24

THE OVAL OFFICE

“Are you insane? Seriously, Andy, have you completely lost your mind?”

No one called the president by his first name.

No one but Richard Stephens.

But Clarke and his CIA director were alone. It was late. A lone Secret Service agent stood post outside the door. And nearly all the staff had gone home for the day.

“Richard, this isn’t your call,” Clarke said as he sat behind the Resolute desk signing a stack of executive orders.

“Oh yes it is. Ryker works for me. And I don’t want him anywhere near this.”

“No, Ryker works for me,” Clarke shot back. “And so do you. Don’t push me on this thing, Richard. Face it, you’re in a tizzy ’cause he was right about the Libyan, and you got it wrong.”

“We don’t know that,” Stephens responded. “Until that storm finally blows over, we don’t know who or what was in that compound.”

“Let it go. You’re embarrassing yourself. I’m putting Ryker in charge of this task force. We’re running it out of the NSC. And that’s final. Do you understand me?”

“No, Mr. President. I do not understand you. You hired me to run intelligence operations. Me. Not him. And as I keep telling you, Ryker is not one of us. Doesn’t think like an Agency man. Doesn’t work like one.”

“That’s exactly why I like him.”

“And that’s exactly why I don’t. He’s rash, he’s reckless, and his profile is way too high. For crying out loud, he’s supposed to be invisible. Instead, the Russians know who he is and they want him dead or alive. The Iranians know who he is, and that’s why they’ve slapped a $10 million bounty on his head. Kairos knows who he is, and that’s why they targeted him, grabbed him on the Israeli border, and beat the crap out of him. He winds up on worldwide television thwarting a suicide bombing on the Temple Mount, and now the entire world knows who he is. And rather than watching yesterday’s ceremony from the privacy of his cubicle at Langley or DSS, he stupidly comes to the White House, sits right next to a prominent senator, and gets caught on camera holding hands with a professional staffer from the Senate Intelligence Committee. Mr. President, this is not exactly standard operating procedure for a member of the Clandestine Service.”

“First of all, I personally invited Ryker and his mom to the White House because they deserved to see the fruit of his labors. Second, Ryker’s not only a war hero but a widower, and he’s got every right to hold hands with anyone he pleases, and you might want to cut him a break and show him a shred of sympathy once in a while. And third, and probably most important, Ryker’s the best operative the Agency has seen in a decade, maybe ever, and you know it.”

“How can you say that? Ryker’s gotten lucky. That’s it. That’s all.”

“Lucky? You cannot be serious.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“All the points he’s put on the board? You’re saying that’s all luck.”

“Ryker’s had a few successes, I grant you that,” Stephens admitted. “But those were highly complicated operations, and you’re giving him credit for the work of hundreds of Agency staff whose names you will never know. And do I even need to state the obvious?”

“Be my guest.”

“This administration cannot afford the media taking a closer look at this guy.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“The Russia thing?” Clarke asked.

“Yes, the Russia thing,” Stephens confirmed. “Marcus Ryker is an assassin, plain and simple, responsible for the murders of not one, not two, but three of the highest-ranking Russian officials in the Kremlin.”

“Which prevented a war with NATO that could have gone nuclear.”

“You think that’s going to matter when The Guardian breaks the story of Ryker’s real record? Or the New York Times? Or better yet, the Al-Sawt satellite TV network?”

At that, the president stopped signing papers and looked up at his longtime friend. “Richard, are you threatening me?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying it wouldn’t be good for you or this administration if the truth about what Ryker’s done—much less your pardon—came to light.”

“It hasn’t yet,” Clarke said.

“No, it hasn’t,” Stephens agreed, his expression cold. “But imagine if it did.”

“I don’t think I like your tone.”

Stephens abruptly rose to his feet and picked up his briefcase off the floor. “My tone, Mr. President, is going to be the least of your worries.”

Stephens stalked out, and Clarke suddenly found himself alone. Standing, he strode to the door to the right of his desk, exited, and took a walk down the colonnade and into the Rose Garden. Was this really happening? Was his closest political ally threatening to leak the story of Marcus Ryker’s past, just to block him from heading up this new task force? On the face of it, it didn’t seem possible. But the more Clarke thought about it, the more worried he became. And the more worried he became, the more his temples began to throb.

Neither he nor his senior team had had any advance warning that Ryker was helping the mole known as the Raven to assassinate the Russian president, prime minister, and head of the FSB. Ryker had only been authorized to get the Raven—and a thumb drive of highly classified Kremlin secrets—out of Moscow and out of Russia to someplace safe, someplace the Russians could never find them. If Clarke had had any inkling that Ryker and the Raven were planning to take matters into their own hands, he never would have authorized the CIA to use their resources to get them out, even if their actions did stop the Russians from invading the Baltic states and triggering the next world war.

Only the smallest handful of people knew any of this. Less than a dozen in the entire federal government. Yet the sudden exposure of such information would trigger a media firestorm, congressional investigations, possibly the appointment of an independent counsel and almost certainly calls for impeachment. Ryker would be forced to testify. The Raven’s real identity—and real location inside the continental United States—might be revealed. And all hell would break loose with the Russians, the North Koreans, the Iranians, and whatever was left of Kairos.

Maybe he had acted in haste, Clarke realized. Maybe he was going to have to sacrifice Ryker for the good of the country.