“Five minutes to Reagan National,” said Donovan’s driver, an attractive young brunette CIA agent, as she sped along the George Washington Memorial Parkway.
“No rush. My plane will wait for me.”
“And for me.”
“Why?”
“I’m your pilot.”
“Oh… ”
Donovan smiled as he thought about how the CIA had changed from the “good old boys” club where women were secretaries - to an agency where a growing number of women held key executive positions. Some women had even given their lives defending our country.
He also thought about what had just been dumped in his lap. The President and the Director of National Intelligence had just asked him to protect the world’s eight most powerful leaders in a city where he couldn’t even protect his wife. A city where every location would rekindle a warm memory of her - followed by the nauseating flashback to their blood-drenched bed where he found her body.
Donovan looked down at his two-day list of things to do. It was at least a six-day list. No way he could do everything. He’d need help from all Agency operatives in Brussels.
His cell phone rang.
“Hello….”
“Donovan… it’s Maccabee Singh.”
Guilt hit him like a barn door. “Hi, Maccabee.” He swallowed a dry throat. “How are you doing?”
A long pause. “About the same. It’s still so… unreal… so hard to accept.”
She sounded almost as anguished as when he’d spoken with her and her Aunt Helen earlier.
“For me too, Maccabee. If I can help in any way, please just ask.”
She paused. “Actually, you can help.”
“Just name it.”
“I’ve been thinking about my father’s translation.”
“Yes… ”
“You said there might be similar messages out there.”
“Well, yes.”
Pause. “I’d like to continue dad’s work.”
Donovan closed his eyes and felt his chest tighten.
“So his death was not in vain,” she said.
Donovan squeezed the armrest hard, searching for a way to talk her out of this. He signaled his driver that he needed a private conversation. The young woman put on her MP3 earphones.
“But the killer took your father’s ancient Sumerian book.”
“No. I found it on dad’s bookshelf. And two years ago, I wrote a paper on Sumerian logograms. I compared their SOV order, you know, subject, object, verb structure to the SOV of Akkadian. I know most Sumerian logograms and pictographs and the sentence context should probably indicate those I don’t. So if you find more Sumerian messages, I think I can translate them.”
Donovan felt his gut constrict. If those behind this knew she could translate their messages, they’d come after her.
“Maccabee, please understand how risky this could be.”
She paused for several moments. “I do. But I’m willing to take that risk.”
He paused. “Please think more about this.” He couldn’t believe he was repeating the same warning he’d given her father.
“I have, Donovan, and continuing dad’s work means absolutely everything to me now.”
Donovan knew it did. He also knew that the NSA had just intercepted a short message written in what looked like Sumerian logograms. Translating them might provide an important clue.
But he was torn between her need to help and his need to keep her safe. She’d be safe for the next few hours, since the enemy wouldn’t know she was translating. But after that, they might find out and she’d need heavy security.
He tried to think what was best for everyone and everything concerned. He decided that saving the eight most powerful leaders in the world was worth the brief potential risk to one individual.
“Donovan… I really need to do this.”
He paused. “And we need you. We just intercepted what looks like a short message. Do you have a fax machine?”
“Yes.” She gave him the number.
Donovan put her on hold and called Director Madigan’s secretary who put him through to the Director. Madigan agreed to fax the message to her. Donovan clicked back to Maccabee.
“The fax should arrive any minute.”
“Thank you, Donovan.”
“You’re welcome. If you translate it, call Director Madigan immediately. Tell only him.” He gave her Madigan’s direct office line. “And Maccabee… ?”
“Yes… ?”
“Tell absolutely no one that you’re helping us. Not even your Aunt Helen.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
They hung up and Donovan slumped back in the seat as they pulled into Reagan National Airport. His gut was churning.
Had he done the right thing?
Or had he just signed her death warrant?
Like he’d signed her father’s…