Blowback, p.17
Blowback, page 17
“No,” Jean says.
“But they won’t even admit they have him. And they’re not letting me talk to my counterpart in Beijing or their resident in DC. Which means they’re either extremely pissed at us, or something larger is going on.”
“Agreed, Director.”
Hannah smiles and says, “Don’t get into the habit of saying ‘agreed’ that much, Jean. When I screw up or you think I need advice, don’t keep your mouth shut.”
“I won’t.”
“Good,” Hannah says. “What did you think of my speech to the troops in the Bubble?”
“Straight and to the point,” Jean says, going back to her notebook. “You said, ‘I’m honored to be here, you’re the most talented group of patriots and workers in the world, and if you follow the law and rules, I’ll have your back, forever.’” Jean looks up. “Not up to Henry V’s speech before the Battle of Agincourt, but I think most of them were pleased.”
“You took good notes.”
“You didn’t talk for long.”
Hannah says, “That’s because there’s too much to do. All right, next up, I want the personnel files on Noa Himel and Liam Grey.”
“Who are they?”
“That’s what I want to find out,” Hannah says. “The head of Operations told me last night that he was concerned that President Barrett had pulled them away—along with nearly a dozen other operators—for some operation. It was approved by Acting Director Fenway, but what they’re doing for POTUS is still not clear. I don’t like it. I’ve been here for only a day and I’ve heard rumors and tales. I want the facts.”
Jean is scribbling in her notebook and Hannah says, “Strike that, I want more than their personnel files. I want a fresh look, like a Red Cell committee, digging deeper and further. And while they’re at it, I want to know all about Carlton Pope, the president’s special assistant.”
Jean looks up from her notebook. “Director…that might not be wise. President Barrett has a fair number of friends and allies in the Agency. Word will probably get back to him that we’re doing that.”
“Good,” Hannah says. “I don’t have a problem with that. And Acting Director Fenway…no idea where he is?”
Jean says, “No. He left his condo at McLean and told his neighbors that he was taking a long-overdue vacation. He told one neighbor he was going to hike the Appalachian Trail, told another one he was going to learn to scuba dive in Mexico, and a third that he was going to find a secluded beach in Hawaii and learn tai chi.”
“Not the typical change of command ceremony one expects,” Hannah says.
“Think of it as a funny chapter in your autobiography someday.”
“Sure, someday,” she says.
Jean says, “Anything else, Director?”
The director of the CIA’s office is traditionally large and well furnished, but Hannah hasn’t had time to bring in any personal belongings or souvenirs, but there is one new object, taking up most of the free space in the room.
A fold-up government-issued bed.
Jean says, “How did you sleep last night?”
“Passable, but I’ve slept in worse,” Hannah says, and after a pause, says, “And so have you. And, I’m sorry to say, prepare to sleep again tonight in your office. There’s too much going on, too much at stake.”
“Yes, Director,” Jean says, getting up and closing her notebook.
As Jean heads out of Hannah’s office, that earlier phrase returns to Hannah.
Have we gotten here in time?
CHAPTER 57
LIAM GREY IS getting onto the George Washington Memorial Highway for his drive home, his mood foul, honking the horn at a commuter who was a few seconds slow getting into traffic.
He had a brief meeting with President Barrett yesterday that didn’t go well, concerning Boyd Morris, his team member who was killed in Paris.
Liam had asked that a Memorial Star at Langley be carved for Boyd, and Barrett instantly refused.
Boyd didn’t die for the Agency or the nation. He died for me, so there can be no record.
He speeds up on the highway, trying to maximize the distance between him and CIA headquarters and its Memorial Wall, three of its stars for fellow operators he’s known to have died in the field.
And for what?
Like the others marked on the wall in the lobby, they had died for their country.
Not a politician.
A noise distracts him and Liam realizes his cell phone is ringing from where he leaves it during work, the center console of his Jeep Wrangler.
It continues ringing as he pulls over to the side of the road. Virginia has a hands-free phone law and getting ticketed by a Virginia State Trooper will certainly not improve his mood.
He puts the Jeep in Park, picks up his phone.
The caller ID says WEBSTER.
He answers, “This is Liam.”
Spencer Webster says, “You in a good place to talk?”
Liam says, “Fair enough, Doc, although I might get rear-ended any second. I’ve pulled off on the George Washington. What’s going on?”
He says, “You got time for a chat?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “Name the time and place.”
“How about that place we were the other night? In an hour? I’ve got to stop at CVS and pick up a prescription first.”
“Fair enough,” Liam says. “Spencer…have you changed your mind?”
“Yeah.”
Nothing else is said and Liam wonders if they’ve been disconnected. He says, “Spencer?”
Another slight pause, and the doctor says, “Miriam and I were putting Liz and Linc to bed last night. After we switched off the light and left the bedroom, I was wondering what their lives were going to be like…and that got me to wondering about our conversation.”
Liam keeps his mouth shut, thinking Spencer is going to go on.
Which he does.
“What I got to thinking was what kind of world I was going to leave the twins, if…nothing changes in the next three and a half years, or longer, God forbid.”
“I see.”
“Gotta go, see you in an hour.”
Liam disconnects the call, puts his Jeep into Drive, and eases his way out back onto the crowded George Washington Memorial Highway.
He whispers, “Maybe your ghost, George, does protect the republic.”
Ninety minutes later he checks his watch again.
No Spencer Webster.
He’s gone in and out of the Sine Irish Pub and Restaurant at least a half dozen times, including checking the men’s room, and has walked around the block three times, looking for the familiar tall shape.
Nothing. And damn it, he was planning to convince Spencer to talk to his ex-wife, the Washington Post reporter, about what he knows about the president’s mental state.
He’s outside again, gets his cell phone, dials Spencer’s number.
Like the five times before, it goes straight to voicemail, and he leaves another brief message. He disconnects the call and thinks, One more time. One more time.
He dials Spencer’s home number and there’s the briefest of pauses, and then it rings.
It rings!
“Come on, come on, pick up, pick up, pick up,” he whispers.
It rings six times and goes to voicemail, with Spencer’s calm voice saying, “You know the drill, after the beep, please.”
He leaves another message and starts running to his Jeep.
Spencer Webster lives with his family in a fairly nice part of DC, the neighborhood of Cleveland Park. It takes about forty minutes with Liam racing through two yellow lights and one red light to get there.
Upon turning down Woodland Drive Northwest, he speeds up, and then instantly slows down when he sees what’s parked in front of Spencer’s house.
A white District of Columbia police cruiser, with its POLICE in blue against red stripes. Parked in front of it, a black Chevrolet Impala with a whip antenna on the trunk.
“Oh, no,” Liam says, as he pulls in tight behind the cruiser, nearly hitting its rear bumper.
He jumps out of the Jeep, runs up the short driveway and to the front door of the two-story brick house, doesn’t bother knocking, just opens the door, pushes past a female uniformed DC cop, right to the living room. Miriam is sitting on a couch, face pale and drawn, eyes red rimmed, her arms nearly crushing three-year-old Elizabeth on one side and Lincoln on the other, their eyes wide and fearful, not sure what’s going on with Mommy, only that something very, very bad has happened.
A male in civilian clothes with a police shield on a chain dangling around his thick neck looks at Liam when he comes in. Liam says, “Miriam?”
“Oh, Liam, he’s dead…my Spenny…he’s dead.”
Her chin quivers and tears start rolling again. He says, “What happened?”
Miriam forces the words out. “Liam, he was shot. Murdered.”
CHAPTER 58
PRESIDENT BARRETT IS alone in his office in the family quarters area of the White House when the door opens and Carlton Pope comes in and takes a chair without asking, his usual approach.
“Well?” Barrett asks.
Carlton says, “Taken care of. Made to look like a random robbery. Like that’s a rare event in DC. Doubt it’ll even make the late-night news, even with his record.”
Barrett shakes his head. “A pity. He was a good doctor, a good officer. But still…”
A variety of emotions are roiling along in him, anger at knowing that this doctor had betrayed him, both personally and professionally, and guilt for ordering what had to be done. So much had been accomplished here in such short time, and to have it be betrayed now is intolerable.
He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow it.
The destiny that’s been promised to him for years awaits him.
Nothing can stop that.
Barrett says, “Robert E. Lee—that famed traitor—once said, ‘To be a good soldier, you must love the army. To be a good commander, you must be willing to order the death of the thing you love.’”
He goes on. “I love the army, and all of our armed forces, and our intelligence services. But in my years of service, I know I’ve sent young men and women to their deaths…and I’ve been comforted in knowing that it was for a greater good, a greater cause. You can’t rise in the ranks and take on this heavy burden of command without knowing it. Or letting it haunt you.”
Carlton said, “You did the right thing, sir. Our progress has been impressive, but if the doctor started talking to the press, getting rumors started, we would be finished before we even started, before your goals were met. Before we could say, ‘Mission Accomplished.’”
Barrett smiles. “Well, at least I’m not going to make Dubya’s mistake and put up a big goddamn banner to announce it.”
“Glad to know it, sir.”
He says, “When we’re at the mission accomplished stage, Carlton, nobody except for you, me, and a few others will know that we’ve won. That the nation has been saved, and that I’ve been protected, to keep her great.”
“It’ll be a historic day, like none other.”
“But there will be casualties. Like Captain Webster. If he had just kept his mouth shut, had followed his professional and military obligations, hadn’t reached out to Liam Grey, and hadn’t called him to say he was going to cooperate…”
Carlton says, “In some ways, it’s his fault.”
Barrett is pleased with his special assistant. “True. That’s a very good point.”
A knock on his door, and he calls out, “Come.”
The door swings open and one of his aides comes in, a young Black woman, staff lanyard around her neck. She holds out a manila envelope to him. “Sir, here’s the package you’ve been expecting.”
“Thanks…Grace. That’s right? Grace Tilly. How are you doing?”
“Fine, Mr. President.”
“And your grandmother? How did her hip replacement go?”
She smiles. “Just fine, sir. Thanks for asking.”
He says, “She’s at George Washington, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think she’d like a ‘get well’ bouquet from the White House?”
Her smile is bright and happy. “Oh, Mr. President, that’d be wonderful.”
He nods. “Then I’ll make it happen. In the meantime, could I bother you to fetch Carlton and me some coffee?”
“It’d be a pleasure, sir,” she says. After the door is closed, Carlton smirks.
“You’re too nice,” he says.
“Never can be too nice to your inferiors,” Barrett says as he tears open the manila envelope. “She’s clumsy, dumb, and she’ll screw up the coffee order, but you know what? She’ll say nice things about me to her friends and coworkers, and they’ll pass it on to others, and if you do that to everyone you meet in the White House, the nasty leaks won’t happen, the anonymous sources won’t drop a dime, and there’re no tell-all books telling the world the secrets of the Barrett White House.”
He tugs out a business-sized white envelope, thick and creamy.
“That’s one of my many goals, Carlton,” he says, “is to dry up the tidal wave each year of the White House tell-all books. Ahhh, look at this, will you?”
He rotates the envelope so that the return address is visible:
Embassy of the Russian Federation
2650 Wisconsin Ave, NW
Washington, DC 20007
No other marks appear on the outside of the envelope.
Barrett opens the envelope, takes out a folded sheet of paper, unfolds it. The same address is centered at the top, and there’re two lines of handwriting:
Agreed
Josef
He grins, pushes the sheet of paper over to Carlton, who takes it in his large hand. Barrett says, “How do you like them apples?”
Carlton gives it a quick scan. “Well done, sir.”
Barrett takes the letter back with satisfaction. “Halfway there, Carlton. Halfway there…now that we’ve got the Russians where we want them. Stop the cyberattacks, leave us alone, and we’ll leave them alone. Quid pro quo. Set up spheres of cyber influence. If they want to mess around with the Poles, Germans, or Chinese, have at it. Just leave us be.”
“Think it’ll stick?”
“I made them an excellent offer, going back more than forty years from ye olde CIA playbook,” Barrett says. “They’ve just finished their fourth Nord Stream natural gas pipeline project from Russia to Germany. I told Josef that if they quickly agreed to my proposals, I, in turn, would tell them which parts and computer software bugs were placed within that pipeline and its sisters while I was running the CIA. A time bomb, if you will, that could cause billions of dollars in damage, help crater the Russian economy, and break relations with Germany.”
Barrett grins. “Reagan and the CIA did the same thing, nearly fifty years ago. The Russians were just starting to steal our technological secrets, and we allowed them to do that for a natural gas pipeline in Siberia. When it exploded, the force was so huge and bright that astronauts in space thought it was a nuclear bomb going off. Oh, they’ll stay bought. I have no doubts.”
He folds up the sheet of paper, puts it back in the envelope. “For decades we’ve been scared to death of the Russian bear, thinking it’s ten feet tall with razor-sharp claws and big sharp teeth. Truth is, their GDP is less than Italy’s. If it weren’t for their nukes, the rest of the world would laugh at them. They’re a bear, all right, one of those old sad sacks with a muzzle over its mouth you see at a second-rate circus.”
He puts the victory note aside. “What they crave most is respect. This agreement is secret, just between me and the Russian government, via Josef, the SVR rezident at their Embassy. One spy to a former spy, who know how to keep secrets. We get what we want, we stop giving them painful lessons, and we never, ever publicize it. Or even hint at it.”
“And the Chinese?” Carlton asks.
“A tougher nut,” Barrett says. “But we’ll crack them, sooner or later. No matter how bloody and long term.”
“Your two terms, I imagine,” Carlton says.
“I hope not,” Barrett says. “We got the Russians in less than a half year. I can’t see our efforts lasting eight years. That’s too much time, but we’ll still do it, no matter what.”
“Only if your efforts are kept…confidential.”
Barrett says, “Talking about Liam, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
A knock at the door.
Their coffee has arrived, he thinks.
“You know what has to be done,” Barrett says.
“Sir.”
“So do it.”
CHAPTER 59
LIAM GREY SAYS, “Murdered? Oh, my God, Miriam.”
He walks forward, bends over to hug her, and with her face buried in his chest, she starts weeping, her arms around him. Little Lincoln and Elizabeth, seeing Mommy crying, start weeping as well.
He continues the hug, turns to the DC police detective and says, “What the hell happened?”
The male detective looks like he’s been wearing his tan suit for a week. In a tired voice, he says, “Apparent robbery followed by a shooting. Like it or not, the damn crime rate in DC is climbing again. No matter what the mayor says, the stupid fool.”
“But…”
“I’m Detective Joe Mazzaglia, and who are you?”
“Liam Grey,” he says, still holding tight to Miriam. “I served with Spencer in the Army. We were in the same platoon in Afghanistan. Been good friends ever since.”
“I see,” the detective says, looking to a worn notebook. “This is what it looks like. Captain Webster was exiting a CVS pharmacy on Georgia Avenue Northwest. He had picked up a prescription, and it looks like he was robbed and shot just as he was getting to his Volvo.”
Liam slowly pulls back. Miriam’s face is pale, and her arms are now back around the twins.
Liam says, “Witnesses?”
“None so far.”
