The Magdalene Cipher Read Online Free PDF Page A

go?”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œYou can park ’most anywhere today.”
    â€œGreat,” Dunphy said, putting the car in gear .
    â€œHardly anyone here on Sundays.”
    Dunphy nodded, pretending interest .
    â€œMakes you wonder,” the guard added .
    Then the gate lifted, and Dunphy let the T-bird roll forward .
    Driving through the parking lot, he marveled, as he always did, at the high percentage of Corvettes and the weird mix of bumper stickers .
    REAGAN IN ’84   GREENPEACE   FREE O.J.!   BUSH IN ’85   SAVE THE BALES!
    He drove past the Nathan Hale statue, parked his car in the space marked director, and got out in front of the headquarters building .
    Entering the lobby, he found a fragile blonde waiting in the atrium astride the CIA seal, an eagle embossed on the marble under her feet .
    â€œMr. Dunphy?”
    He winced, provoking a quizzical look .
    â€œJack Dunphy?”
    â€œYeah,” he said. “Sometimes.”
    â€œJust clip this to your lapel,” she said, handing him a laminated yellow tag, “and I’ll escort you.”
    Dunphy did as he was asked, but he wasn’t happy about it. Everyone at headquarters, from the janitors to the inspector general, was required to wear an identification tag, conspicuously displayed. The tags were color-coded, as were the halls in each of the buildings: a colored stripe ran down the middle of every corridor so that security officers could tell at a glance if someone was where he wasn’t supposed to be .
    You could go virtually anywhere with a blue tag, but a red tag restricted you to the A building, and a green tag was even more confining. It meant that you could enter only those corridors in the A building whose floors were marked with a green line. A yellow tag was the most restrictive of all, because it meant that you had to be escorted everywhere. It was reserved for visitors and the press—people who didn’t belong—and wearing it was like dragging a bell. People looked away, as if you were the scene of an accident .
    But the blonde’s presence made up for the insult implied by the yellow tag. As she walked, her ponytail swung like a metronome in perfect counterpoint to the roll of her buttocks. It occurred to Dunphy, who gave considerable thought to the matter, that her ass would be most aptly compared to a valentine sprayed with tweed. It was a wonderful thing to behold, and clearly, it was no accident that she’d been assigned to escort-duty. If she’d wanted, Dunphy would have followed her to hell and back, and never have complained .
    Which was saying a lot, given the way he felt. In Olympic terms, he supposed the judges would rate his hangover a 5.6, and not much more. But, still, he did not feel well. He was wearing the same sweatshirt and gym socks that he’d worn in London on the day before. The stores wouldn’t open until ten, and the suitcase that he’d been given was stuffed with GWAR T-shirts, a pair of worn-out Doc Martens, and blue jeans with holes in the knees. It just wasn’t him. Not now, not then, not ever. In any case, it wasn’t just clothes that made the man: there was a faint blush in Dunphy’s eyes, he needed a shave, and the back of his head seemed to weigh more than the front. Call it a 5.9 .
    Dunphy’s escort led him through a maze of pale blue corridors in the B annex until, finally, they reached a small reception desk. A young security guard in a black uniform, epaulets bright with braid, got to his feet, gesturing to a cloth-bound register on the desk. “If you’ll sign in . . . your friends got here a while ago.”
    Dunphy bent over the register and did as he’d been asked. The names above his were Sam Esterhazy and Mike Rhine-gold: 7:50 and " .
    The guard turned his back to them and tapped the keypad on the door’s cipher lock. There was a soft click, and the door sprung open on