by Stuart Woods
Lance switched off the TV. “Let me assure you that we were not responsible for the explosion. Either the messenger delivered a bomb or someone inside, while building a bomb, accidentally caused an explosion. We do not routinely commit such actions on our own soil, and the DDO and the DDI are annoyed that we are being accused of doing so.
“All of you are being trained to join a new counterintelligence team that is being assembled in New York to prevent such acts in the city or, if they occur, to work with the FBI to learn the identities of the perpetrators. The attack today has caused the deputy director for operations to believe that it is more important for your subgroup to be moved to New York immediately than to complete the last weeks of your training. Accordingly, your training has been terminated, and arrangements have been made for you to join the team.
“Tomorrow morning you will be issued with your credentials and reassigned to New York with immediate effect. Two of you have cars and will drive there; the other three will ride with you. You’ll be told tomorrow morning where to report. I’m not going to take questions now, because I don’t have any answers for you, so return to your quarters, get packed, get a good night’s sleep and report here tomorrow morning at seven a.m. That’s all, good night.” Lance left the room, and the group broke up.
Holly walked back to her room in a state of excitement.
NINETEEN
SHORTLY AFTER DAWN the following morning, Lance Cabot stood on a New York City rooftop with Hugh English, the deputy director for operations, and Robert Kinney, the brand new director of the FBI. They were looking down at all that was left of a townhouse. Lance had choppered up from Langley with the deputy director of intelligence in the middle of the night, and he missed the sleep. He must be getting old, he thought.
The DDIO and the director were grim-faced, and Lance wasn’t sure if it was because of what they knew or what they didn’t know.
A young agent stepped up to Kinney and whispered something in his ear.
“Excuse me a minute, Hugh, Lance,” Kinney said and walked a few steps away with the agent. Lance could see his face as the agent delivered his news, and Kinney looked both astonished and outraged. “That’s impossible,” Lance heard him say. “I never did that.” Kinney came back to English and Lance. “This is Special Agent Kerry Smith,” he said, and introduced the two men. “He’s brought me some news, and it puts this incident in a whole new light.”
“What is it, Bob?” English asked.
“It looks as though the explosive used here was C-4, and that it came from the evidence room in our New York field station downtown.”
“How can that be possible?” English asked. “Do you suspect one of your own people?”
Kinney shook his head. “Here’s how it went: a man in a suit walked into the evidence room, presented credentials that identified him as an FBI agent and presented a letter, ostensibly signed by me and endorsed by the AIC, authorizing him to remove four pounds of C-4 from the evidence room to transport to D.C. as evidence in a trial. The man’s ID said his name was Curry. There is no agent by that name, but by God, the name was in the database that confirmed his ID.”
“How could an outsider get hold of a verifiable ID card for an agent who doesn’t exist?” Lance asked.
“Hugh,” Kinney said, “has Kate spoken with you about the Teddy Fay problem?”
“Oh, God,” English said, nodding.
Lance was baffled. “Teddy Fay is dead, isn’t he?”
“Not anymore,” Kinney replied.
HOLLY AND HER FOUR TEAM MEMBERS were in the conference room on time. A man they didn’t know came in and put a cardboard box on the table.
“Good morning,” he said. “Mr. Cabot couldn’t be with you this morning; he’s in New York with the DDI.” He reached into the box and removed five heavy brown envelopes and distributed them among the group, calling each by name. It was the first time Holly had heard any of their names.
“First, please pass me the ID cards you were issued when you arrived at the Farm.
The group turned in their IDs.
“Now open your envelopes,” the man said. “Inside you’ll find a leather wallet with your permanent ID card, which bears your photograph, your right index fingerprint and your signature. It also contains, on a magnetic strip, much other information from your service record, including a copy of your DNA profile. The card identifies you as an officer of the CIA and explicitly authorizes you to carry concealed weapons, not just firearms, in the fifty states and the territories of the United States. Should you be sent abroad on duty, you’ll be provided with other weapons authorizations.
“Also in the envelope is a copy of your commission, and you will return that to me to be placed in your service record. Also in the envelope is a box of five hundred business cards. Generally speaking, you are not to identify yourself as a CIA officer unless circumstances demand it, but if you must, you’ll have these two means of identification. The phone number on your business card is a Washington number, but any calls you receive will be routed to an electronic mailbox or to your local number, upon your instructions.
“Also in the envelope is a card with a New York City address and a street map showing its location. You will present yourselves at that address by three p.m. today. Your car, if you own one, will be garaged in the basement of the building, and you will be temporarily housed there until other arrangements are made. Memorize the address and phone number and the directions, then return the card and map to me.
“Sally Liu,” he said to Harry Three, “you will ride with Holly Barker and her dog in her car. William Knox, you will take Harvey Kite and Jennifer Fox in your car.
“We’re done here, so now you are to go to the armory, where you will be issued appropriate weapons. Within certain limits, you’ll be allowed to choose them. Thank you, good luck and goodbye. Make us proud of you.” The man gathered up the envelopes and left the room.
“Sally Liu,” Holly said, “I’m Holly Barker.” She introduced herself to the other three and memorized their names.
“What kind of piece are you going to ask for?” Sally asked as they left the main house and walked toward the armory.
“I don’t know, really; I brought a handgun with me.”
They walked into the armory to find Sarge, their firearms instructor, waiting for them.
“I hear you folks are headed for some active duty,” he said.
“If you say so, Sarge,” Holly said.
“What do you want to pack, Holly?”
“I’ve already got my nine-millimeter; how about something smaller for backup?”
Sarge went to a drawer and came back with a tiny, black pistol and a metal tube. “Seen one of these?”
“At a gun show once.”
“It’s a Keltec .380 that has been reworked by technical services and fitted with a silencer, which they made for us.” He reached into another drawer. “Take an ankle holster and a pocket holster for it. You happy with your gun leather?”
“Yes,” Holly said.
“How about a knife?”
Holly grimaced. They had had training with knives, but Holly found them distasteful.
Sarge chuckled and handed her a black switchblade. “Take this,” he said. “You never know.”
Holly dropped the knife into a pocket and signed for her weapons.
“Good luck, kiddo,” Sarge said. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Sarge.”
“If you ever get tired of fieldwork, we can always use you on the Farm.”
“Thanks.” She took her weapons and walked slowly toward the car, where Daisy waited for her.
Sally Liu caught up with her in the parking lot. “I can’t believe we’re out of here,” she said, hoisting her bags into the back of the Cayenne, next to Holly’s.
“Neither can I,” Holly said. “I had been expecting at least a few more weeks of training. I hope we know enough.”
She got into the car and started it,
and Sally climbed in.
“My pulse is up,” Sally said, holding three fingers to her neck.
“So is mine,” Holly said. She put the car in gear and headed for the gate.
TWENTY
TEDDY SPENT THE DAY at home, resting after his Herculean efforts to make and deliver the bomb, and flipping from channel to channel on TV, watching the reports that came in. Before dinner, he called Irene on her secret cell phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s Mike. Are you indoors?”
“Yes.”
“Walk out into your garden before you speak again.”
There was a thirty-second pause; then she came back on the line. “I’m outside.”
“Have you watched the TV reports?”
“Yes, and there’s talk of nothing else at the office.”
“I succeeded beyond my dreams, let me tell you. I think there may already have been explosives in the house, and my device set them off.”
“That’s what they figure at the office, too. There’s something else.”
“What?”
“They think they know who did it.”
“Are they right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I expected they would figure it out.”
“They’re changing all the entry codes for the computer databases,” she said. “It won’t be possible to call in and download without them.”
“Can you get them for me?”
“I think so; it may take me a few days.”
“Be careful. Don’t put yourself at risk.”
“It’s worth a risk, if you can keep doing this sort of thing. Can you imagine the mess if those people had been able to pull off what they were planning?”
“I’m glad to have been able to stop them, but it’s equally important to me that you not be found out. Please respect my wishes in that regard.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll be careful.”
“I’ll check in with you before or after work in a day or two, to see if you’ve made any progress.”
“Okay. I’ll do the best I can.”
“It was good talking to you. Goodbye.” He hung up. Any doubts he may have had about whether they were onto him had now been resolved. “Okay,” he said aloud, “the game is on.”
HOLLY PASSED THE FRONT of the building she had been looking for in the east Forties, turned onto the steep ramp leading down to the garage and was stopped by what appeared to be a heavy steel door. There was an intercom box with a keypad and a bell button outside her window, so she rolled it down and pressed the button.
“State your name,” a metallic-sounding voice said.
“Holly Barker.”
“Are you alone?”
“No, Sally Liu is with me, and my dog, Daisy.”
“Read aloud the last four digits of your personal serial numbers; they’re on the back of your ID cards.”
Both women got out their cards, and Holly read the numbers.
“Proceed into the garage. You’ll be met and directed to a parking space. Step out of the car with your hands away from your body and stand still.” The steel door rolled up, and another, steel mesh door behind that rolled up, too.
Holly drove slowly into the garage and saw two men waving her into a parking space. She and Sally got out of the car and the two men searched them with electronic wands and took their firearms. “These will be returned to you upstairs,” one of the men said, “and your luggage will be delivered to your rooms. Please take the elevator to the lobby and report to the man at the desk.”
Holly, Sally and Daisy rode up two floors in the elevator and got out. They were in what appeared to be the lobby of an apartment building. Ahead of them in the marble-lined lobby was a reception desk, and two men in doormen’s uniforms were behind the chest-high counter.
“Good afternoon,” one of the men said. “Ms. Barker and Ms. Liu and, I believe, Daisy?”
“That’s right,” Holly said.
The man placed a clipboard on the counter. “Please sign in.”
Holly and Sally signed and noted the time of their arrival.
The man handed them keys. “Your rooms are on the sixth floor, and your luggage and weapons will be delivered there shortly, after your bags have been searched. There will be a meeting in the twelfth-floor conference room at five p.m. Please do not leave the building before that time.”
“I’ll need to take my dog outside for a couple of minutes,” Holly said.
“Very well, but stay within a hundred feet of the building and within sight of the doorman.”
They took the elevator to the sixth floor, which was like that of an ordinary apartment building, and found their rooms next door to each other. Holly’s room was a small studio apartment. She had a bedroom with a sitting area, a kitchenette and a bathroom with a shower. It was much like a medium-priced hotel room. The windows looked out onto Second Avenue, and she was impressed that she heard zero traffic noise.
She took Daisy downstairs and allowed her to relieve herself near the building, and when she came back, her bags had been delivered and her weapons were on the bed. She unpacked, then switched on the TV and watched reports of the bombing on the news channels until five o’clock. Then she collected Sally, and they rode up to the twelfth floor and were directed to the conference room, which contained a large table and two dozen chairs. The other three members of their team were there, and a moment later, looking tired, Lance Cabot walked into the room.
“Please be seated,” he said, “and we’ll begin the briefing.”
TWENTY-ONE
LANCE SAT DOWN WEARILY at the head of the conference table.
“Good morning,” he said. “Those of you who have just arrived, welcome to New York. Ladies and gentlemen of the FBI, welcome to the CIA.
“This building is the new headquarters of the New York City station of the recently formed counterterrorist arm of the directorate of operations of the Central Intelligence Agency. We bought the building when it was under construction and added many, ah, improvements. For instance, the exterior walls are clad with two half-inch layers of armor, one of steel, one of Kevlar. The exterior cladding and the interior drywall are installed over that; the windows facing the streets are two-inch-thick armored glass, so that you may feel safe in your beds. Those of you who do not already live in New York are being housed here temporarily, until you learn something of the city and are ready to move into quarters of your own choosing, which you may not choose until the location and other attributes have been approved by our chief of security.
“There is no smoking anywhere in this installation. Meals are served continuously in our own restaurant on the penthouse floor, one above us. Laundry and dry cleaning may be left at the front desk; there is a laundry room in subbasement one, and a garage in subbasement two. Communications, technical services and the armory are in subbasement three, well underground.
“The building is as secure as we can possibly make it, with cameras and audio pickups practically everywhere. You will be admitted to the building only after you have properly identified yourselves, and you are not to have visitors without a written pass from the chief of security’s office, which will not be given lightly.
“Each of you will be issued a rather special personal telephone which operates on both cell and satellite systems and which has a GPS capability, so that you can be tracked, when necessary. You are to carry it on your person at all times, set to vibrate, and you are never to turn it off, so carry at least two backup batteries. You are not to lose it; I hope that is perfectly clear.”
Lance took a deep breath. “Now, let me tell you why you are here. Last year a man retired from the technical services department of the Agency. I expect you’ve heard of him: his name was Theodore Fay.”
Everyone shifted expectantly in their seats.
“Teddy Fay was a genius at his work. At one time or another in a career of forty years or so, he worked in every division of tech services—documents, communications,
weapons, electronic surveillance—and he excelled in each one of them. For the last ten years of his career, he served as a tech services coordinator—an outfitter, as the field agents call them. It was his job to equip a field agent with clothing, documents, weapons, communications devices, maps—everything he or she could possibly need.
“When Teddy retired, he kept busy by faking his own death and disappearing from the face of the earth. At the same time, he caused to disappear every photograph and every record of his employment by the Agency that ever existed. After he dematerialized, he began killing people whose politics he disagreed with—all right-wing political figures. You’ve read about those killings, of course, and seen the TV news reports.
“Finally, or almost finally, he retreated to a well-prepared hideout on a Maine island, but the FBI tracked him there and surrounded the place. But Teddy also had a well-prepared escape route. He got out, walked to the little airfield on the island and flew himself out. At the behest of the FBI the president ordered two navy jets into the air to pursue him and force him down or shoot him down. Before they could accomplish their mission, Teddy exploded his own aircraft and himself with it.
“There the story was thought to have ended, but a search turned up fragments of the airplane that indicated that he had escaped. He stole some things from a vacant beach house, made his way first to Boston, then to Atlantic City, then he disappeared. The news of his survival has been kept secret from the public and most of the Congress, to avoid tipping Teddy off that he’s being pursued again.
“Yesterday, as you know, there was an explosion in a townhouse not far from here. Our people had the building under surveillance, and they photographed this man delivering a package and departing.” He pressed a remote control, and a series of photographs appeared on the screen. “We believe him to be Teddy Fay. He is about five feet, ten inches tall and weighs about a hundred and sixty pounds. He is balding, but often wears wigs, along with false beards and mustaches. He is otherwise hirsute, if his forearms are any indication. That’s all we’ve got. The photographs you are looking at are the only ones of him that exist, if indeed, they are of him.
