Текст книги "Independence Day "

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

9

DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY (DIA)

JOINT BASE ANACOSTIA-BOLLING

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Will Parizeau sat in front of a pair of brightly lit plasma screens arrayed in a slight concave atop a long steel desk. Parizeau’s bespectacled eyes darted back and forth between the two screens. A look of concern adorned his youthful, ruddy face as his eyes raced between the screens. Then came a look of fear. His mouth opened slightly. His eyes bulged.

“Sweet Jesus,” he said aloud.

On the left screen was a grid displaying four satellite images. On the right was a wall of numbers plotted against a spreadsheet.

Parizeau was a senior-level analyst within the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Directorate for Science and Technology. Employing radar intelligence, acoustic intelligence, nuclear intelligence, and chemical and biological intelligence, the DIA detected and tracked fixed or dynamic target sources, such as nuclear weapons. If the National Security Agency was about scouring e-mails, phone calls, Internet traffic, and other signals intelligence, looking for bad people who might do harm to the United States, DIA was about scouring the earth for the objects those bad people might use in those efforts.

Parizeau’s desk sat in a cavernous, windowless, dimly lit room two floors belowground, in a respectable if unspectacular-looking brick building. It was one of several old, well-maintained buildings, built in the 1920s, on a 905-acre military base in southwest Washington, D.C., called Fort Bolling. Parizeau was one of more than a hundred analysts, all surrounded by visual media, and all of it related to nuclear weapons deemed vulnerable to theft or purchase by terrorists.

Parizeau’s job was to keep track of all suspected nuclear weapons inside the former Soviet republic and now sovereign nation Ukraine. DIA believed that four nuclear devices still were hidden in Ukraine, their existence denied by both the Ukrainian and Russian governments, and yet their telltale chemical signatures were like beacons to the highly purposed satellites that hovered in geostationary orbit looking down.

When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, tens of thousands of nuclear weapons were at risk all over the newly independent breakaway republics. Due to geography, these small countries now owned nuclear weapons. Impoverished regional governments, often run by peasants and farmers, suddenly possessed a variety of valuable objects; nuclear weapons were at the top of the list. Indeed, they were the list.

Several years of negotiations between Russia and the West ensured that all Soviet nuclear weapons were accounted for and in safe storage. So concerned with the chaotic approach of the Russian government to its nuclear arsenal, America decided that it would be prudent to “invest” more than $300 billion in an effort to help Russia secure its own nukes. But even with the massive bribe, a few weapons went missing.

Behind the complex negotiations between the United States and Russia to safeguard the rogue bombs, there lurked a more alarming set of negotiations between Russia and its former republics. On the one hand, Russia wanted the United States to think they had the power to bring all of the weapons back into the fold. On the other hand, Russia had a smorgasbord of newly created republics, independent of Russia, that wanted a cut of the U.S. bribe. In the end, America bought—for Russia—its own weapons back from the republics. It was inevitable that some bad characters, in places like the Ukraine, would keep a few for themselves.

Ukraine had officially handed over all nineteen hundred of its nuclear weapons in 1994, giving them to the Russian Federation in exchange for its sovereignty and a variety of economic concessions, forgiveness of debts, and cash. A discrepancy of four out of the nineteen hundred had never been fully explained by either the Ukrainian government or Russia. It had taken technology and nearly two years to pinpoint the telltale tritium emissions and locate the four rogue weapons. Ever since then, it was Parizeau’s full-time job to monitor the supposedly nonexistent Ukrainian-domiciled nukes.

Parizeau relied on an advanced communications satellite operated by the U.S. Air Force, one of five that hovered in geostationary orbit above the earth. Parizeau spent his time tracking a variety of telltale chemical and biological symptoms, including plutonium depletion, keeping an eye on the nuclear devices.

It was a scan fewer than twenty-four hours old that Parizeau now stared at, transfixed. What the numbers showed was that one of the nuclear bombs in the Ukraine had been moved. In fact, it had disappeared.

Parizeau picked up his phone.

“Get me Mark Raditz over at the Pentagon.”

*   *   *

Mark Raditz, the deputy secretary of defense, sat behind his desk on the second floor of the Pentagon. His phone buzzed.

“Mark,” said Raditz’s assistant, Beth. “Will Parizeau is on one.”

“Who?”

“Will Parizeau. Ukraine desk at DIA.”

“Put him through.”

Raditz flipped on a tan plastic device that looked like a large radio. It was an air filtration machine. He opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a pack of Camel Lights. He stuffed a cigarette between his lips, then lit it. He sat down on his large red leather desk chair, leaned back, and put his cowboy boots up on the desk.

“What is it, Will?” asked Raditz, crossing his legs, yawning slightly. “How’s the Ukraine these days?”

“We have a rover,” said Parizeau.

Raditz was still for a brief instant, then lurched up and leaned over the phone console on his desk.

“Come again?” Raditz said.

“There’s a nuclear bomb missing. This is one of four devices we believe Ukraine still possesses.”

“Where and when were the last hard readings made?”

“As of four days ago, the two bombs we believe to be housed at a warehouse south of Kiev were both present and accounted for. Plutonium depletion levels have dropped by fifty percent as of two this morning. One of the bombs is gone, sir.”

Raditz took a last puff on his cigarette. He lifted his left foot and stubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot.

“Will, I’m about to walk into Harry Black’s office across the hall from mine,” said Raditz, referring to the secretary of defense. “In turn, Secretary Black will call the president of the United States. Are you one hundred percent goddam motherfucking absolutely sure your math is correct?”

“Yes, I am.”

Raditz took a deep breath.

“Stay on the line,” he said. “I want to patch in interagency.”

Raditz hit another button on the phone.

“Get me Josh Brubaker over at the White House,” Raditz told his assistant. “Then get Torey Krug at EUCOM. I also need Hector Calibrisi, Piper Redgrave, and Arden Mason. Better get Sarah Greene at 4th Space Operations Squadron too. Hurry.”

“Is everything okay, Mark?” Beth asked, fear in her voice.

Raditz paused and stared at the phone.

“No. Everything is not okay.”

*   *   *

Within eight minutes, a dedicated, highly secure communications link had been established among the Pentagon, the Defense Intelligence Agency, Langley, the National Security Agency, Joint Special Operations Command Eurasia Directorate, 4th Space Operations Squadron, the Department of Homeland Security, and the White House.

Raditz and Parizeau were joined by Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Greene at Schriever Air Force Base. Greene was in charge of all Milstar satellites, commanding the hardware group from a highly secure facility located inside a mountain a few miles outside Colorado Springs. They were joined by General Torey Krug, commander of the United States European Command, one of nine Unified Combatant Commands of the U.S. military. Piper Redgrave, the director of the National Security Agency, hopped on a moment later. The head of the Department of Homeland Security, Arden Mason, called in from the border of Mexico. Last on was Calibrisi, who was joined by Bill Polk, who ran National Clandestine Services for the CIA.

A variety of other senior-level staffers from the different agencies were on as well. Finally, Josh Brubaker, White House national security advisor, came on the line from the West Wing.

“Hi, everyone,” said Brubaker. “What do we got, Mark?”

“Ukraine,” answered Raditz. “We have a nuclear device that’s on the move. Will, give everyone the details.”

“Milstar night scans picked up material geographic displacement,” said Parizeau, “signifying the movement of a nuclear device. This is an RDS-4, one of the so-called Tatyana bombs, made in 1953, approximately thirty kilotons. It’s an old bomb, relatively small and light, originally designed to drop from a plane and take out a submarine. It would, if detonated, destroy a big area. Most of Manhattan. All of Boston. This is not a tactical weapon; we’re talking about the real deal here.”

“How long ago did the scans degrade?” asked Brubaker.

“The last hard reading from Milstar was three days ago,” said Parizeau. “It could’ve been moved at any point during that time.”

“Is this one of the devices controlled by former Ukrainian military?” asked Calibrisi.

“That’s right. General Vladimir Bokolov.”

“Piper, get Bruckheimer on that immediately,” said Calibrisi, referring to Jim Bruckheimer, who ran the NSA’s Signals Intelligence Directorate. “We need to find Bokolov.”

“I’m on it,” said Redgrave.

“Will, how long to break down the bomb and harvest the physics package?” asked Polk.

“Why is that relevant?” asked Brubaker.

“It’ll determine how they’re moving it,” said Polk. “If they can pit it in a few hours, the bomb will be light enough to stick in a pickup truck. If that’s the case, then trying to find it is a waste of time.”

“It would take at least forty-eight hours to execute a clean removal of the physics package,” said Parizeau.

“So what does that mean?” asked Brubaker.

“It means they’re going to get it to water as quickly as possible,” said Polk. “The alternative is going inland in a semitruck that will be Geigered at the border. They’re not going to risk doing that.”

Raditz moved to the wall, where a large plasma screen lay dark.

“Will, can you live-wire what you’re looking at? Put it on IAB thirty-three. Put it on everyone’s screen.”

A moment later, a strikingly colorful three-dimensional horizontal map of Ukraine splashed onto Raditz’s plasma screen, along with the screens of everyone on the call.

“That’s Kiev,” said Parizeau, narrating, focusing in on a line of lights.

Near the top of the screen, just above a red digital line representing the atmosphere, was a flashing red, white, and blue object, which represented the U.S. Milstar satellite.

“Are we watching this in real time?” asked Polk.

“Yes,” said Parizeau.

“Spotlight the routes on every road to the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov,” said Polk.

Suddenly, a spiderweb of yellow lines branched southeast from Kiev. These were the roads leading to the coast. There were at least a dozen different roads heading to the water.

“Will, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re able to focus in on these devices because of radioactive emissions, right?” asked Raditz.

“Plutonium, uranium, or tritium.”

“Can you look at a moving truck and get an accurate enough reading to detect it?” asked Raditz.

“It would take a decent amount of luck, to be honest,” said Parizeau.

“What’s a decent amount?”

“One in a thousand. The movement of the truck dissipates the strength of the radioactive emissions. We readjust to try and compensate by looking for a lower reading, but we don’t know how fast or slow the driver is going. So we’re probably going to be wrong.”

“Not to mention any sort of cloaking measures they might employ to hide the imprint,” added Calibrisi.

“If their only option is getting it out of the country by water, let’s send everything to the coast,” said Raditz. “I want every satellite we have close to the theater focused on finding that nuke. Repurpose any assets we have in the sky over Belarus, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, and Moldova. Immediately. Blanket the ports, especially Sevastopol and Odessa.”

“Should we inform Russia?” asked Brubaker.

Silence took over the call. It was a tricky question.

On the one hand, the Russian Federation might be able to help stop the people who had the bomb. Russia would have a deeper knowledge of the players in the area to draw on.

On the other hand, a deep mistrust inhabited the upper echelons of America’s military and intelligence infrastructure. After all, Russia had spent decades denying the existence of the four nuclear devices inside Ukraine. In addition, Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin, was a former top-level assassin within the KGB. Deep down, beyond all the diplomatic words, all the summits and state dinners, the United States and Russia hated each other. For many in Russia, the loss of the Cold War stung every bit as much today as it did then, perhaps more so.

Calibrisi spoke first.

“No way do we tell Moscow,” the CIA chief said. “That’s a recipe for wasting a lot of time and energy that could be used to find this bomb. We ask for help, they deny the existence of it, we’re forced to try and prove our case that there are still nukes inside Ukraine, and all of a sudden we will have burned three days trying to win a debate instead of hunting this thing down.”

“I disagree,” said Mason, secretary of homeland security. “We should tap into their knowledge base immediately. This is not just America’s problem. It’s everyone’s problem.”

“General Krug,” said Brubaker, “any thoughts?”

“We’re way behind here,” said Krug. “If this bomb went missing four days ago, it’s through the Bosphorus Strait by now and probably most of the way across the Mediterranean. I wouldn’t bother with Russia, Ukraine, or anything other than the nine-mile stretch of ocean between Gibraltar and Tangier. If they make it past Gibraltar, they will enjoy open ocean all the way to the U.S. East Coast. There are simply too many boats and too much ocean.”

“What do you look for?” asked Raditz.

“We should assume they’re sophisticated enough to know they’re being watched and spectragraphed,” said Krug. “They’ll need a vessel that blends in and also is able to make a transatlantic crossing. My guess is they’re on some sort of deep-sea fishing trawler, a few hundred feet long. There are literally hundreds of thousands of them floating around. I think we need to get UAVs over the Strait of Gibraltar immediately, along with whatever warships we have at Naval Station Rota in Spain. SEAL Team 6 has some men at Rota as well, and I’d position them in fastboats.”

“How long to get everything in range?” asked Raditz.

“A few hours.”

“Get them moving.”

“I suggest we run this out of Langley,” added Krug.

“Why Langley?” asked Brubaker.

Krug cleared his throat.

“Because the truth is, if they make it past Spain, it becomes an intelligence operation,” he said. “Bill, you might as well start involving yourselves now.”

“I hear you,” said Polk, “and we’re ready to fill that role. I’ll have Control set up a secure uplink.”

“I’ll get the ships, SEALs, and drones moving,” said Krug. “Josh, you got anything else?”

“No, not at the moment. Let’s reconvene in an hour.”

Piper Redgrave, head of the National Security Agency, spoke up.

“I need to interrupt here,” she said. “I have to bring something to everyone’s attention that could be related.”

“Piper,” said Brubaker, “tell me it’s something good.”

Redgrave was silent for a few pregnant moments. She cleared her throat.

“We broke into a server we know to be run by an Al Qaeda tertiary in Damascus,” she said. “There is high-frequency chatter across the terror complex focused on a second major attack on the United States. They’re calling it ‘nine/twelve.’”

The conference call went silent.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Brubaker. “When were you going to elevate this?”

“We decrypted it half an hour ago,” said Redgrave.

Again, the call went silent.

“Mike,” said Brubaker, breaking the quiet, “we need to get the president up to speed. Bring Secretary Black with you. Brief him on the way to the White House. Hector, Bill: NCS has tactical command control. I want live protocols run in through Langley, then distributed across interagency in real time. The Milstar data is critical at this point. But it’s not as critical as the chatter. Piper: NSA has to dig deeper, and it needs to happen immediately. Open up PRISM, MYSTIC, ThinThread, and any other signals archives NSA has access to. We need to get to the bottom of this nine/twelve chatter and determine if it’s related to the nuclear device. God help us if it is.”

10

DIRECTOR’S OFFICE

LANGLEY

Calibrisi, Polk, and several other NCS staffers, analysts, and case officers were in Calibrisi’s glass-walled seventh-floor corner office when Calibrisi’s phone buzzed. It was Jim Bruckheimer from the NSA.

“Tell me you found Bokolov,” said Calibrisi.

“Yeah, we got ’em,” said Bruckheimer. “But we have something even better.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“We tracked Bokolov to southern France,” said Bruckheimer. “Fifteen minutes ago, he bought a forty-four-thousand-dollar Rolex Daytona at a jewelry store in Cannes. They must pay those Ukrainian generals well, huh?”

“Someone did.”

“That’s what we assumed, so we did a little more research. A month ago, Alexei Malnikov wired him eight million dollars from a Zurich bank account.”

Calibrisi looked at Polk. Both men knew Malnikov, along with his father, Yuri. Alexei Malnikov ran the largest criminal enterprise in the world. Langley had helped the FBI track down Malnikov’s father off the coast of Florida the year before, providing informal “off-log” support for the highly publicized arrest of the head of the Russian mob, a man now confined to a prison cell in Colorado.

“We scanned Malnikov’s bank accounts,” added Bruckheimer. “No significant payments were made to him. However, four days ago, he paid someone a hundred million dollars.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know. The account he wired it to isn’t there anymore. It’s almost as if it was created a half second before the wire, then disappeared.”

Calibrisi picked up his cell phone. He stepped to the corner of his office, out of earshot of the others.

“Control,” came the female voice.

“Get me John Barrows.”

*   *   *

A tall, gray-haired man was standing on the fringe of the seventeenth green of Augusta National Golf Club, watching one of his clients prepare to putt.

He felt a small vibration in his pocket. He wasn’t supposed to have his cell phone with him. It was strictly forbidden at Augusta. Yet certain phone calls were more important than being a member of the most exclusive golf club in the world.

Barrows watched his client, a businessman from Omaha, tap the ball. He glanced down at his cell as the ball rolled in a poetic curve across the ice-hard green.

:: CALIBRISI H.C.::

This was one of those phone calls.

Barrows lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Hector.”

“I need to speak with one of your clients.”

“I have a lot of clients.”

“He’s Russian.”

Barrows cut away from the green and walked toward a line of dogwood trees, looking about for anyone who might be watching him.

“I really don’t think my client is in any mood to do the head of the Central Intelligence Agency any favors,” said Barrows. “Being locked up in a windowless six-by-six cell has made him a little grumpy.”

“I’m not talking about Yuri,” said Calibrisi, his tone polite but unmistakable. “I need to speak with Alexei Malnikov, John. It needs to happen immediately.”

Barrows glanced at his client, who was walking toward the eighteenth tee.

“Are you prepared to work with me on a transfer of Yuri Malnikov to a more suitable facility?” asked Barrows.

“If I’m not on the phone with Alexei Malnikov in the next five minutes,” said Calibrisi testily, “he’ll be going to a place that makes Yuri’s cell look like a suite at the Four Seasons. Got it?”

“Stay by your phone.”

*   *   *

Alexei Malnikov stood on a terrace outside his suite at the Bulgari Hotel Milan, looking down at La Scala. He wore Derek Rose black silk pajama pants. In the darkness of the Milan evening, he was practically invisible, except perhaps to the woman inside the suite.

He’d flown from Moscow to Paris, then to Milan. Somehow, he thought that getting away from Moscow would ease his mind about the entire interaction with Cloud, but it hadn’t. He realized how quickly and precipitously his world could, and probably would, come crashing down around him.

His cell phone made a low beeping noise.

“Hello?”

“Alexei, it’s John Barrows. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“In exactly three minutes, your cell phone is going to ring. Answer it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know what you did, and I don’t want to know. But you need to answer the phone.”

“Who is it?”

“Hector Calibrisi,” said Barrows.

Malnikov shut his eyes.

“Why is he calling me?”

“Don’t bullshit me,” said Barrows. “And don’t attempt to bullshit Calibrisi. If you lie, no one can protect you. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s after you.”

“How do you know?”

“If he was, he wouldn’t have called me.”

“What is your advice, John?” asked Malnikov, a hint of anxiety in his voice.

“My advice? Be honest with him. There’s something going on here, and you’re involved. I have a feeling you know perfectly well what it is. The last guy you want to piss off is Calibrisi. You’ll disappear quicker than you can say ciao to that high-priced hooker in your bed.”

“How did you know—”

The phone clicked.

Malnikov took a deep drag on his Gitano. He walked into the hotel suite and picked up a red silk negligee.

“Get out,” he said, throwing the negligee at the woman in the bed. “Now.”

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. Then his cell buzzed. Malnikov lit another cigarette and stepped onto the terrace.

:: CALIBRISI H.C.::

“Hello.”

“Alexei, this is Hector Calibrisi.”

“What do you want?” asked Malnikov.

“I’m going to be very direct with you. You need to understand something. It’s not a threat, it’s just fact. The moment you acquired that nuclear bomb, you became a terrorist in the eyes of the United States government.”

There was a long silence on the phone. Malnikov stared down at the sidewalk.

“I’m not a terrorist,” he whispered.

“That remains to be seen. Do you want to help us?”

“Do I want to? Of course not. Will I? Yes.”

“Who has the bomb?”

“His name is Cloud. He’s a computer hacker. I don’t know his real name. He’s Russian.”

“Was the bomb delivered to one of the ports?”

“Sevastopol.”

“Is that why you paid him a hundred million dollars?” asked Calibrisi. “To take it off your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you buy it in the first place?” asked Calibrisi.

Malnikov tossed the remainder of his cigarette into the air, watching as it floated down toward the busy street a dozen floors below.

“Protection. A poker chip to play if I was ever in danger of being arrested.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know where he’s taking it?”

Malnikov paused.

“No. I asked what he was going to do with it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘something that should have been done a long time ago.’”

There was a pause on the phone.

“Interesting,” said Calibrisi. “That might be helpful. What about the boat? Did your people see the boat?”

“No. They delivered it to a parking area outside Sevastopol. His men had on ski masks.”

“How do you communicate with him?” asked Calibrisi.

“It’s always different. Phone, e-mail, or else he just shows up. It’s always initiated by him. Somehow, he knew about the deal with Bokolov.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wanted the bomb. I thought he was offering to buy it.”

“But you paid him?” asked Calibrisi. “A hundred million, right?”

“Yes,” said Malnikov. “Actually, he took the first fifty before we came to an agreement.”

“Brazen.”

Malnikov laughed mirthlessly.

“He’s a scrawny little fuck,” he said. “There’s evil behind his eyes. They say he helped disrupt American air traffic control systems on nine/eleven.”

Calibrisi was silent.

“He said you would come to me and seek my help. He said to tell you everything I know.”

Calibrisi paused.

“He told you to help us?”

“He was quite emphatic.”

“My God,” said Calibrisi. “What else did he say?”

“He said he was the one who supplied the information that enabled the U.S. to arrest my father.”

Calibrisi was silent on the other end of the phone.

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Do you have a photo of him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But you’ve met him, right?”

“Twice.”

“Stay on the line, Alexei. I’m going to bring in a sketch artist.”

*   *   *

Five minutes later, the CIA’s top sketch artist was seated in Calibrisi’s office, listening to Malnikov and drawing a portrait of Cloud as the Russian mobster described him over speakerphone.

Calibrisi glanced at his watch; he was supposed to be at the White House.

He stepped outside and looked at Lindsay, his admin.

“Is Pete back?” he asked.

“He’s waiting for you in two.”

“Is Dewey with him?”

Lindsay shook her head.

Calibrisi walked down the hallway to the conference room. Seated, Prada wingtips up on the table, was Pete Bond. He stepped inside and shut the door.

“How did Mexico go?” asked Calibrisi.

Bond had a blank look on his face.

“We accomplished the mission.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“He froze up,” said Bond, “just like you said he would.”

Calibrisi nodded.

“Where is he?”

“I dropped him off in Georgetown.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

Calibrisi turned to leave.

“Chief, you need to know something.”

“What?”

“Gant met us at Andrews. He was waiting for the plane to land.”

Calibrisi’s head turned sharply back to Bond.

“What?”

“He was waiting on the tarmac,” said Bond. “He asked for a first look on the debrief. Gave me a rash of shit.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t have done this, but I told him I report to Bill and he could get my brief from him.”

“That’s exactly what you should’ve done. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Calibrisi reached for the door, then turned.

“Bring him in,” said Calibrisi. “Whatever condition he’s in.”

Bond nodded at Calibrisi.

“Will do, J.P.”

Calibrisi walked to the fire stairs, then descended, two steps at a time, to the fourth floor. He moved down a curving glass-walled hallway to the offices of Josh Gant, deputy director of the CIA.

Unlike Calibrisi, Gant had a fancy set of offices, complete with a large entry foyer adorned with framed photographs of Gant posing with President J. P. Dellenbaugh.

Gant’s assistant stood up as Calibrisi marched into the outer office and brushed past her. He stepped into Gant’s office and shut the door.

Gant held his hand over the phone. Gant had on a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses. He was tan. His hair was brown and neatly coiffed. He had on a seersucker suit, a yellow button-down, and cordovan loafers.

“I’m on a call,” said Gant.

“Get off it.”

Gant stared at Calibrisi. He put the phone back to his ear.

“I’ll call you back.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Calibrisi.

“I was trying to convince my daughter not to change her major from economics to French literature, if you want to know the truth.”

“I’m talking about Dewey Andreas.”

“Sinaloa is in my matrix, Chief. You’re the one who assigned it to me, remember?”

“I’m talking about that psych eval you got Furr to order up,” said Calibrisi.

“He’s got a screw loose, Hector, and I don’t like it when NOCs have loose screws. You shouldn’t either.”

“I’m not going to dignify what you just said,” said Calibrisi, barely controlling his temper. “You stay the fuck away from Dewey. Do you understand me? What you did—using the Senate Intelligence Committee to try and build an incarceration order on Dewey, on U.S. soil—is against the law.”

Calibrisi noted a slightly surprised look on Gant’s face.

“You’re not trying to incarcerate him, are you?” said Calibrisi, studying Gant. “You want a hit order on the man who stopped Alexander Fortuna?”

“That’s absurd,” said Gant. “I don’t want him dead. I just want the right thing to be done. If that means sending Dewey back out in the field, great, I have no issue with that. It’s not personal. If it means removing him to a clinic for a few months, or years, until his value as a breach target is diminished, then that’s what I’m for. We’ve had two NOCs punctured in the last year. It has to stop.”

Calibrisi walked over to Gant’s desk.

“Either you stay away from Dewey, or I’ll call Dellenbaugh and tell him what his little political hack has been doing. You’ll go straight back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

Gant stared at Calibrisi.

“The president is aware of my concerns and my actions,” said Gant calmly.

Gant held up a small electronic recording device.

“In addition, you need to understand that if Dewey ends up going sideways, I’m documenting every single thing you’re doing to prevent me from stopping it.”

“You’ve been recording this—” said Calibrisi, momentarily stunned.

“EPPA 7664, section H91, paragraph 2,” said Gant. “‘All employees of the Central Intelligence Agency agree to certain waivers of constitutional rights, including the right not to be electronically recorded without prior knowledge and consent.’”

Gant paused, letting his words sink in.

“National Security Act of 1947,” Calibrisi shot back. “‘The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency may, in the discretion of the Director, terminate the employment of any officer or employee of the Central Intelligence Agency whenever the Director deems the termination of employment of such officer or employee necessary or advisable.’”

“‘In the interests of the United States,’” added Gant, finishing the citation. “An operator like Andreas could do a lot of damage to the United States of America.”

Calibrisi turned toward the door.

“One last thing, Hector,” said Gant.

Calibrisi paused at the door.

“Where is he?” asked Gant.

“Fuck you.”