59
The silver Saab 9-5 Turbo roared up to the guard post.
Screeching to a halt, Peter Hwang showed his ID to the guards, ignoring their admonition not to drive so fast on Agency property. He had no idea why he had been summoned. All he’d been told was that it was an emergency.
Pete cursed under his breath and tapped his right palm on the stick shift as he waited for the steel barriers to be lowered and the gate to be raised. It seemed to take forever, but when the way was finally clear, he hit the accelerator. By the time he had found a place to park and cleared an extension security check, it was nearly 1:30 p.m.
8:30 p.m. in Jerusalem and Beirut.
10 p.m. in Tehran.
The armed female security officer who apparently had been assigned to wait for him gave him a once-over but said nothing about the Bermuda shorts, polo shirt, and penny loafers he was wearing. It was hardly the dress code for someone heading to the seventh floor. But Pete could not have cared less. He had not planned on being here nor wanted to come.
The officer escorted him to a bank of elevators and rode up with him in silence. Once the door reopened, he was handed over to two armed officers, both men this time, who guided him through yet another layer of security. Finally he was ushered into the director’s spacious corner office.
Despite having been in the employ of the CIA for the better part of eighteen months, Pete had only been to the seventh floor once before, though never to Stephens’s office. Indeed, he had only met the man once and had not particularly cared to do so again. On the other hand, the director was one of only a handful of people on the planet who knew that he worked for the Agency. And ultimately the man was his boss.
Stephens was on a call, so Pete stood there awkwardly, waiting for the director to acknowledge him. He had not been told the reason for his summons to Langley. Nor had he listened to anything but the Stones on the way back from Annapolis. So only when he glanced at the four television monitors on the far wall did he learn for the first time that the Supreme Leader of Iran had died and that a serious battle was underway on the Israel-Lebanon border.
MONUMENT, COLORADO
Marjorie Ryker had just finished her daily two-mile walk when her phone rang.
Stepping up onto her front porch, she took a seat in her favorite rocking chair looking out over her beloved Rocky Mountains, wiped her brow with a handkerchief, and looked at her phone. The number was blocked. Probably a sales call, she thought, and on a beautiful Saturday at that. Didn’t these people have anything better to do? She answered and was about to scold whoever was interrupting her day when she heard a familiar voice.
“Hello, Marj? It’s me.”
“Maya?”
“Yeah.”
“Maya Emerson?”
“Do you know another Maya?”
Marjorie could not help but laugh. “Not at all; I just can’t remember the last time I heard from you.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that. Got myself in a terrible funk after Carter passed. Stopped talkin’ to most people. And was just plain mean to the rest. Includin’ your son. Which is why I’m callin’ now.”
“Well, don’t you worry about that. It was a loss no one should have to go through. And believe me, Maya, I’ve never stopped praying for you. You were there when Marcus was in trouble, and I know—”
But Maya suddenly interrupted. “Marj, are you not watching the news?”
“No, I’ve been out for a walk. Marcus told me I need to do a better job taking care of myself, so I started a daily constitutional and—”
“Listen to me,” Maya said, interrupting again. “Go turn on the news.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Wasn’t Marcus supposed to be in Israel this weekend?”
“Yeah, but . . . how did you know about that?”
“Never you mind that.”
“Maya, what’s going on?”
“Somethin’ terrible has happened on the border. I’ve got an awful feelin’ that boy of yours is right in the middle of it. And I just thought I’d better stop everythin’ and call you and pray together.”
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Martha Dell entered from a side door.
“How’s the arm?” she whispered as she motioned for Pete to take a seat at a small, round conference table near the windows.
“Fine,” said Pete, in no mood for small talk.
Stephens ended his call, took off his headset, and tossed it on his desk. Then he put on his reading glasses and opened a folder while Dell sipped piping hot coffee from a CIA mug.
“Dr. Hwang,” Stephens began as he scanned the file. “We haven’t had much time to get to know each other since you came aboard.”
“None, actually,” Pete replied in a tone so cold that Dell looked up from her notebook as Stephens looked up from the file.
The two men stared at each other for several moments.
“Do you have something you need to tell me, Dr. Hwang?” Stephens asked.
“No, sir.”
“Are you under the impression that the director of Central Intelligence has the time to hang out and befriend each of the twenty-one-thousand-plus employees in his charge?”
“Not at all.”
“Or maybe you think you and your buddy Mr. Ryker are special,” Stephens continued, “or that you two deserve VIP treatment.”
“No, sir.”
Stephens removed his reading glasses before continuing. “Tell me, Dr. Hwang, why does a renowned cardiologist with no previous experience in espionage give up a lucrative practice to join the CIA?”
“Sir?”
“What are you doing here, son?”
“I was summoned.”
“What I mean is, why are you working for us—for me?”
“There are days I wonder about that myself, sir.”
“I ask, Dr. Hwang, because not so very many years ago, you were making a seven-figure salary and living in Manhattan. Now you’re making, what, ninety thousand and change, and living in an efficiency apartment in Anacostia. So I can’t help but be curious—why is that?”
“Are you kidding?” Pete deadpanned. “Who wouldn’t give up a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to save lives in order to kill people and steal things?”