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Scott Davidson was a man of little humor who took life seriously. It was ingrained in his genes, part of his New England heritage, as was his Ivy League education. He came from "old" money. His father was chairman of a prestigious alliance of major banks.
His family background, his trust fund, and his gift for flattering those who could help him meant he was noticed. In college, he'd been initiated into a secret society that had long provided a significant share of America's leaders.
Shortly after graduation, Davidson had been invited to a private dinner on an exclusive estate outside of the city for members of the society. Among the guests were a Supreme Court judge, a senator beginning his fourth term, and a man who took him aside and introduced himself as the Director of the CIA.
By the time dessert was served, Davidson's career had been chosen for him. All these years later, it was only a question of time before Kramer's office became his.
Scott Davidson looked at the file on OPERA and tossed it down on his desk in disgust. Damn it, he was the Deputy Director of the CIA. If he wanted to designate himself as primary handler of an asset, he damn well ought to be able to do so. Letting Thorne handle her was adding insult to injury. Thorne should have been fired years ago.
Thorne was a problem, everyone knew that. He didn't show the proper respect to his superiors. Kramer knew that. So why the hell didn't she get with the program and hand OPERA over to him?
He knew why. She enjoyed playing power games. As long as she was the boss, he had to do what she wanted whether he liked it or not. Davidson didn't like playing second fiddle to Kramer. OPERA was bringing the underlying friction between them to the surface.
He swiveled in his comfortable chair to look out the office windows. The view from the seventh floor was much more than the sprawling Langley complex and the pleasant Virginia countryside. It was a view of power. It reminded him that he was literally next door to the kind of power most people could only dream of. If Kramer was forced out, the president would appoint him in her place. Why wouldn't he? No one was better positioned, and Davidson had powerful friends who would make sure he got the job.
Perhaps he could use OPERA to engineer Kramer's downfall, find a way to make sure Thorne screwed up. If something went wrong, the axe would fall on Kramer's neck, not his. He might be able to get rid of Kramer and Thorne at the same time, two birds with one stone. That happy thought made him smile.
Davidson looked at his watch. It was almost time for the morning briefing with her, a half hour or so spent reviewing the latest threats and intelligence that had come in during the night.
He got up, put the file in the wall safe, and locked it. He spun the dial. Then he went to the door adjoining Kramer's suite, knocked, and went in.
A few moments later there was a knock on Davidson's door. When there was no response, it opened and Ed Bradford entered the room. He was carrying a file, an excuse for being there.
Bradford knew all about the daily morning meetings between Davidson and Kramer. Keeping an eye on the door leading into Kramer's suite, he went to the wall safe and noted the number where the dial rested. Then he dialed in the combination and opened the safe. The combination was on a need-to-know basis. Bradford didn't need to know, but he'd been in this office when Davidson had opened the safe. He'd stood nearby and watched the dial turn. His eidetic memory took care of the rest, the same way he'd learned the combination to the outer office door.
The OPERA file lay in front. When Bradford saw what was inside, he knew he'd struck gold. He took out his phone and began taking pictures. Sometimes the Russians were reluctant to part with their cash, but they'd pay well for this. Finding out that a highly placed Russian Colonel was passing information to Langley would be worth a large payment to his Cayman Island account.
In a community of people who spent their days seeking out hidden information, it was difficult to keep some things from becoming known. Rumors were spreading that there was a mole. Bradford had decided it was almost time to disappear, and this file would give him enough to do it.
Langley's mole catchers were good. Bradford had no desire to spend the rest of his life locked up in a Super Max prison. He'd been careful, but sooner or later they would discover his identity. It was time to head for someplace warm, someplace where they would never find him. Someplace where they put little umbrellas in the drinks and the women were easy. Where he could let the good times roll, away from his nagging, domineering, boring wife. Where he could live the life he wanted and deserved.
When he was done copying the file, he put it back in the safe, closed the door and reset the dial to where it had been.
He looked around to make sure everything was as it had been and left the room, humming to himself.