Lance Cabot, director of the CIA, scowled at the men assembled in his office. “I have to brief the President in half an hour, and I don’t know what I’m going to say. Who wants to fill me in?”
The agents looked at each other. One of the field directors spoke up. “Sir, we flooded the area with agents, but there is no sign of the shooter. It’s difficult. We’re tripping all over the D.C. police.”
“I’m not interested in excuses. What is being done?”
“The attack came from the roof of the building across the street. We pinpointed it rather quickly. The windows of the building do not open, but the roof gave the optimal angle. An expended cartridge shell was found there, and it’s consistent with the type of sniper rifle that would have been used in the attack.”
“And no one saw the sniper?”
“It’s a busy office building. Before the attack no one would have noticed. After the attack everyone rushed for the street.”
“I understand. What’s being done?”
“We’re questioning everyone. So are the police.”
“And the overlap?”
“Anyone who saw anything is being shunted from us to the cops to Homeland Security to the FBI to the NSA. All those interviews are being compared and coordinated to see if they add up to anything.
“At the same time we’re screening hundreds of hours of surveillance video from the cameras in the building, with an emphasis on the elevators and the upper floors.”
“With what result?”
“It’s early yet, but we have no reports of anyone carrying anything long enough to have contained a rifle. Several reports of men carrying briefcases which could have housed a disassembled rifle. No metal cases. Ruling out soft leather cases and messenger bags, we get standard-size hard cases, black, brown, and tan. Carried by men of all descriptions—white, black, Asian, and Middle Eastern.”
“What are we tracking with regard to terrorist activity?”
Another agent spoke up. “Sir, we have eleven high-ranking suspected terrorists in the D.C. area. None could be the shooter. All are under surveillance, and ironically, our own men give them alibis.”
“Which proves nothing. They’d have ordered it done anyway.”
The intercom buzzed.
Lance scooped up the phone. “I said hold my calls.”
“You want this one.”
“Is it the President?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t want it.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Margaret—”
“You hired me to screen your calls. Take this one, or fire me and hire someone whose judgment you trust.”
Margaret hung up.
Lance scowled at the phone. Line two was blinking. He exhaled, pressed the button on the line, snarled, “Yes?”
The young man on the phone stammered. “S-sir.”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Jenson, at ballistics, sir. I’m running tests on the shell casing found on the rooftop across the street.”
“Yesterday’s news, Jenson. I’m being briefed on it now.”
“I noticed something I thought you’d want to know.”
“What’s that?”
“The cartridge was standard CIA issue.”
Lance blinked. “Run that by me again.”
“It’s an exact match for the rounds we issue. I can’t imagine how an assassin would have gotten his hands on one.”
Lance didn’t say anything.
“Sir?”
“Who knows this?”
“Only me. I just noticed myself.”
“Okay. Sit on it and I’ll get back to you.”
The others were looking at Lance expectantly. He made a show of slamming down the phone, and snorted impatiently. “Everyone thinks their business is so fucking important. All right. Anyone got anything new?”
No one did.
“Get out of here and get me something. Frankly, we got caught with our pants down.”
As soon as they were gone Lance snatched up the phone. “Margaret?”
“Sir?”
“Did you tell anyone about this?”
“No, sir.”
“As long as you don’t, you can keep your job. Call the guy back, give him the same message. Tell him not to put it in his report.”
Lance hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his forehead. A dull, persistent ache seemed to be settling in. One he hadn’t felt in a while.
The situation had unpleasant connotations for Lance. He could think of only one other instance of a congressman killed by a sniper with a CIA background.
Could Teddy Fay be alive?
Lance logged onto the CIA mainframe, plugged in the name Teddy Fay.
Nothing came up.
Lance wasn’t concerned. For years any mention of Teddy Fay had been classified information that would not show up on such a lowly level.
Lance entered his personal security codes, instituted years ago and changed every week primarily for the purpose of keeping Teddy Fay out.
Nothing.
Lance pushed himself back from the computer, breathing hard. The assassination of a congressman in his town, on his watch, was bad enough. But the thought that his nemesis might have come out of hibernation and begun another reign of terror was almost more than he could bear.
Lance pulled himself together and picked up the phone.