Slaton drove to Missoula, and from there he hopped a regional jet to Salt Lake City. His connecting flight touched down at Dulles International Airport at three o’clock that afternoon.
He reached the arrivals curb with Sorensen’s words from that morning looping in his head. He’d sensed her tension, her guardedness, and he didn’t know what to make of it. Make your own arrangements, like Montevideo. But don’t bother with the walking.
She was referring to a rendezvous they’d had the previous year in Uruguay. A clandestine meeting far from prying eyes—and a prelude to another risk-laden mission. Slaton had made his own travel arrangements to reach Montevideo, and undertaken an extensive surveillance detection route when he arrived. He didn’t think that kind of tradecraft would be necessary today, yet he couldn’t shake the caution threaded into Sorensen’s words.
He spotted her right away amid heavy airport traffic, sitting calmly behind the wheel of a bland Ford crossover. Just like last time, there was no subtle wave or flash of the headlights. She simply knew he would find her. Slaton opened the passenger door and tossed his carry-on through to the back seat. It held two changes of clothing and a heavy jacket—a lesson learned two months ago, in late winter, when the area of operations for his mission had shifted in a flash from Central Asia to the Arctic.
“Right on time,” he said. “I’m guessing you didn’t have to bother with the cell lot.” As head of SAC/SOG, Sorensen likely knew not only his flight number and arrival time, but also what seat he’d been sitting in. Probably even what Delta had served him for dinner.
She flicked on her blinker and merged into traffic. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
“Just like a fireman.”
“I’m not sure I like that analogy.” She shot him a pensive glance, seeming to study his clothing.
“What?”
She shrugged. “I guess I was expecting you might have gone a bit more regional.”
He was wearing what he always wore: quality dark pants with plenty of pockets, a loose-fitting shirt, and solid hiking shoes. Clothing that was appropriate for outdoor work, but also tactically sound. “You were expecting jeans and a bolo tie?”
“Never mind. It’s nice to see there’s at least one constant in the world.”
He grinned. “Given what I’ve seen on the news, I’m guessing the DEFCON at the office is up a few notches?”
“You can’t imagine.”
“How’s Elayne?”
“She’s in an induced coma. There’s no real timeframe as to when, or even if, she’ll recover. The vice president has taken over in the interim.”
“Any inside scoop on the attack?”
“There’s still a lot we don’t know.”
Slaton studied her and got that sensation again. Tension. Wariness. Sorensen’s features were pure Scandinavian, fair hair and blue eyes. On their last meeting, he’d thought she seemed tense, the stress of the job beginning to take its toll. Now her worry lines were more pronounced than ever, and her posture looked like it was suffering some kind of gravitational overload.
His gaze slewed outside. Slaton was loosely familiar with D.C. geography, enough to recognize that the road Sorensen took exiting the airport—Route 28 South—would not take them toward Langley.
“Can I ask where we’re going?”
“I’ll explain soon. We need to talk.”
Sorensen said nothing else.
Slaton pressed back into his seat and waited.
Slaton expected a CIA safe house in rural Virginia. What he got was a Fairfax County municipal park. The curving access road led to an empty parking area near a trailhead. Sorensen pulled into the lot, gravel popping under the tires like popcorn. She parked and got out, and after Slaton followed suit, she clicked the locks shut.
The only other people in sight were a distant young couple walking a black lab with a wagging tail and a tennis ball in its mouth. Sorensen took a path that led to a clear area, four picnic tables overlooking a burbling creek. She stopped at one of the tables and climbed on, sitting on the tabletop, her feet on the bench.
Slaton saw her arranging her thoughts, figuring out how to say … something. Her caution did nothing to lessen his own alertness. His eyes kept moving, checking for people, registering any movement. He noted, with disappointment, that the picnic table was bolted to a concrete slab—tipped on their sides, picnic tables were always the most solid cover in your standard public park.
Since Sorensen’s first words that morning, “I need you here ASAP,” he’d been trying to guess why he was being summoned. The odds-on favorite was something along the lines of: Someone has tried to kill the president. We know who it is and want you to fly halfway around the world to put a bullet in his head. This was Slaton’s calling, the dark gift he’d been cursed with—an extravagant aptitude for killing. Now, watching the head of the CIA’s clandestine service wrestle her thoughts, he was less sure about his assumptions. She would not have brought him to a public place for that.
“What’s going on, Anna?”
“I needed to talk to you privately.”
A curious word choice—privately. Slaton considered the empty park, the silence in the car. Considered that they were situated in the open and not in a safe house—the CIA kept enough of those in rural Virginia to put an end to homelessness. He also noticed that she’d left her encryption-enabled phone in the car. And the background noise of the brook murmuring behind them? It was a natural acoustic defense.
He said, “Seriously? A deputy director of the CIA, the head of SAC/SOG, has to go for a walk in the woods to get a secure conversation in Virginia?”
“That’s … part of the problem. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be working for the CIA.”
This was a bolt from the blue. Of all the things Slaton had considered, Sorensen getting fired wasn’t one of them.
“Thomas Coltrane is getting the axe,” she said.
He considered it. “And you think you might be next? Collateral damage?”
“Stands to reason.”
He took a seat next to her on the table. “A purge at the agency. I didn’t see that coming.”
“I did … at least as far as Thomas was concerned. Since the attacks in March he’s been under tremendous pressure. Congressmen, senators, certain individuals in the administration.”
“The vice president?”
“Among others. But yes, Quarrels has been aiming to oust Coltrane, even before yesterday.”
“Coltrane wasn’t to blame for what happened in March. And probably not for what went down yesterday.”
“Doesn’t matter. At this point we’re talking about politics, appearances. There’s been too much bad news on his watch. The CIA can’t figure out who’s to blame, so it becomes an intelligence failure. The knives are out, and a sacrifice has to be made. Until now, President Cleveland had Coltrane’s back. Now she’s out of the picture.”
“The result of yet another attack.”
“Exactly.”
“You really think you could go down with him?”
“It’s possible.”
“That makes absolutely no sense. Nobody was as proactive as you were in countering The Trident two months ago. I know because I was there. Maybe I can talk to someone, explain what we did right.”
“Don’t worry about me, David. I’ll be fine. They won’t cut me right away—can’t make too many changes with so much going on. Anyway, the truth is … I’ve been thinking about leaving for some time.”
“Does Jammer have something to do with that?” For the first time since arriving he caught the trace of a smile. Jammer Davis was her significant other, and Slaton knew him well—they’d been side-by-side on the mission to the Arctic.
“We’re engaged.”
He leaned forward to catch her gaze. “Congrats, Anna! Really, you guys are great together.”
“Yeah, well … right now he’s up in Canada doing some bush flying in a floatplane. It’s possible he doesn’t even know what’s going on. If it turns out that I am out of a job when he gets back, we’ll have no excuse for not setting a date.” The smile misted away.
“I’m guessing you didn’t bring me here to ask me to be best man?”
“I want to give you fair warning, David.”
“About what?”
“Coltrane’s replacement has been chosen.”
“That was quick. Anybody I know?”
“Charles Eraclides has been named acting director.”
He shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“With good reason. Until today, he was the agency’s inspector general. Career CIA, but no operational experience whatsoever.”
Slaton laughed humorlessly. “Seriously? A lawyer?”
She nodded.
He was beginning to understand her unease. Slaton had a unique standing at the agency. No employment contract, no personnel file. Correspondingly, and surely by design, he operated outside the usual rules of engagement. He was an unofficial asset, working under the authority of a sealed presidential memorandum—an authorization that might or might not stand up under scrutiny. Any new director, especially a lawyer, would view such a legacy as an unexploded bomb.
“Maybe the new boss will fire me too,” he said hopefully. “I could live with that.”
“Actually, it’s the opposite. I spoke with Eraclides this morning. He wants to make his mark right away by answering this attack.”
“Answering? What does that mean?”
“He mentioned you by name. Or at least, your code name—Corsair.”
Her words hung in the air menacingly, a knife thrown straight up. Slaton stood, moved a few steps away, then turned to face her. “It’s one thing to get sent on an op with legitimate objectives, to target somebody who deserves taking out. Everything I’m hearing sounds closer to Beltway politics.”
“Could be. But we do have some fresh intel—came in earlier today. We’re getting a bead on this Trident organization. We have one name, and a lead on a second. Eraclides doesn’t want to wait. He wants to send you after the first target.”
“Have you seen this intel? Is it solid?”
“What I saw looked good, but we’re still vetting the source, verifying the authenticity of what he gave us. If everything checks out, the op would likely take place in Macau.”
“China? That sounds risky. Are we talking about someone official, government or military?”
“Unclear. He used to head up a big defense company, so you could label him as corporate. But nobody runs a big company in China, particularly one that does military business, without the party’s seal of approval. It goes without saying, any mission would require the smallest possible footprint.”
“One operator? No formal ties to the CIA?”
“That’s the general idea.”
Slaton realized his first inclination had in fact been dead on. Halfway around the world … He pulled a step closer and looked her in the eye. “Is it the call you would make, Anna? Send me to Macau?”
“Honestly, given the intel I’ve seen … yeah, probably so. But it’s out of my hands. Eraclides has asked for a face-to-face meeting with you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Where?”
“Headquarters.”
Slaton tipped his head. “You are kidding.”
No response.
“He wants me to walk right through the front door at Langley? Should I log in as a visitor too? Maybe sign up for the tour?”
“Look … I told him you wouldn’t like it.”
“You can tell him it’s not going to happen. We meet in a secure location or we don’t meet.”
“I’ll forward your well-considered request. Maybe we can switch it to the White House.”
Slaton shot her a stony stare. Then her face canted to one side and was illuminated by a streetlight. He saw the trace of a smile.
He eased off and grinned, shook his head. She was winding him up. He heaved a long sigh. “They’re idiots if they let you go, Anna.”
“Yeah? I was thinking I’m the idiot if I stay.”