55

Langley, Virginia, USA
November 27—1902 Hours GMT–5

RANDI RUSSELL SLID A half-eaten sandwich into the trash can next to her desk and looked around at the temporary office she’d been assigned. The only other things in it were a computer, the chair she was sitting in, and a framed poster by the door. It depicted four rowers in a boat, and the caption read “Teamwork.” Someone’s idea of a joke, no doubt.

What she really wanted at this moment was to be back in Afghanistan. To hear the wind against the cliffs, to see the shocking color of the poppy fields, to get swallowed up by the emptiness. She longed for the simplicity of knowing the Taliban would do everything in their power to kill her and that her men would do everything in their power to make sure that didn’t happen.

In many ways she’d spent her life trying to prolong the game of cops and robbers that she’d abandoned her dolls for as a child. Black hats. White hats. And a whole lot of guns.

But those days were gone. The grown-ups were playing now.

She’d spent the last two days using both legal and illegal means to dig into every aspect of Nathaniel Frederick Klein’s life. His work record was sterling, respect for him was almost universal, and even his enemies begrudgingly used words like “brilliant” and “patriot” to describe him. Still more interesting was that her vague memory of his personal relationship with President Castilla turned out to be right—they’d been friends since college.

The obvious implication was that Castilla was the “people high up in our government” Klein had referred to and the White House was behind Covert-One’s funding and power. But implications weren’t proof.

She’d contacted Marty Zellerbach because he was the first person she’d have gone to if someone had given her a copy of that Uganda video. The hunch had paid off and he’d shown her his analysis after making her swear that she wouldn’t tell anyone he’d kept a copy.

So everything Klein had said checked out. But did that mean he was on the up-and-up or just that he was as smart as everyone said he was? Could he be working as a private contractor? His modest lifestyle didn’t suggest a highest-bidder scenario, but that didn’t prove anything either. Even if he was raking in serious cash, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to make it obvious.

And finally, there was the irritatingly enigmatic Jon Smith. Klein knew the name would be a powerful motivator—both because of her desire to make sure he didn’t end up dead and because she would tend to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone he’d already vetted. But how could she be sure that Jon actually worked for Covert-One? Hell, for all she knew, he was working against the organization and Klein wanted to use her to track him down and get him to lower his guard.

The bottom line, though, was that Klein’s story wasn’t something she could turn her back on. If he was on the level and she didn’t help, countless people could die. On the other hand, if she let herself be played, even more people could die.

Randi sat in silence for a few more minutes, finally reaching for the phone and dialing Charles Mayfield, the CIA’s deputy director.

“Don’t tell me you’re backing out of lunch tomorrow,” he said by way of greeting.

They’d been friends for a long time and Mayfield had always watched her back—even when it wasn’t in the best interest of his career. But how far was he willing to go?

“We need to talk, Chuck. Now.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. About what?”

She propped an elbow on the desk and rested her head in her hand. Good question.