I wrapped the logbook in a waterproof plastic sleeve and tucked it securely under my coat.

The damp cold of the D.C. night seeped through my clothes as I walked.

The streets around Capitol Hill were mostly empty, slick with rain and reflecting the white marble of the dome.

The yellow headlights of a black SUV slowed down as they passed me, then sped up again.

I kept my head down, my collar pulled up high against the wind.

I walked through the side entrance of the Russell Building, passing through the security checkpoint.

The guard looked at my old civilian intelligence badge, his eyebrows rising.

“You’re not on the active roster, ma’am,” he said, tapping his finger against his desk.

“I have a scheduled appointment with Mr. Vance,” I said, keeping my voice level.

He checked his computer screen and nodded slowly.

“Go ahead. Room B-twenty-two.”

I took the stairs down to the basement, avoiding the elevator.

The air down here smelled of old paper, damp floor wax, and steam pipes.

I found the door to Room B-22 at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor.