Minus 3 Months
WE HAVE TO KILL THE PRIEST,” Roberts said.
Charles Crandal sat still in the subterranean room’s dim light, legs crossed and relaxed. His dark eyes peered from a shiny bald head, past Roberts to the glass cases filled with his precious artifacts. He said nothing, which could mean anything. But looking into those cold eyes, Roberts felt a very gentle unnerving, which considering his own steely disposition, said volumes. He just didn’t know which volumes yet. Ambiguity was a prerogative that followed great power, he thought, and power was the air Crandal breathed.
Roberts pressed his point. “He’s talking, sir. If Tempest gets out it’ll be the end.”
Crandal shifted his eyes but he still did not speak.
“You kill the priest and this all goes away,” Roberts said.
“This paranoia is asinine,” Crandal said. “It’s none of anybody’s business. I did what needed done.”
“Of course. But you’re wrong: they’ll make it everybody’s business. And when the public wakes up one morning and learns that you ordered the killing of several thousand civilians—”
“It wasn’t an order.”
“It might as well have been. And either way I guarantee they’ll crucify you. We have a simple solution here, sir. We head this off at the source and it’s the end of it.”
Crandal unfolded his legs, pushed his large frame from the stuffed chair, and walked to the desk. A green lawyer’s lamp cast an amber hue over its mahogany finish. All but one of the study’s walls were paneled in the same wood, a rich backdrop for his collection of Rembrandts. The other wall was encased in glass and lined with outrageously rare artifacts Crandal had personally collected from the most remote regions of the world. Another dozen pieces sat in their own cases about the office. The few who had seen this room sometimes referred to it as his museum.
He had furnished his private enclave in majestic fashion, which seemed appropriate considering the kind of decisions that had been conceived here, three floors under the D.C. earth in seclusion from even the agency he had directed for eight years. The National Security Administration’s roots ran deep, but the ex-director knew its holes and he lived in one now.
Two years ago he’d left the agency and set his sights on this loftier goal, but he’d never relinquished his power. Not really. He hadn’t even lost his command post—he still ran his world from this room.
Crandal reached for a copy of Time magazine, featuring his smiling face on its cover with the inscription “The Power Broker” beneath it. “Killing is never the end of it, Roberts. You should know that by now. You end one problem and create another.”
“Then tell me a better way.”
“Did I say there was a better way? I’m simply telling you that killing someone doesn’t always silence them. Especially not a priest in a country that worships their priests.”
“It’s a risk we can’t afford not to take. Sooner or later someone who matters will listen to the old man.”
Crandal tossed the magazine back onto the desk. “Then we go all the way. We go after the entire monastery. If we set out to silence, then we silence them all. Including the village around it.”
Roberts felt a tug at his lips. Here was the old Crandal talking, putting aside politics for the moment and dealing decisively with the problem at hand.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“It worked before, why not again?”
“Another invasion?”
Crandal nodded. “Tempest.” He stretched his neck and rubbed his throat with a thick hand. “Did we go this far south last time?” he asked.
Roberts arched his right brow. “You’re thinking we should search again?”
“Why not. It’s in that region somewhere—I’d stake my life on it.”
“But would you stake your presidency on it? The last thing we need is another leak.”
Crandal chuckled. “Leak? We plug our leaks, remember? And if you’re really worried about leaks, Ethiopia is the least of your concerns.”
He had a point there.
Crandal sighed. “Stage the invasion, kill every living soul within ten miles of the Debra Damarro, and then flatten it. But have them at least take a look. Okay, Roberts? Humor me.”