CHAPTER 7JOHN POPE DROVE his turbine over the Potomac on a bright August morning and headed southwest toward Fairfax Junction. He was a male Caucasian, 5 feet 11 inches tall, gray-eyed, with no birthmarks and one scar from a Vietcong bullet on his left hip. He was an FBI operative on assignment, driving his own Mustang with a 30-0-0 hunting rifle in the trunk. He was almost happy.
Before him the nearly empty speedway cleaved the green of Virginia beneath a sky polka-dotted with clouds. Within him, lyrical memories sang of pursuits along the tango-swirls of mountain roads with curves ill-met by moonlight at 90 miles an hour. Again he heard the boomelay-boom of exhausts beneath the tintinnabulations of chassis, the sopranos of tires shrieking into the bass of crashed roadblocks. On per diem
