Morrison Residence, River Oaks Drive, McLean, Virginia
Leif Morrison took a sip of his scotch, his eyebrows popping in surprise. Kane had somehow bypassed all of his security and left the bottle, with a card, on the antique mahogany desk in his den months ago as a thank you for his assistance with the Chinese national, Lee Fang.
And tonight he had decided he would open it in his honor, his agent missing now for weeks and, he feared, very much dead.
Fantastic!
He picked up the bottle, reading the label.
Glen Breton Ice.
Nova Scotia?
“Huh.”
His wife Cheryl looked over at him, resting her Kindle on her lap. “What is it dear? Something wrong?”
He shook his head, returning the bottle to the end table. “No, but Scotland better start to worry.”
“Excuse me?”
“Scotch talk, dear.”
“Tuning out.” She glanced at the television, CNN on low, a report on the crisis in Europe playing. “What do you think of this?”
He glanced at the screen, savoring another sip. He swallowed. “You don’t want to know.”
“That bad?”
“Potentially.” He sighed. “The news isn’t getting vetted properly. Look at what happened in Canada. A politician blamed the government for the death of that little Syrian boy. Turns out it was all lies. The family had never made a refugee claim yet the press ran with it including the New York Times. Now the truth is starting to come out, and the more reports that come across my desk, the more I realize my cynical nature is probably guiding me in the right direction on this one.” He motioned toward the screen, the ice in his glass clinking. “Like this guy getting off the bus. Why is he hiding his face from the cameras. Something like that makes no sense to me.”
“Maybe you should check him out?”
Morrison chuckled. “Believe me, dear, every single scrap of footage we can get our hands on is being analyzed. That guy will be singled out.” He took another sip. “And now the press is finally starting to report on some of the things that have come across my desk, like refugees rioting, some carrying ISIL flags, an Austrian woman being dragged out of her car and assaulted, food being turned down because it was from a Christian group. Christ, hon, you’d have to be a fool to let this go unchecked.”
The phone rang, cutting off his rant.
Cheryl read the call display. “It’s Alexis!” She grabbed the phone from its charging station and answered. “Hello, honey, how are you? Is everything okay?”
A few moments of quick pleasantries were exchanged before a look of disappointment crossed his wife’s face. “She wants to talk to you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Is it my birthday?”
“Ha ha. Enjoy it while you can.”
He took the phone, giving his wife a wink. “Hiya, kiddo, want to talk to the old man, huh?”
“Hey Dad, can you find out if there was an airstrike at a specific date and time in a specific location?”
Morrison put his drink down.
“You’ve got my attention.”