COMPOUND 57. SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS. SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Harwich exploded, storming out of his supposedly secured communications building and marching off to NATO headquarters.
“I thought this was strictly Agency need-to-know,” Monica said, catching up to him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tell me something I don’t fucking know!”
Monica drove while Harwich just stared out the window in silence until they reached the large structure in the middle of the base, cruising past rows and rows of stacked shipping containers converted into living quarters and offices.
They were able to talk their way into NATO headquarters, but reaching Major General Lévesque, who was holed up in one of the conference rooms in the back of the auditorium-like building, proved unexpectedly difficult, even with their combined credentials.
“I need to see the general!” Harwich insisted, trying to get past a pair of oversize corporals from the Canadian Army Military Police who were blocking the way into a conference room.
The one in charge, a Corporal Darcy, cleared his throat and said in a rather raspy voice, “Later, eh? He’s in a staff meeting with the heads of the various armed forces and has ordered no interruptions.”
“Listen,” Harwich insisted, “he’s about to send another platoon of United States Marines into an ambush!”
“Like I said, the general is—”
“Hey, Canuck, this is beyond your pay grade,” Monica broke in, stepping right in front of the large soldier while noticing the bruises on his neck, which gave her an idea. “Get the hell out of our way.”
Darcy looked down at her and blinked in surprise before exchanging what looked like a borderline amused glance with his partner, who shook his head.
“Look, whoever the hell you are,” Darcy began, after clearing his throat again. “There is a protocol to see the general, eh? Go see his aid and he’ll fit you in—”
“Go,” Monica told Harwich, after grabbing Darcy’s throat right over the bruises, bringing the man to his knees while side kicking his partner in the balls.
Harwich burst through the double doors while Monica released the throat grip on the corporal, leaving him coughing next to his partner, who was curled up on his side, moaning, both hands on his groin. As she entered the room behind the CIA man, Monica expected to see the usual entourage of high-ranking officers from various countries in their military uniforms. Instead, just Major General Lévesque and Colonel Duggan occupied one end of the conference table, and they both turned to the intrusion.
“Who do you think you are to burst into this special brief, eh?” Lévesque asked, standing at the end of the conference table, the freckles on his face shifting as he frowned. Colonel Duggan from the U.S. Marine Corps sat next to him, regarding them over the rim of his reading glasses.
“You’ve misused our intelligence, General,” Harwich said. Turning to Duggan, he added, “Your marines are about to walk into another ambush.”
The marine colonel leaned back slowly and lowered his glasses before pointing at the screen.
Monica and Harwich turned to take a look, and suddenly froze. She was staring at the image of three men sitting at one end of a conference room.
The first was George Tenet, director of Central Intelligence. The second was Donald Rumsfeld, secretary of defense. And they flanked the forty-third president of the United States, George W. Bush.