Met him for lunch. And confirmed Chester got caught smuggling files out of the archive—but to where?

The Pit?

Maybe Gardner tipped off security. Or maybe they’ve been following him. I confronted the goon, made noise—and voilà: laptop returned (to McGuffin) for safekeeping. I knew that goon had it, would deliver.

And now I’m chasing Chester’s last known breadcrumb: a UPS store, linked to his cell phone, that forwarded mail to a P.O. box outside of Pittsburgh.

Whew.

As my mental meanderings come to an end, Pittsburgh’s skyline comes into view. And I soon discover it looks better from a distance than when you’re in it.

I’m not a fan of cities—not cities in the USA. Too much grit and grime, traffic, and, most especially, people—many of whom have no shelter beyond a tree over a bench (or if they’re lucky, a tent).

Maybe Pittsburgh’s redemption is whatever Warren Chester brought here.

By now I’m running on fumes.

Voice navigation guides me to the Fairmont where I snag a tenth floor room, paying cash in case they’re tracking my credit card usage. It overlooks the Allegheny River.

Straight to the bar: cheese & charcuterie before I die of starvation.

And a cocktail before I die of sobriety.

What was that elixir I drank in Georgetown that produced key to the kingdom?

Club de Gazon.

No such cocktail beyond Chez Billy Sud.

I describe it to an obliging bartender.

He says, “Sounds like a Martinez—sans absinthe.”

“Do you have any?”

He nods. “I’ll rinse your glass with the green fairy.”

Sweet dreams.

As I reach my car after leaving Pulcinella in McLean, Virginia, a text from Benny Gates, the private dick, asking me to call.

“Whattaya got, Benny?”

“A billing address,” he says.

I’d given him Warren Chester’s old 202 number.

“But I’m still working on last month’s call data,” he adds. “It takes longer.”

“Shoot.”

“4410 Massachusetts Avenue, northwest DC.”

“A residence?”

“Not sure. Doesn’t look like a private home. It has a suite in it. Suite 211. Could be an accommodation address.”

I launch across the Potomac to leafy Spring Valley.

Carousing street numbers on Mass Ave., I’m soon passing American University and Ward Circle. After that, the numbers fall below 4410.

What the hell…?

I circle back and end up at iconic Wagshal’s, known as The Presidents Deli—way beyond the number I need. Makes no sense…

Refueling at Exxon, I pop 4410 into Safari.

American University.

Was Warren Chester ever employed there? Maybe an adjunct professor of espionage history?

The road leads to a terminal-like building beneath an overhead, tunnel-like,

both sides lined with convenience stores for college students.

At the end on the left, a UPS Store.

“Crafty bastard,” I mutter to myself.

Inside, I ask about Suite 211—and Warren Chester.

A chinless, goofy-faced young male (probably a graduate student of international relations wanting to join the State Department).

He scratches his nose. “I know who you mean. We haven’t heard from him in a very long time.”

They don’t know he’s dead.

“Warren sent me to pick up his mail.”

The kid shakes his head. “Mr. Chester’s account lapsed a while back. Until then, we forwarded his mail to another address. I’m not sure we have any old mail remaining but I can check.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

He disappears, returns a few minutes later shaking his head again. “His old box belongs to someone else now. And whatever we had of his got timed-out, was discarded.”

“If you don’t mind,” I ask, “Could you tell me the address to which you forwarded everything? Maybe that’s where I was supposed to go.”

An expression of suspicion gives way to a shrug. “Not sure we still have that.”

“Can you check your database?” I pass him a Jackson. “It’s important.”

Any doubt he may have harbored is abated. He pockets the probably much-needed cash and wordlessly attacks his keyboard.

He studies the monitor. “You’re in luck, we still have it on file.”

“Can you write it down for me?”

Moments later, I fold his scribble and slip it into my shirt pocket, to be savored at the right time—say, at the Starbucks tucked into Crate and Barrel opposite Wagshal’s.

With a latte in front of me, I read: PO Box 37, Braddock, PA 15104.

But of course. From UPS suite to post office box.

Searching the web I discover Braddock to be a downtrodden neighborhood about ten miles east of Pittsburgh. And based on what imagery produces, very downtrodden.

I check the time, just past four o’clock.

Google Maps calls it a four-hour drive from where I sit.

I glance around, surveying whoever may be watching.

Nothing jumps. But they’re good at blending in.

Dry-cleaning is in order.

I drive north to Western Avenue, east to Chevy Chase Village, cut into its manicured streets of century-old, large colonial houses, pull over, see what comes.

Nothing.

Just to be sure, I swing into the Chevy Chase Club—where this adventure (or misadventure) began, and idle by the tennis court

Only when certain I‘m clean, a straight run due north to the Beltway—and a Louie onto I-270.

Pulcinella is an Italian restaurant located in the heart of McLean, Virginia, where Fettuccine Alfredo and counterintelligence collide. It is a favorite lunchtime eatery for CIA officers who work at headquarters just up the road. It’s also a favorite of Russian intelligence officers. They try to be inconspicuous, cocking their ears for casual chatter: crumbs of gossip, maybe a project name, an employee’s nickname…

It’s easy to pick them out if you know what to look for. Start with those in need of cigarette breaks outside.

“I’m meeting Wayne Gardner,” I tell the host.

The historical archivist said he’d make our reservation.

“Your party is already seated,” says the host, leading me to Wayne’s table at a far corner by the window.

Gardner knows his craft, blends in beautifully.

The Beltway Bog look: button-down pale blue shirt, khaki trousers, cordovan loafers—all from J. Press. In his case, the customary navy blazer with brass buttons is replaced by a tweed with leather buttons—probably chosen to reflect his role as a fancy librarian instead of a boring bureaucrat. He wears a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles with round lenses to complete his professorial appearance.

Around me, the usual clutter of agency analysts and operatives enjoy pizza or pasta. They’re interspersed with Russian spies behind newspapers pretending to be absorbed by their smart phones.

“Thanks for taking the time,” I say to Wayne.

“No worries, happy to meet you.”

I get a sense he truly is. Probably grateful for the company given how his lonely job is as compartmentalized cataloger of the classified.

“Were you a friend of Warren’s?” he asks.

Warren Chester, of course, was my reason for requesting this lunch.

I shake my head. “Never met him.”

This seems to put Gardner at ease.

“How can I help?” he asks.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” I say. “I’m curious about the circumstances under which Warren Chester resigned as historical archivist.”

“May I ask why?”

“Sure. It plays into his relationship with Porter Hatch, with whom I was associated.”

This impresses Gardner. “Mr. Hatch was a legend,” he says.

“Were you aware of any connection between Warren and Porter?”

“I’m not aware there was one.”

Can’t say I’m surprised. Porter would have constructed a firewall between them.

“I hope Elizabeth Grayson wasn’t talking out of turn when she mentioned Warren left, shall we say, under a cloud.”

“You know Elizabeth?” Gardner is warming up. “Great gal!”

“I met her yesterday for the first time.”

“What exactly did she tell you?”

“Apparently, Warren was forced out.”

Gardner nods. “It’s true.” He regards me with a quizzical expression. “Are you part of the investigation into what Warren may have been up to?”

“Not officially,” I say, careful with how I present myself, yet extremely piqued by his suggestion of Warren being up to something. “Let’s just say I have a professional interest.”

Gardner stiffens. “You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“Heavens, no.”

He relaxes. “The reason I ask is, only yesterday I dealt with a media enquiry about Warren.”

I didn’t expect this. “Really?”

“Not directly. It came through Public Affairs. I declined to speak to the reporter. The message conveyed back to the reporter was no comment.”

“Did you…” I say. “Did you happen to get a name?”

“I did.”

I look at him in anticipation.

“A female reporter named McGuffin.”

I put on my best poker face. But inside I’m seething at Sarah for making waves.

“I try to steer clear of journalists, I say.”

This further eases Gardner’s concern.

“So back to my question. What did Warren do that got him into trouble?”

Gardner remains muted, studying my eyes.

I discern he wants to be forthcoming. And that he’s looking to choose his words with care.

“You are aware that I was Warren’s deputy at the time?” he finally says.

“Yes.”

“Now it’s just me, pending selection of the right candidate to become my deputy.” He smiles. “Nobody seems to want the job.”

I echo his chuckle.

“Warren was leaving our secure offices with archival material. At first I thought it was normal, that he’d been asked by higher-ups to deliver classified documents for briefings—or maybe they were destined for the burn room. But after a half-dozen instances, I followed Warren to reassure myself—and saw him leave the building with classified files.” He leans back and sighs.

“Warren knew the rules,” Gardner continues. “He knew it was a serious violation. I had no choice. I had to abide by protocol and report it to the Security Division.” He shakes his head earnestly. “I have no idea what happened after that. Security kept me out of the loop. But a month or so later Warren abruptly resigned. He wouldn’t talk to me again, never even said goodbye. Sad to say, once Security takes an interest, whatever the outcome, your reputation in the company is tarnished—and rarely recovers.” Gardner looks truly aggrieved. “As I said, I had no choice. What I witnessed was a clear violation and I would have been remiss to ignore it.”

“Do you have any idea why Warren took classified files from the building?”

“None.” Gardner’s eyes suggest genuine puzzlement. “It was totally out of character. Warren took his responsibilities as an archivist very seriously. He trained me himself. I was shocked.”

“If I may ask, what kind of files did he take out the building?”

“You may ask.” Gardner laughs, then turns serious. “But I don’t know you well enough to divulge that kind of thing. I would have to point you to the Security Division.”

“Might you be aware,” I ask cautiously, “of any other facility outside of headquarters where archives are stored?”

The seems to genuinely puzzle him. “Meaning?”

“A place where Warren may have been taking certain files for safekeeping?”

Gardner shakes his head vigorously. “I would not find that plausible,” he says. “Nor would I see the need. There is no place safer than our facility in Langley. But interestingly,” he leans forward, lowering his voice, “that was what the reporter who wanted to speak with me asked Public Affairs about.”

Again, I keep a blank face. Not sure if the word PIT had been played to him. I decide not to broach it myself. Instead I try a different tack.

“Did you know anything about Warren’s personal life?”

Gardner shakes his head. “Warren kept very much to himself. We had a cordial relationship,” he adds as an afterthought. Something catches his eye, reflecting a flash of recognition. He leans in and whispers. “Someone from the Security Division just walked in for lunch. I could introduce you if you like.”

“How do you know it’s someone from Security?” I whisper back.

“It’s one of the same two guys who came to see me after I reported Warren’s odd behavior.”

Small fucking world.

“No need,” I say, done chatting with Gardner. I wonder if he’s playing his own game. Did he tip off Security about our meeting because it involved Warren Chester? Which would explain, of course, why he was so willing to meet me.

“I’m not hungry,” I say, rising.

Gardner looks at me in surprise.

I turn.

The serious-looking, suited security man studies me as I walk away from the table, then averts his gaze, pretending not to notice. No doubt, he thinks I’m heading for the door.

When I stop at his table, he looks up in surprise.

“Jay Sandak,” I say, not offering my hand to shake. “Find anything interesting on my laptop?”

A hard look. “Excuse me?”

“No, you’re not excused.” I pull out my phone and, to his unpleasant surprise, snap a photo of him. “I have a lot of pics on my old Mac that are meaningful to me. Make sure it’s returned to that guy over there.” I gesture with my shoulder back at Gardner. “And tell him to call me when he has it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I smirk. “If I don’t hear from Gardner by five o’clock that he has my laptop, your pic goes to the cops in DC, who already have you on hotel videotape. And I’ll get a friend in the media to post your mug online. Capito?”

I’ve always favored a direct approach.

I give him space for a reaction. At first, there is none. But after a good ten seconds’ silence he can’t help himself. “I’m protected.”

His own smirk is betrayed by the fear in his eyes. He senses what I already know: Burned operators get taken out to the trash heap.

Clearly, I’d struck a nerve. And frazzled nerves are unpredictable. Time to go.

“We’ll see,” I say before turning on my heel, a quick wave at Gardner.

Before this, it was game on for them.

Now it’s game on for me.

Nothing about northern Virginia is glamorous: traffic, strip malls, chain hotels, fast food shacks, and other modern abominations that make up urban sprawl.

The Association of Foreign Intelligence Officers occupies a generic unit in a modern office block with neither charm nor hint of intrigue.

Hidden in plain sight.

The receptionist is pleasant enough. “How can I help you?”

“Do you have an executive director or someone senior I can speak with?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“A name?”

“Jay Sandak.”

“May I ask what you want to see someone about?”

“Sure. I’m trying to locate Warren something. He was the historical archivist at CIA headquarters.”

She picks up the intercom phone and, putting it to her ear, says, “I’ll see if someone is available to talk to you. Please take a seat.”

I do that and grab a copy of The Intelligencer, AFIO’s journal, scan an article about artificial intelligence by a guy named Kestrel, probably a former intel community analyst or something.

A couple of minutes later a tall, smartly-dressed and formidable female appears with a smile gracing her face.

“Elizabeth Grayson.” She shakes my hand and tilts her head. “You knew Warren?”

Knew?

Not a good sign.

“Not personally,” I say. “I know of him.”

“Are you former agency?” she asks.

“Off the books,” I reply.

She offers a sly smile, as if to say, I get it.

“Come on back,” she says, leading me to AFIO’s innards. “We’ll talk.”

Her office is like a library. Books everywhere, mostly shelved, some bunched on the desk and side tables.

“Bookish,” I comment, perusing assorted autobiographies of blustery big-name spies, biographies of lesser-known real spies, and intelligence histories that fill the shelves—add a few pulp thrillers by ex-spies under noms de plume.

“I write book reviews for our journal,” she says by way of explanation. “So… Warren. What about him?” Her curiosity is piqued.

“I understand he was the agency’s historical archivist.”

Elizabeth nods. “Warren did that in semi-retirement. Before that, he was in the clandestine service.”

“Remind me of his last name, please.”

“Chester,” she says. “Warren Chester.” She pauses, uncertainly “You do know he passed recently, don’t you?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t. I’m sorry, if you were close to him.”

This produces a wistful smile.

“He was a confirmed bachelor, as they used to say,” she says. “No, not gay,” she quickly adds, reading my thoughts. “Quite the opposite. A real lady’s man. I think Warren knew he could never be monogamous.”

I guess she’s telling me this as one of his more serious dalliances.

“How did he…?”

“It was a shock,” she says. “He went in to have a stent inserted into an artery. That’s supposed to be routine these days. But he died on the operating table.”

“How old was he?”

“Only seventy-two. He was a serious drinker,” she adds, as if this may have contributed to his untimely demise. “Warren loved his martinis.”

Just as Hanley said.

“I’ve never seen anyone put them away like he could,” Grayson continues, almost marveling about such a talent. “Three in a row. Drinking was his passion. That and preserving intelligence history.”

I nod, hoping she’ll fill the silence.

“Warren believed it was his duty to preserve the truth.” She pauses for effect. “Even the inconvenient truths.”

“Inconvenient?”

“Inconvenient to those in power. He jokingly called himself The Curator of Inconvenient Truths. Only he wasn’t joking. As an archivist, Warren made a point to ensure that classified files earmarked for shedding… well, weren’t.”

I chuckle. “How did he manage to pull that off?”

“Oh, Warren was a crafty operative. He’d take the right personnel out drinking, rally them to his cause, send their families gifts at Christmas. He knew the art of seduction. It was part of his tradecraft, from recruiting spies.” Another wistful smile. As if she’d been seduced herself by him. “He was a man on a mission.”

“Wasn’t he based in Pittsburgh?” I nonchalantly toss this in, part of my own tradecraft.

She nods. “In between the operations directorate and historical archives, he operated in Pittsburgh as a recruiter. Carnegie Mellon and the University of Pittsburgh. Over 50,000 students between them.” She pauses. “He moved to Pittsburgh when he retired two years ago. That’s where he…” she says haltingly. “Where he underwent heart surgery.”

“Did he ever…” I couch my words carefully, “…to your knowledge, create a branch of historical archives in… Pittsburgh?”

Grayson looks at me quizzically. “Why would he do anything like that when the agency maintains everything in ultra-secure Langley?”

“Did he,” I press, “ever mention a project called PIT?”

“PIT?”

I nod.

She shakes her head. “Not that I recall. What was it?”

I study her eyes for a truth assessment.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I say. “I thought maybe he could tell me.” I pause. “Did you ever visit him in Pittsburgh?”

She shakes her head again. Mournfully. “I was never invited.”

Reading her mind, I’d guess her thoughts: I was his DC gal—Pittsburgh was another gal.

“Do you have an address for where he lived in Pittsburgh?”

Grayson continues shaking her head. “He never provided one.”

“Is there anyone he was close to at the agency I might contact?”

“Warren was a one-man band,” she says. “And a master of compartmentalization. Starting with his lady friends,” she adds, smirking.

“Maybe his successor at the historical archive?” I press.

“He and Wayne Gardner weren’t close.”

I got a name.

“Not close?” I echo.

Echoing is another part of tradecraft.

“Something happened,” explains Grayson. “Warren resigned. He blamed Wayne. You know, office politics. Warren said Wayne wanted his job and knifed him in the back. That was the last time we met. Then he settled in Pittsburgh.”

“One last question,” I say, “and I’ll let you get on with your day. Might you still have Warren’s phone number?”

Now she nods. “I never deleted it from my contacts.”

I detect the onset of a tear or two.

She picks up her phone. “Don’t know why, just couldn’t bring myself to delete him.”

She recites a 202 area code number. “Is there anything else?”

I sense sudden boredom or irritation with our encounter. Or maybe she just needs time alone to compose herself.

I consider requesting that she bounce the word PIT off a few choice members of her association. Or maybe reach out to the current historical archivist at Langley.

But I think better of it.

Better I reach out directly to Wayne Gardner before he learns of my interest.

The drive to Easton improves after passing Annapolis and crossing the Memorial Bridge. Quiet country roads amid a bucolic setting that lead to Easton, a quaint antiquated town with 18th-century colonial brick houses, populated by fishermen, hunters—and DC retirees.

I check into the Tidewater Inn, pay cash-money, glad to be done with DC—and the heebie-jeebies that go with it.

The fresh salt air invigorates. Might have settled here myself.

I arrive at our rendezvous point early.

Tradecraft. Who knows what lurks?

Cagey old Hanley beat me, anyway. He is lounging by the hearth in front of a crackling fire.

The Stewart is an intimate bar lounge with Ralph Lauren décor: mahogany paneling, marble, brass fittings, paintings of stags—like a posh St. James’s Men’s Club; out of place for a small town.

The drink list is whiskey and champagne, with more selections than I can count; all expensive.

Richard Hanley looks up. “I’m drinking 30-year-old Laphroaig, you’re paying,” he says by way of hello. “My fee for advice or guidance.”

He‘s savvy, playing my gambit back on me.

I ease myself into the armchair next to his. Cozy.

“How’ve you been?” I ask.

Hanley gives me a mournful look, a notch below a glare. “What is it you want to know?”

No small talk, he. Might as well get right to it.

“Ever heard of the PIT?”

To most observers, Hanley’s poker face would have suggested a no.

But I discern disguised recognition.

He sighs before muttering, “I should’ve known.”

“You should’ve known about the PIT?”

“I should have known that’s what you’d want advice about.”

“So it exists?”

Hanley avoids looking at me. His gaze is focused on fire-kissed wood in the hearth.

“Porter Hatch’s little project,” he finally says, just above a whisper with a hint of sarcasm.

“Have you ever been there?”

Abruptly, he swings his head and looks me straight in the eye. “No.”

“Do you…” I hesitate a beat. “Do you know where it is?”

Hanley looks at me sharply “I have an idea.”

I change gears, come back around later. That sometimes helps.

“What do you mean, Porter’s little project?”

He returns to the smoldering logs. “It wasn’t sanctioned.”

“Porter created a secret stash all on his own?”

Hanley nods absently.

“But… why?”

He returns his gaze to me, now a full-on of a glare. “I suppose you’ll have to organize a séance and ask Porter’s ghost.”

“But how do you know about it if it wasn’t from Porter?”

A mischievous glint appears in his eyes. “Whispers.”

At Langley, whispers replace gossip. Or so I’m told—never been attracted to a water cooler.

“Okay,” I say, gearing back. “What’s your idea about where it is?”

Hanley sits up, pours a couple drops of water from a miniature glass jug into his amber libation.

“Who do you represent?” he asks, squinting one eye, alternately piercing mine with the other.

I shrug. “Porter, I guess.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He made me The PIT’s designated caretaker.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe he wants me to retrieve something. Maybe he wants me to destroy it. I suppose I’ll find out when I get there.” I pause. “But that’s only if I find out where there is.”

Hanley digests this and finally releases his eyeball lock. “I suppose Porter would have his reasons.” He sniffs and swings his head back from the hearth to me. “Look, I didn’t want any part of it back then. It was way too much of a burden. I sure as hell don’t want any part of it now.”

I’m resigned to getting nowhere.

But all of a sudden he fills the silence. “Porter cultivated a close relationship with the historical archivist at headquarters. And the archivist spent a lot of time traveling to and from Pittsburgh. When I asked in passing about it, Porter just laughed and said, Our man in Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh,” I echo.

“I thought he was making fun of the poor guy,” continues Hanley. “Pittsburgh isn’t exactly an assignment of choice. Looking back now, I realize it was just Porter’s way of obfuscating. He’d either say something was too complicated—or make a joke.”

That was Porter.

“Who was the archivist?” I ask.

“Warren something. Self-important-type. Loved his martinis.” Hanley drains his glass and rises.

“Is there anyone else who might…”

“That’s all the guidance I have,” Hanley cuts me off. He turns to leave, takes a few steps, then circles back to face me. “Careful, caretaker—Porter’s gift might not be a blessing. It’s probably a curse. Thanks for the drink.”

A $200 highball. And worth every nickel.

I return to the inn, dinner at Hunter’s Tavern bar, surprisingly good.

My best thinking takes place when I consult The Botanist—gin from Scotland. Give it a few minutes to stimulate my nucleus accumbens before I sit back and take stock.

The PIT exists. Just as Sarah McGuffin believed.

Porter’s little project.

And it looks like the crafty old spymaster did it without the old pickle factory’s knowledge or consent.

The ultimate black op.

Which means the agency cannot change the lock.

Because the agency does not know where the door is.

Which means the CIA is back on the list of those who have an interest taking possession of the key.

In fact, CIA tops the list.

The Botanist brings a follow-up thought to mind. Maybe they think I know The PIT’s location…

And maybe they think I’m going there…

So… from whatever way you look at this situado, I’m definitely tagged…

It.

Upstairs in my room, I peek out the window.

All quiet on the Eastern Shore.

I power my laptop to look up the Association of Foreign Intelligence Officers.

I’m not a member of AFIO.

Associations aren’t my thing.

But maybe someone there knows who the hell Warren-the-historical-archivist is, maybe provide me a better last name for him than something. AFIO, I knew, enjoyed a close connection with the agency’s own museum.

I pinpoint its whereabouts in Herndon, Virginia—about 25 miles from DC.

And since I already have a rental car, it’s a no-brainer.

As Porter always said about any new contact, Go to their office, look into their eyes.

Who knows—maybe I’ll even run into CIA’s man in Pittsburgh—Warren something.

Richard Hanley was Porter’s ADDO, i.e., Assistant Deputy Director for Operations.

No doubt retired. But where?

Like most senior agency officials (current and retired), his whereabouts are wiped clean from the internet.

I need a database that costs, the sort skip-tracers subscribe to.

Been a while, but I call in a chit with a private dick I used years ago. And he provides what I need: cell, landline, address…

Hanley lives on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. A town called Easton, 90 minutes’ drive from the Bog—a slice of land along the Chesapeake where the agency kept safe houses to accommodate Russian defectors for debriefs and to keep them safely hidden. And one of a handful of locales where old spooks fade away, a simple life after stirring up shit worldwide.

Some can’t bear to leave DC, where they can still be relevant. Or so they believe.

The smarter ones flee to Santa Fe, Santa Barbara, or coastal Maine. Or Easton. Close enough to dabble, far enough from the grabble.

Hanley was an old hand in the agency’s Russia House, probably spent time at safe houses on the Eastern Shore, maybe summered there. Then, when he retired, moved there like many agency alums.

I punch his number into the burner phone.

Hanley is more likely than most people to respond to an unknown caller. Curiosity comes naturally to intel types. It would be less likely if he recognized my name, someone he’d probably prefer to forget. It’s not like we were warm and fuzzy. He, the insider; me, the outsider.

Some folks at the pickle factory get jealous of those who don’t do time in fluorescent-lit bureaucratic office buildings, sentenced to discussing equal opportunities.

Oddly, he answers.

“Rick?”

“Who is this?”

“Jay Sandak. Remember me?”

Rick remains silent, as if he’d been Mirandized.

Can’t blame him.

“I’m in DC for Porter’s memorial.”

More silence.

“Were you there?” I add.

“No.”

“It was a lovely affair.”

“Glad to hear. What can I do for you?” Rick’s tone suggests insincerity.

“Something came up. I could use your advice.”

In the intelligence biz it’s always better to ask for advice or guidance rather than assistance or information.

I learned that from Porter.

“What’s it about?”

“In the interest of discretion, can we meet?”

“I don’t live in Washington.”

“But not too far, right? You free tomorrow?”

“One drink. The Stewart. Five-thirty.” Click.

Yup, curiosity got the better of him.

What used to be Toledo Lounge, in Adams Morgan, is now Retrobottega.

I liked it better the old way, a down and dirty dive run by two sisters from Toledo. They arrived as congressional interns, realized their mistake, and opened a bar instead.

Arriving, I no longer recognize the place, its retro Americana replaced by funky Italian décor. The only remnant is a brick wall. How a propos, considering my predicament.

I also don’t recognize anyone that resembles Sarah McGuffin. But what hell, it’s been—what—fifteen years? Maybe longer.

It’s she who recognizes me. A wave from the far end of a long bar.

I amble over.

Her hair isn’t long anymore—silver at the temples, a purple streak one side.

She greets me with, “Long time, stranger—glad to see you’re still upright.”

I nod. “And I’m glad you’re still talking to me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” This must come from decades of walking into rooms full of people who don’t want her there.

“Dunno,” I say. “I burned so many bridges, not sure which ones won’t crumble when I try to cross them. What are you up to these days?”

“Aside from drinking in this bar?” McGuffin gestures at what looks like an Old Fashioned. “Making mischief.”

“Glad to hear some things never change.”

The bartender pops up.

“You have Michter’s bourbon, rocks?”

“Got you covered, boss.”

I refocus on McGuffin. “Last I heard, you left your big city newspaper.”

“No future. When they gave up our bureau in the National Press Building and cut support staff, I could see my own end closer than the horizon. Sure enough, the paper got gobbled up by a hedge fund, and soon after I got reduced to assignments like what spies eat for breakfast—who knew journalism would tank to frivolity and distraction?” She takes a gulp. “Is that why you stopped calling?”

I shake my head. “Nothing to do with journalism. I needed a break and took one. Then I made it permanent.”

“I tried to look you up a couple times, but no luck, figured you’d gone ghost. Or ghosting me.”

“Good figuring, but don’t take it personally. The plan was, keep the past where it belongs.”

“And now it’s caught up with you?”

I catch her eye and sigh. “Sort of.” Then I avert her intense gaze for a long moment before swinging back to meet it. “Weren’t you writing a book about the agency?”

“Oh, no.” She puts her hand over her face. “Did they send you to try to talk me out of it?”

I grin, not sure if she’s serious or not. “Paranoid, aren’t we?”

“You would be too if you were in my shoes.”

“I don’t need to be in your shoes. I’m already paranoid in mine.” I pause. “That’s why I reached out. Nobody sent me.”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing by intention. It seems I’ve been invited into a maze of smoke and urinals. But do tell about your book. Only because I’m trying to gauge how up-to-date you are on agency culture and activities.”

“Same as always. It’s an agency within an agency unto itself with superficial oversight from congress and political appointees who get the run-around from agency careerists. As for my book, just between you and me...” she winks. “If that’s possible.”

I nod.

“I finally got a publisher to bite.”

“What was the hold up till now?”

“The intelligence-espionage genre finally made a comeback after being out in the cold for a couple decades. So I’m in update mode—and the powers that be know it. That’s my story—or will be when I’ve written it.” She pauses. “What’s yours? If, that is, you’re willing to tell me.”

“In all your research and investigation,” I say, “have you ever come across a secret facility where all the archives are kept?”

“You mean, like, the PIT?”

As much as I prefer projecting a poker-face, my reaction is anything but.

I finally sit down on the stool next to hers to drench my surprise with a gulp of bourbon. “Yes, like the PIT.”

“What about it?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

McGuffin waves her arms whimsically. “Me, too.”

“Okay,” I say. “So let’s start with how do you know that name?”

“Duh.” She deadpans me. “I know more things by accident than most people know on purpose.”

“Playing my old line back on me. Well done.”

“The problem,” she adds, “is getting readers to believe me.” She lapses into silence that I don’t fill. “So,” she says, lowering her voice, “you’re saying it really exists?”

I take another sip of bourbon, let it float in my mouth a long moment before swallowing. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Where… how…” I throw out my hands “...did you hear about it?”

McGuffin glances around the bar. “The PIT has an almost mythical status among those of us in the fifth estate.”

“Don’t you mean fourth estate?”

“No. The fifth estate belongs to outliers. Blogs and platforms—where independent journalists reside. Like what I do now on Substack. Cut out the middleman along with corporate bullshit.”

“Can you make a living doing that?”

“Barely. Some subscribers pay. But I write whatever I want. And whistleblowers know how to find me. To answer your question,” McGuffin continues, “The PIT may exist. Or it may be a red herring to put investigative fifth-estaters, like me, off track. The vote is out on whether it’s real, misinformation, or disinformation.”

“Let’s suppose for a moment it truly exists,” I say.

“You must have a good reason for believing it does,” reposes McGuffin.

“Let’s stay hypothetical for now. “Why would it exist?”

“Kind of obvious.” McGuffin tilts her head. “No?”

I smirk. “I’m trained to question everything from a skeptic’s standpoint.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything to you,” says McGuffin, playing my own game back on me. “But here goes: it’s supposedly where all the files that should have been burned or shredded are stored. Project MKUltra, for instance.”

“Isn’t it well known that Richard Helms ordered everything related to MKUltra ordered destroyed when he was director?”

“So it’s said.” She winks. “But maybe not. It’s also said that the PIT is where they keep all the JFK assassination files they never want released.”

I‘m starting to get the picture.

“Based on what you’ve heard,” I say as nonchalantly as possible, “where is the PIT located?”

“Far away from the Beltway. From what I’ve heard, it would be in a place no one would ever suspect.”

“Where’s that?”

McGuffin throws her arms up. “That’s the point—who knows?”

“Somewhere under guard like Area 51?” I press.

She shakes her head. “Not likely. The agency would never trust any other authority than their own. Word is—if it’s true—no one else in government knows about it.”

“Not even congressional intelligence oversight committees?”

“Especially not congressional committees. I doubt the White House even knows it exists—if it exists.”

“Who might know?”

“If it exists?”

I nod.

“I suppose,” says McGuffin, “only those with access to it.”

“Okay,” I say. “Then who, according to whatever you’ve heard, would have access to it?”

“Top-tier officials of the clandestine service. And only career operatives, not political appointees. Only they would be trusted with this key to the kingdom, if you will.”

I look at her almost in shock. “What did you just say?”

“Key to the kingdom?”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

My dream again. How odd. And unsettling.

“You just turned white,” says McGuffin. “You see a ghost or something?”

“Look,” I say, “you probably won’t share sources with me, and I respect that. So could you go back to whoever told you about the PIT and find out a little bit more, with maybe some kind of emphasis on where it might be?”

McGuffin one-eyes me. “What’s your reason for wanting to know?”

Ordinarily I wouldn’t say. But these are not ordinary circumstances.

“You heard that Porter Hatch passed?”

McGuffin nods. “Your old boss, right?”

“We go way back.”

“And…?”

“Porter left me a key.” I take a breath, exhale slowly.

McGuffin’s eyes tighten into mine; she expects what I’m about to say next.

“A key,” I add, “to the PIT.”

Lips clenched and nodding, she absorbs this. “I knew it.” Her eyes seem to look inward, as if to connect with her brain. “I knew such a vault really existed, felt it in my bones.”

I look at McGuffin expecting more, hold the silence open.

She snaps to and continues. “Look, I heard about it from another national insecurity correspondent, not an insider,” she explains. “And when I broached it with an inside source, he called me a conspiracy theorist and changed the subject.” She studies me. “Who else knows you have it?”

“Good question. I don’t know.”

“But someone might, right?”

My sheepish expression gives me away. “Maybe.”

“So then what good is the key?” she poses. “If they know you have it, they can change the lock, right?”

“Depends who knows,” I reply. “If the agency doesn’t know, no reason to change the lock.”

Which leaves the Russians, Chinese or Iranians as contenders for whoever ransacked my hotel room.

“Based on where you once worked,” McGuffin fills the silence, “can’t you rustle up your own insider?”

McGuffin never fully understood my role as a maverick operator, doing Porter Hatch’s most secretive compartmentalized ops—ultra-compartmentalized. From everyone.

But it jogs a memory.

This longish day calls for a cocktail.

Billy Sud’s, same bartender.

“You’ve come back for another Club de Gazon?”

I shake my head. “Definitely not. I’ll have The Last Word.”

Which is exactly what I need, given my circumstances.

Cocktail hour is my best time to think.

Key secured, along with a safe way to contact others. But who to contact?

Better I don’t ask Tammy if she knows anything about The PIT, as labeled on her dad’s key.

Could make her a target.

Chances are she doesn’t know anyway. Her father would never put her in a position to know something that was dangerous to know. Someone must have been watching her house.

I show up. She hands me something in full view. I’m tagged.

It.

They want the key. But who are they?

A darker thought enters my mind at the first taste of chartreuse: Maybe Porter’s demise was not natural (as advertised) but had been arranged because of what he’d bequeathed to me. Porter never let anything catch him off guard. Not a stray word, not a stray bullet.

But maybe Porter strayed—and someone caught up with him.

Hmm. Did Porter squirrel away all of his secrets? And those of his employer? And, if so, is that why he no longer walks among us?

Watching the barkeep mix flavors, I recall my dream.

What if…?

What if Porter gifted me… the Key to the Kingdom?

If so, the old pickle factory—as we used to call Langley—wants it back. Bad.

Unless, of course, someone else wants it even badder.

The Russians? The Chinese? The Iranians?

Only one thing for certain: I need some assistance, even if it’s an outsider’s insight.

And only one name comes to mind.

Sarah McGuffin.

Hadn’t seen her in a while. In fact, never expected to see her again.

But if anything is up her dark alley, this might be it.

Scrolling through my contacts produces a number I didn’t think would be there, but I hope it’s current, been a long while.

I power up the burner, key ten digits—and get sent straight to voicemail. Nowadays, not even the curious answer unknown caller ID.

I’m into a glass of Chablis when the phone chimes.

“That you, Sarah?”

“What a surprise.”

I’m comforted to hear her voice. “Thanks for getting back.”

“Just like old times.”

When I was at the pickle factory, I was her favorite source. Or so she’d say.

But she was definitely my favorite leak when Porter wanted to release a trickle of brine.

“You know I’m out of the game,” I say. “You?”

“Same arena, different game,” she says. “Journalism’s changed.”

“I noticed.” I sip Chablis. “Would you mind having your brain picked?”

“As long as it’s not Walt Freeman’s icepick.”

Lobotomy used to be a running joke with us. Probably because of a third martini. But that’s what I always liked best about McGuffin, her wicked sense of humor.

“Still here in the Bog?” I ask.

“Once you’re sucked in, it never lets go.”

“Yup, just discovered that. Can we meet?”

“You mean, like, right now?”

“No time like the present.”

We don’t have to agree where.

A rendezvous point was established long ago.

Standing on Connecticut Avenue, I have to wonder if eyes are upon me. My wonder turns to assumption. If they’re watching me exit a locksmith, they—whoever they are—would now know I have the key on me.

And they maybe know that I can’t cut a copy.

I need to get lost.

Is Rock Creek Park nearby?

No, need to be around plenty of people. And stash the key somewhere safe until I decide my next move.

I stroll casually, like I’ve got nowhere to be. Don’t give them a reason to think I’m on to them.

A couple of blocks down Connecticut I cut into The Mayflower Hotel, a bustling Beaux-Arts labyrinth with more than one way to get in and out. I choose a door that exits onto L Street.

“L” for Leave.

Next, a straight run to Farragut Square, take a pew and watch for watchers in pursuit. Then a dash round the corner to the Hay-Adams, enter, stroll, exit. The doorman whistles me a taxi.

“Where’s the nearest hardware store?”

“Glover Park has an Ace.”

“Do it.”

Ten minutes later I have what I need.

The cabbie whizzes me down to Georgetown Harbor for quick stop at 7-Eleven to buy a burner phone.

AMC has 14 movie theaters under one roof. I choose one already underway.

Inside the darkened theater I scan the mostly empty rows, and choose a far aisle seat.

I wait about ten minutes (to check for late joiners). No one. The only action is someone shuffling and munching popcorn.

I use my penknife to cut the duct tape I just bought at Ace, snuggling Porter Hatch’s fancy key onto the sticky side, attach it to the underside of my seat.

Then it’s time to sit back and enjoy the show, take my mind off unwanted intrigue.

A few hours later, I’m ensconced at the Georgetown Inn.

My new laptop is on the desk.

New concern: If they want Porter’s key badly enough… the new one, anyway… well, there’s only one. And if they relieve me of it, I’ll have nothing.

Another Uber downtown.

Mr. Locksmith is the kind of place that’s been around since Tricky Dick Nixon occupied the White House. Maybe his Watergate crew had their keys cut here.

Faded signage and an aroma of grease and burnt metal greet me outside.

A wiry old-timer looks up, peers at me through thick glasses, his gray hair swept back into a ponytail.

A holdout from Haight-Ashbury?

“I need a spare key made,” I say, plopping it down on his counter.

He picks it up, studies it. Grabbing a magnifying glass, he studies it some more.

“Unusual key,” he mutters.

“How unusual?”

He looks at me as if I’m to blame. “Very unusual.” Then he looks away, shaking his head. “I can’t duplicate this with a standard blank.”

“Why not?”

He looks back at me, rolling his eyes. “Looky here.” He holds it up. “For a start, it’s a cruciform key.”

“A what?”

“Four-sided. That’s the obvious part. But there’s more to it than four sides.” He points a long bony finger. “See that tiny groove?”

I squint. “Not really.”

“Try my magnifier.”

I put it to my eye.

“See it now?” He extracts a ball of wax from his right ear and inspects it before flicking it away.

“Barely. Why is it an issue?”

“It’s what’s known as a custom security groove. Specially made for a lock mechanism not even a pick could open.”

“What’s the fix?”

He shrugs. “No fix. You need the original manufacturer.”

Now I roll my eyes, perplexed. “Who would that be?”

“Someone scraped the name off, so I can’t say for sure. Could be a Burg-Wachter.”

“Who?”

“They make fancy keys like this.”

“Where are they?”

“Wetter-Volmarstein.”

“Where the hell’s that?”

“Germany. But it wouldn’t do you any good to show up and ask for a duplicate if you weren’t the one who bought the lock.”

I wasn’t planning to fly to Germany.

But curiosity calls.

“Why not?”

“They’d look in their records for whoever they sold it to—and seek authorization from them.”

“Any idea what it opens?”

“Maybe a safe? A vault? Maybe a cellar for luxury wine? Something very high-value.” He pauses. “I’ve only ever seen one other key like this—and I’ve been here a long time.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Not allowed to say.” He peers over his spectacles. “They made me sign an NDA.”

Yup…. should-a known.

A slightly ajar door tips me off, no maid trolley in sight.

My hotel room, violated.

Someone waiting inside?

I knock.

Not looking for a fight, poised for an exit-stage-left sprint down the corridor.

Nothing.

I nudge the door open wider.

Without even entering, I can see a tornado had stormed through the room.

My suitcase, previously upon a luggage rack, is on the ground, its contents scattered around.

I venture inside. Drawers are yanked out of the dresser and bedside table. A Gideon Bible is splayed on the floor. My eyes dart over to the desk.

Laptop, gone.

Sonofabitch. I didn’t sign up for this.

Inside the bathroom: my dopp kit is turned upside down. An aroma of cologne hits my nose. The bastards broke my bottle of Creed.

Next, the closet: its empty safe pried open—I never used it.

And, oh, shit, the garment bag with Porter’s Burberry…?

It’ gone.

Who steals a vintage raincoat?

I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly.

Claimed by the rabbit hole.

I pick up the room phone, hit zero for the front desk.

Within minutes a suited young man holding a two-way radio arrives on the scene serious, shocked, and baffled.

“I’ve never seen this happen before,” he says. “We have good security,” he adds.

“You mean, “ I say, “by needing a room key to activate the elevator?”

He nods.

“Yet, one can ascend to the rooftop bar without a room key. And then walk the stairway down and access any floor they choose.”

His expression turns sheepish.

“Cameras?” I ask.

“Yes!”

“Mind if I view them with you?”

He looks concerned. “I should phone the police.”

As if DC’s finest would have a clue.

“Do whatever you think you need to do, but I’d like to view the footage myself.”

I already know this isn’t random, but I want to be sure. And I definitely don’t want to explain my suspicions to men in blue.

Down to the basement we go—to the videotape room.

Sure enough, two men in dark suits wearing N95 face masks. They stride through the lobby with purpose in their eyes, enter the elevator, come out at the top floor, disappear into the stairwell, reappear seconds later, enter my room with a magnetic key—and out again minutes later.

Quick, clean, professional.

“Check me out, comp the room—and follow me to the Apple shop on Wisconsin,” I say.

He looks at me, a quizzical expression.

“You’re buying me a new Mac,” I explain.

“Do you have an original receipt for that purchase?”

I look straight into his eyes, and hold his gaze until he blinks.

I drape Porter Hatch’s garment bag across the back of a chair in my hotel room.

I study it. What could Porter possibly have been thinking?

It stares back, daring me.

I like a good mystery like anyone else, so I’m in no hurry. And I’m hungry.

Everywhere I look, Georgetown’s leafy streets are symbols of post-Thanksgiving: rotted gourds, autumnal wreaths.

At last, 11 a.m., Martin’s opens for biz. A crabcake sandwich, hold the bread.

When I return, the garment bag is… gone. Or at least not where I’d placed it.

At first I’m perplexed. But then I note my bed’s been made. Housekeeping’s been and gone.

I open the closet. Porter’s… well, whatever it is… it’s hanging from a rod.

Okay, enough—time to see what he wanted me to remember him by.

I drape the long nylon bag across my bed, unzip it all the way down.

I grab a wooden hanger, pluck it from the bag, and behold Porter’s… raincoat?

He never traveled anywhere without it. Again, Paris comes to mind.

A beige-colored raincoat, wool lining, a plaid in black and tan. Not a trench coat, as befits a spy. But a Burberry, label intact. The genuine article. Just like Porter. Made to keep the wearer insulated, however powerful the storm.

On impulse, I try it on.

Boxy. But a perfect fit. Of course—Porter knew everything.

For a full feel, I put both hands into the raincoat’s pair of side pockets.

On the right side, my finger runs against something rigid. A spare button perhaps?

Whatever it is cannot be grasped.

I remove the coat and lay it over the bed for examination. No question, there’s something under the fabric.

I have what I need in my dopp kit: a pocketknife. Porter had set the example, never traveling without his W.R. Case horn folder, a remnant of his childhood—he once confided—from being in the Boy Scouts.

I cut a hole in the cloth—and extract a single metal key. It has a small white tag attached on which is handwritten in blue ink CCC.

Is it this the key what Porter Hatch wanted me to have, the. raincoat merely a vessel? Or did he forget it was there?

No, nothing Porter did was ever an accident.

If he’d had a motto, it would be plan with precision.

Or maybe leave nothing to chance.

I connect to Tammy’s phone and leave a voicemail then carry on doing nothing, maybe catch a movie at AMC around the corner.

Her call-back is surprisingly prompt.

“Question for you,” I say. “What did the letters CCC mean to your father?”

“Easy,” she replies without hesitation. “His club.”

Of course. She need say no more. But she does. “Why do you ask?”

“No big deal, just ticking a box.”

I see no point dragging her into this and diluting the mystery. If he’d wanted Tammy to know more, he would’ve given her the raincoat.

I take an Uber, back across the District line into Maryland—and the Chevy Chase Club.

Old world, old money. Uber-exclusive. A grand front entrance.

Just inside on the left, a discreet cubbyhole of an office is staffed with a sole receptionist, an affable man of color who intercepts me.

“My friend Porter Hatch was a member here,” I say.

“Yes,” he says with an endearing smile. “We miss him.”

I hold up the key. “He gave me this. Do you have any idea what it opens?”

This man’s recognition is instant. “Why, that’s a locker key.”

I nod. “Thanks. I guess he wanted me to retrieve his gym gear or something.”

“I can help with that. Just give me a moment to call someone to cover for me.”

I hang in the lobby, admiring the grand portraits in oil amid polished wood and hushed voices.

Ten minutes later he emerges with a big smile from his cubbyhole.

“Right this way.”

I follow into the bowels of the club, through the fitness center and into a locker room. He stops before number thirty-three and turns to me. “Good thing you came today,” he says. “We weren’t sure anyone would come check the locker for any personal items and we were just about to reassign it to someone on our waiting list. Would you like to try the key?”

I step forward, insert and turn.

Voila.

My escort is probably expecting to see shorts and sneakers.

I don’t know what to expect.

Looks like nothing.

Behind me, my escort has the same thought. “Ah, well,” he says.

I take another moment to peer more deeply inside.

An envelope lying flat would’ve been easy to miss (if I wasn’t thorough). I reach inside, slide the envelope out and pocket it.

My escort keeps the locker key.

I thank him, and skedaddle.

Rather than phone Uber immediately, I stroll to Chevy Chase Circle and cross into the District.

A Starbucks beckons.

With a latte in front of me, I unseal the plain white envelope from Porter’s locker.

I’m expecting a letter. Or at least a note.

Nothing of the sort.

Another key. But not just any metal key. This one is four-sided. Again, a label, same blue ink scribble as before: The PIT.

I shake my head. So far, this search has required minimal effort. But I have a haunting suspicion that’s about to change.

And I’m pretty sure this is one rabbit hole I don’t want to fall into.

Weekends are for leisure reading.

As in fiction.

Once upon a time such leisure reading was a staple of American life and culture, best embodied by the Saturday Evening Post, which dates back to 1821 when its earliest editions were printed in Benjamin Franklin’s printshop.

From the 1920s through the 1960s, “America’s Magazine,” as it was known, reached two million homes every weekend. The Post was revered for short stories and literary serials, along with its cover illustrations of classic Americana by Norman Rockwell.

In that spirit, here is my own Saturday evening post: Key to the Kingdom, a novel in serial form.

I saunter into Chez Billy Sud on in Georgetown, DC, wanting The Last Word.

The bartender has other ideas.

“Ever try this?” he asks.

My eyes follow the point of his forefinger to a cocktail specialties menu. Specifically, to Club de Gazon.

It has all the right stuff: gin, vermouth, maraschino liqueur, absinthe, orange bitters.

“Looks like a magic potion,” I say.

“An elixir,” he confirms.

“Does it come with a Luxardo cherry?”

“Why not…?”

“Do it.”

I look around, breathe in the vibe: brick walks, dim incandescent lighting, an aroma of steak & frites. The kind of place you can hide away, exchange secrets, and no one will come looking. My old friend Porter would have approved.

The bartender mixes as if he’s a magician pulling sleight-of-hand, then delivers a concoction green as envy and glowing like it knows something I don’t.

The first sip of any libation is always the best. Except for the final sip. That’s even better.

Not wanting to waste a drop, I carefully raise my glass.

“To Porter,” I whisper to no one.

An herbal flavor fills my mouth, a revelation with a hint of anisette, packing the punch I need.

I’d just come from a memorial service at National Cathedral that brought out more spooks than Halloween.

Including me.

I was never an insider. And never wanted to be. Being an outsider made me spookier—to insiders, anyway.

Porter Hatch knew all their secrets. Maybe some of mine too.

In fact, Porter knew all the secrets.

He took them to a drawer in Arlington’s columbarium after an abdominal aneurysm claimed his last breath. Whiskey and cigarettes will do that to a man.

I savor my last sip, lamenting that elixirs are best not overdone. That’s why I follow it with Chablis, sipped intermittently with a bowl of French onion soup.

Takes me back to Paris. Traveling with Porter. Learning his craft.

Martin’s Tavern might have been my next stop for additional contemplation and commiseration. But I’m not feeling it, numb and lagged from travel. And weary from too many memories.

Back in my room at Rosewood Georgetown, I fall into a dream.

I am inside a vast library or storage depot, location unknown: A subterranean warren of rooms with worn out shelves and file cabinets, ramshackle crates and boxes (disorganized, no order) containing folders with handwritten notes and unconnected fragments, each the basis for a story or the solution to an old mystery, the promise of sacred texts.

I think how fortunate I am to have found this “kingdom of knowledge”—permission to access its many secrets. I also have a nagging suspicion that I could be discovered as unworthy and tossed out at any moment.

And I am tossed out—by waking up.

It’s 4:33 a.m. and dead quiet outside. But I can’t return to slumber.

Compass Coffee inside the old Georgetown movie theater opens at six. I’m there at 6:03 with a large latte, gazing through plate glass at memories.

Been a while since I graced the Beltway Bog with my presence.

Haven’t missed it. Still don’t. Too many gators with teeth sharp as knives—no, make that razor blades.

And secrets within secrets.

This thought gears me back into the dream that brought me here so early. I wasn’t inside a kingdom of knowledge—more a kingdom of secrets.

I already knew a few, didn’t need—or want—to know any more. I’d moved on.

My thoughts drift back to Porter’s memorial, to his daughter. Tammy had pulled me aside, said, “Dad wanted you to have something of his. Can you come by tomorrow and collect it?”

What could Porter Hatch—a man who lived three steps ahead of everyone else—possibly want me to have?

We’d lost contact long before he died. More like, he broke contact. Not just with me. With everyone. Or so said Tammy.

I didn’t need a souvenir of our relationship. My memories were enduring enough.

But curiosity—that big troublemaker and cat killer—always wins.

I send her a text. Can stop by today, lemme know a good time.

Despite the early hour, Tammy’s reply is immediate: I’m here now.

I can only guess by here she means the old family homestead.

Sure, why not? Let’s get this over with.

An Uber drops me at the Hatch residence, a modest brick house in a modest Bethesda neighborhood.

I tell him to wait, I’ll be just a few minutes.

Tammy opens the door before I even reach it. “Here,” she says, handing me a garment bag.

I study it quizzically.

She reads my expression. “Dad was very specific,” she explains. “He wanted you to have this.”

I shrug.

“Any idea why?” she adds.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“Well, thanks for stopping by,” she says.” I’d invite you in but I have kids to pack off for school.”

“No worries.”

“I miss him,” she says, her green eyes reminding me of her late father’s gaze.

I nod, turn around and rejoin my Uber for the ride back to G’town.