As always, Garrett looked morose. It wasn’t a matter of his mood, typically inscrutable. His flinty features exuded an unforgiving toughness. But the sagging skin beneath his pale blue eyes also suggested world-weary sadness, born of decades of ruthless victories and regretted losses.
“Thanks,” she said tentatively, taking her cue from his terseness.
Garrett glanced at her. “Boss didn’t rattle you.”
“Not particularly.”
He grunted. Looked back at the passing hills. She took that as another compliment.
“Lucky that asshole didn’t get you killed,” he added.
“Which one-Muller or Groat?”
He grunted again. In Garrett, that passed for knee-slapping laughter. The grunt turned into a cough. The man was an incorrigible chain smoker. The only thing keeping him from lighting up here and now was gentlemanly courtesy.
They were quiet while she finished reading the Post story about Muller’s arrest. The media frenzy about his chaotic airport takedown was to be expected. But a “high-level CIA source, speaking on condition of anonymity,” had leaked a few sensitive background details to a Post reporter, a guy to whom Agency higher-ups often fed self-serving propaganda. The most disturbing detail was that Muller was “being held for questioning by the Agency at an undisclosed location outside of Washington.” Garrett, who had scanned the paper first, circled that paragraph before he handed her the paper.
She folded and dropped it on the seat, then pressed back into the soft black leather. She was physically drained. Her right shoulder throbbed. She needed sleep badly. She turned to the passing landscape. A power line running parallel to the highway rose and fell rhythmically between poles, like the soothing pulse of a cardiograph. She struggled to keep her eyes open.
“You happy working for Randy, Ms. Woods?”
She looked at him; his face was unreadable, eyes forward. She thought about her supervisor in the Office of Security. “He’s a good guy to work for,” she said carefully. “And I like investigations.”
“You’re good at them. As everyone now knows.”
More compliments?
“Thank you, sir.”
“Please. Grant.”
“Okay. Thank you, Grant.”
A pause.
“I spoke to Randy about you last night,” he continued. “Says you’ve maxed out, as far as promotions in OS.”
“Yes. Unfortunately. Well, we don’t work at Langley to get rich.”
“Tell me about it.”
Another pause.
“Ever think of transferring?”
Where is this going?
“As I say, I like investigations. And, as you say, I’m good at them.”
“Well, it’s clear to us that your investigative talents are being wasted on stuff like background clearances. NCS certainly could use your skill set. In counterintelligence.”
It startled her. “That’s…very flattering, sir, but-”
“Grant.”
“Yes, sorry. Grant. Very flattering. But frankly, I don’t think I could stand working in CIC and having to suck up to Rick Groat every day.”
“I wasn’t talking about the Counterintelligence Center. I meant working directly for me.”
She shifted around to face him.
“Here’s my problem,” he went on. “Yeah, Groat is a royal pain in the ass. But I can’t get the Bureau to replace him. Long as he’s their liaison at CIC, my people there are hog-tied. They spend more time justifying what they do than just doing it.”
“Which is exactly why I wouldn’t want to be there.”
“Which is exactly why I wouldn’t want you to be there, either. I need somebody to function independently from the Center. To help me run special CI ops directly. The old-fashioned way.”
She knew exactly what he meant. Before ascending the food chain in National Clandestine Services-which veterans still called by its old name, the Directorate of Operations-Grant Garrett had been a legendary case officer, one of those “cowboys” that some congressmen despised and some Langley managers feared. But he survived because he got results, and he got results because he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.
She wondered why Garrett bothered to stick it out in a bureaucracy that was risk-averse to the point of paralysis. She thought she knew how. Randy once hinted to her in an unguarded moment that Garrett “had stuff on some guys on the seventh floor.” That didn’t surprise her. Garrett was a bare-knuckles guy, heir to the operational style that prevailed in the CIA’s predecessor agency, the OSS of World War II, under its legendary founder, “Wild Bill” Donovan. These days, Garrett was the only reason that Langley still produced any valuable HUMINT at all. They relied way too much on satellites and drones.
“Think of it this way, Ms. Woods-”
“Annie.”
He actually smiled. “Okay-Annie. Think of it this way. If we had a fully functioning counterintelligence section in NCS, we might have picked up something about Muller from the Russian side. But we don’t, and we didn’t. We were completely blindsided. That bastard has cost us dearly. Think of the officers and agents blown or killed. Strauss, Kilwalski, Sokolov, Malone, Ayyad. God knows who else.” He looked down at his hands, his expression even more dour. “I shudder to think what he’s fed to the SVR.”
“Let’s hope he tells us today.”
“Yes. Let’s hope. But over the longer haul, I still need to beef up our CI. And after this, I don’t know who I can trust anymore.” He lifted his eyes. Looked into hers. “Except somebody who’s proved her loyalty and competence.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve already taken the liberty to get Randy and the Corner Office to sign off on this-but only if you want it. Look, I know that CI officers aren’t the most popular people at Langley. But what you’ve done has won you lots of respect. Anyway, it would be a promotion and a considerable jump in pay. Down the road, it might lead to some foreign travel. Young woman like you, that could- Oh, that’s right. You’re married. I forgot. But no kids yet, right?”
She felt her lips tighten. “No. No kids. And no marriage anymore.”
She saw that it caught him off-guard.
“Sorry, Annie. That should’ve been in the file.”
She looked away, out the tinted window. Recalled Frank’s heart-stopping admission of his affair. The months since-a smear of ugly, painful images involving lies, leaving, and lawyers. Nothing she’d wanted to share with colleagues.
The Muller investigation had been a diversion, a blessed obsession that forced her to focus on betrayals less intimate. But the case was winding down. She’d no longer have the cushion of that distraction. She’d go home each night to the now-too-big Tudor in Falls Church. Lie alone in the now-too-big king bed.
“It’s okay. The divorce went through only a couple of months ago. I didn’t broadcast it.”
“I understand… Well. Maybe you don’t need another major disruption so soon. How about you sleep on it?”
She faced him again, forced a smile. “Thanks. I’m flattered. Really. I’ll think it over.”
Maybe another major disruption is just what I need.
FOUR
CIA safe house,Linden, Virginia
Tuesday, March 18, 10:15 a.m.
They turned off 66 at exit 13, just west of the small rural community of Linden, Virginia. Their limo followed close behind the lead car-a Grand Cherokee loaded with a security team and communications gear-onto Route 55, running parallel to 66. A short distance past the volunteer fire department and a bottling plant, they turned south onto a narrow side road posted “No Trespassing-U.S. Government Property.”
The road took them into the wooded hills. Within a couple hundred yards, they approached a guy standing at the roadside in jeans and a denim jacket. He spoke into a walkie-talkie as they passed. After about a mile, the road curved left into a tiny valley-a flat depression, really, between a couple of thousand-foot-high hills.
It dead-ended at the gate to a driveway that looped in front of a modern, three-story house. The gate was part of a white rail fence that surrounded the property, which looked to be about three or four acres. The house had multiple gables and was wrapped by a broad porch filled with scattered white wicker tables and chairs. A young woman in a green windbreaker and brown slacks sat in a rocker near the front door, a magazine on her lap. Not far from the house, a man in a plaid shirt was raking a patch of bare earth. Several smaller wooden structures stood not far from the main building. A gravel parking area held three vehicles; next to it rose a two-story, four-car garage.
Fearing that the Russians might now come after him to shut him up, Muller had insisted that his debriefing take place somewhere both secret and secure, but also away from Langley. When told about the Linden site, he quickly agreed. Garrett explained to Annie that the Agency had established this covert safe house four years earlier, after left-wing “journalists”-he pronounced the word with disdain-had blown the locations of other CIA facilities much closer to HQ, even posting detailed satellite photos on the Internet. But this one remained secret. Any lost tourist or deer hunter who wandered near the property would see little to arouse his suspicions before politely being sent on his way. There were no signs of security obvious to an untrained observer, but Annie knew better. The innocuous rustic rail fence would be loaded with sensors. She also noticed small communications antennae and multiple satellite dishes on the house and garage roofs.
Because of today’s special guest, security would be much tighter than usual. The woman on the porch and the man in the garden would be part of a detail of about twenty armed, highly trained members of the Office of Security. Most would remain hidden in the house, in the garage, and on the road leading to the residence. A sniper team would be perched on one of the hills overlooking the property. And their arriving convoy would add eight more officers to the protective detail.
As their lead car pulled up to the gate, the young woman on the porch stood and moved her hand onto the porch railing. The gate section blocking the driveway slid aside electronically, allowing them to enter. The Cherokee and their chase car peeled off toward the parking area, while their driver pulled their limo around to the front door.
“This,” said Grant Garrett, unfastening his seat belt, “should be interesting.”
*
“Why us?”
At the question, James Muller looked up from his cup of coffee, which was steaming in the surprisingly chilly room. His soft, almost cherubic features flowed into a smile. His hands were no longer cuffed, but a security officer stood nearby.
“Why me, anyway?” Garrett continued. “I know you’ve worked before with Ms. Woods. But you and I have never met. So, why do you want to talk only to her and me?”
They sat on sofas and stuffed chairs in the spacious, maple-paneled den of the safe house. In addition to the cool temperature, the room seemed dreary and impersonal, as if the home’s occupants had not yet fully moved in. Annie noticed that the big stone fireplace was unused; no metal tools around it that might be employed as weapons. Nor were there candy dishes, ashtrays, photos on the walls. Even the built-in bookcases were empty. Thick, bark-colored curtains were drawn over what she knew would be bullet-resistant, laminated windows.
Muller chuckled. “Why you? Because I want to tell my story to the best- that’s why. And you’re The Man. Nobody at Langley holds a candle to the great Grant Garrett.”
“So, do you want to talk, or do you want to be president of my fan club?”
Muller roared with laughter, sloshing coffee into the tan, high-pile carpet. “Sure, I’ll talk. I just figured it was only proper to tell my tale to the only people at Langley still worth a damn. You and Annie. You-because you’re the guy holding operations together. Annie-well, because fair’s fair. She’s the one who caught me.” He looked her up and down, grinning. “And because she’s hotter than hell.”
Annie had long ago pegged Muller as a narcissist, if not a sociopath. He loved every minute of the grandstanding and attention. She sighed, put down her cup, leaned forward.
“Think you’re flattering us?” she said quietly. “You sold out your country. You ended the careers and lives of some great people. So before we get down to specifics, you mind telling us why?”
He lost the grin. His pale blue eyes blinked rapidly. Narrowed into slits.
“Why. You want to know why. Well, maybe because after thirty years in the Company, doing damned good work, my pay still sucks. And maybe because that – plus all the nights and weekends, year after year-cost me my marriage. But hey, at least I could always take solace in the complete lack of recognition. Did you know I was security admin for the CI team that nailed Nicholson? That’s right, Nicholson. How could anyone do better than that? But what the hell did it get me?”
He began to rise from his sofa, but sat back down when the security officer stepped forward. He took a long breath. When he spoke again, he was subdued.
“Look at me. I’m fifty-three. And what do I have to show for it? My whole life is crap. I would’ve retired in a few more years. But to what? I’m alone. She took the kids, even the dog. I’m broke from the alimony. Where could I go? What could I do? Be a security guard at Wal-Mart?”
“So-you approached the Russians, not the other way around?”
Muller looked at Garrett and nodded. He tilted his cup to his lips and drained the last of the coffee.
“How long ago?” she asked.
“Three years, January.”
“Where? In D.C.?”
Muller nodded, put down his cup. “Okay, I’ll get into all of that. But look, I haven’t had a smoke for over twenty-four hours. I was so goddamn jittery last night I couldn’t even sleep.”
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“Come on, man, give me a break. Can’t we go outside?”
Garrett looked at Annie. “I could use one myself. Okay. Out on the porch.”
*
They went through the kitchen and out the back door, led by the security officer, who slipped on mirrored sunglasses and stepped down into the yard. Two more members of the detail followed, then fanned out to flank them. Annie donned her own sunglasses-a spare pair she kept in her car-before stepping out into the dazzling morning sun.
Garrett fished a pack of cigarettes from his suit jacket, flipped it open. Thumbed one out and between his lips. Then offered the pack to Muller.
The traitor held it up, displaying the familiar red bulls-eye label.
“Ha. Look at that. Luckies. Ironic, isn’t it?”
He shook out a cigarette and returned the pack.
The spy chief drew out a silver lighter. Fired up the other’s cigarette, then his own.
Muller stepped to the porch rail. She and Garrett moved to either side of him. She watched the prisoner take a deep drag. Hold it. Slowly release a white cloud from between his lips. It coiled and drifted off, then was torn away by a sudden gust. He leaned forward to catch the sun on his face. Braced his arms on the rail, the butt dangling from his lips.
“Damn, that’s good… Thanks. I was dying for a smoke.”
He squinted, looking up at the forested hillside rising before them.
“Pretty out here. I-”
A bee sound and hollow smackkk- an explosion of red mist and his face gone and warm spray hitting her face and hands-his body jerking back, legs buckling-a distant echoing crack-
“Down!”
Garrett diving over Muller’s collapsing body, slamming into her, knocking her down, sprawling across her-gasping, crushed under his weight-muffled shouts-pounding steps vibrating through floorboards pressed painfully against her skull-twisting her face under Garrett’s shielding arm-
Muller’s body. A few feet away. On its back. Face toward her, what was left of it, barely half of it, one wide pale blue eye staring at her, the other somewhere inside a ragged crater of crimson pulp.
Blood streaming from his mouth around the sm
oking cigarette, still clinging to his lower lip…
FIVE
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Wednesday, March 19, 4:30 p.m.
They gathered again around the table in the director’s conference room, at the end of a painfully long day that had begun the night before. Their purpose: to assess the magnitude of the national-security catastrophe.
Annie, arms crossed, shifted in one of the chairs against the wall. Feeling like hell, despite all the ibuprofen. Pulsing pain behind her right eye. Ribs aching when she breathed. Stiff left knee. Sore purple bruises on her right shoulder, forearm, both legs. She reflected that in the past two days, she’d tackled a guy, been slammed into by another, then knocked down by a third.
Most action I’ve had with men in almost a year.
She wished she felt like laughing about it.
Nobody in the room knew how the Kremlin had found out about the safe house.
“Maybe Muller learned about it somehow, then told them during the past year or so,” the FBI director ventured.
At the head of the table, the CIA boss rocked back in his gray leather chair. “Or maybe they trailed the transport team out to the site. We can’t be sure about anything right now.” He took off his rimless glasses, rubbed his eyes. “What have your people found out about the sniper or snipers?”
“I’ll let our special agent in charge, Steve Sully, fill you in on what we know so far.”
The red-haired, middle-aged man seated next to the FBI director took a sip from his water bottle, then spoke.
“Our investigators talked to the CIA’s protective sniper team, situated on the opposite hillside. Those guys never saw the shooter. He had set up to the southeast, almost directly into the morning sun from their position. The rest of the detail at the house couldn’t tell the precise direction of the sniper either. Not that it would have mattered. Our people triangulated from the witness reports, then did a grid search to determine his exact location. It was behind a fallen log up in the trees near the ridge line, over twelve hundred yards from the house. That’s over two-thirds of a mile.”
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