Hidden Order: A Thriller (13 page)

The longer he sat in the restaurant, the more relaxed he became. The more relaxed he became, the more his mind drifted, particularly to what had happened at the graveyard and he could feel the strings of arousal starting to be tugged. He was being pulled out to sea again. What he needed was some coffee.

Finishing off his second beer, his steered his legs out onto the street and into the early evening. Rush hour was already well under way. When he finally found a café it was staffed by wrung-out baristas watching the clock, eager to close up and get home for the evening. He ordered his coffee with a “black eye,” coffee-talk for two shots of espresso. As he had done in the Chinese restaurant, he paid in cash, and then exited the establishment.

He felt the caffeine hit his system faster than the beer. There was a pep in his step and he felt a buoyancy of spirit. Everything was going to be okay. He was actually looking forward to his assignment tonight. It was complicated, but not impossible. Every step had been mapped out in perfect detail. It was like making a cake. As long as you followed the recipe, you had nothing to worry about, and he
always
followed the recipe.

The vehicle and his supplies were stored in a dilapidated garage in East Boston. He spent an hour casing the neighborhood and an additional hour surveilling the garage before he approached.

The key to the padlock had been sewn into the lining of his jacket. Ripping part of the fabric, he removed it, and let himself in, closing and locking the door behind him.

He slipped a small flashlight from his backpack and cupped the head so as not to throw too much light. The white panel van was unlocked. Climbing in back, he did a quick assessment. Everything was where it was supposed to be.

Opening the lid of the large garbage can, he checked to make sure the final ingredient was in place. Squinting into the beam of his flashlight was a man, bound and gagged, with a two-day growth of beard.

He closed the lid and began to feel very excited as he laid out a blue jumpsuit and stripped off his clothes.

B
ETHESDA

M
ARYLAND

G
eneral George Johnson, Director of National Intelligence, lived in a modest colonial house near D.C. with his wife, an around-the-clock protective detail, and a French bulldog named Martin. Despite nearly two years of the detail that changed shifts every eight hours, the dog still went berserk every time someone showed up at the house.

For the security-minded, this might have been viewed as a positive. General Johnson, though, saw his wife’s dog as a colossal pain in the ass. Even before they had rung the bell, Lydia Ryan and Bob McGee could hear both the dog and the DNI barking from inside the house.

“Damn it, Marty! Quiet!” Johnson shouted at the bulldog. “Carol! Come get this damn dog!”

A solidly built man in a dark suit opened the door. Behind him, the DNI was trying to corral the little bulldog with his foot in order to prevent him from charging the visitors. “Sorry about this,” Johnson said as he beckoned his guests. “Please come on in.”

“I told you, you should have gotten a Rottweiler,” McGee said as he stepped inside.

“I’ve got several already,” he replied, gesturing at his security men
standing in the foyer. “And I haven’t caught them once going on the rug,” he cracked before yelling for his wife again, “Carol!”

The DNI’s assistant stepped out of the living room. “I’ll take him upstairs, sir,” he offered, bending down and scooping up the dog. Instantly, Marty’s bark turned into a growl.

“Be careful, Stu.”

“It’ll be okay, sir.”

“Sure it will,” Johnson said with a smirk as his assistant began climbing the stairs. “I’ve got a hundred bucks that says he bites you.”

“He’s not going—” the assistant began just as the dog nipped him in the hand.

“Told ya,” the DNI said with a laugh as he walked over to shake hands with his guests.

McGee introduced Ryan and then General Johnson invited them to follow him to his den.

“Can I offer either of you anything?” he asked, “Coffee? Soft drink?”

“Coffee would be good,” said Ryan, still feeling jet-lagged from her trip. “Thank you.”

“Got any bourbon?” replied McGee.

“I’ve got plenty. Up or neat?”

“Neat, please.”

“They say consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds, Bob.”

“Actually,” McGee corrected, “they say
foolish
consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. There’s nothing foolish about a man loving bourbon. Unless, of course, that man starts including ice cubes in his glass. Ice is a crutch.”

The DNI was a short, broad-chested fireplug of a man in his early sixties, with a bit of a paunch and thinning gray hair. It was after-hours, and he wore khakis and an oxford shirt. He laughed good-naturedly at McGee’s joke as he busied himself at his wet bar pouring a cup of coffee for Ryan and a drink for himself and McGee.

By the time he was done, his assistant, Stuart, had finished taking the dog upstairs and had joined them in the den, along with a laptop, two legal pads, and a file folder. The DNI asked the security men to wait outside and had Stuart close the door behind them.

As the DNI handed his guests their drinks, he introduced them to his assistant, assured them that they could speak freely in front of him, and then asked everyone to sit down.

The den was tastefully decorated with hunting prints and wood paneling. There were brown leather couches with plaid accent pillows, two green club chairs, skirted end tables, a brass coffee table, and a large wooden desk.

Accepting a pad and pen from his assistant, the DNI took his seat and stated, “Stu needs to be home in time to watch the
Dog Whisperer,
so let’s discuss why we’re here.”

General George Johnson had served in the United States Army with considerable distinction. His outstanding career had begun in Vietnam, where he had received multiple commendations for bravery and gallantry. He went on to lead the First Infantry Division through several conflicts, and was transferred to head the Army’s Intelligence Support Activity. His pragmatic understanding of not only warfare and tactics, but also espionage and diplomatic relations, eventually secured him a spot on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, where he helped advise the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Council, and the President on all matters military. Based on his performance there, he was chosen to run the National Security Agency, before being tapped for his current position as Director of National Intelligence.

McGee had given Ryan the man’s entire background on the drive from Camp Peary. He and Johnson had worked together many times in the Army and had developed a good friendship. When Ryan asked her mentor what favor the DNI owed him, McGee only said, “We both owe each other a few debts that neither of us will ever be able to repay.”

The solemnity with which he spoke told her the debts very likely involved tremendous sacrifice and possibly, human life. She didn’t push for more information.

“As this is Lydia’s baby, so to speak, I think she is the best person to lay it all out,” McGee said, leaning back and giving his protégé the floor.

Ryan gave a brief history of her background. As she did, Johnson’s assistant handed him a copy of her file. But unlike most she had met in the
intelligence world, the DNI didn’t attempt to multitask. He set her jacket aside and gave her his undivided attention. That impressed her.

When she was done explaining everything that had happened, she handed him the file Nafi Nasiri had given her. General Johnson didn’t bother to open it. There was no reason to believe it didn’t contain everything the CIA operative had told him it did.

Lydia Ryan had delivered a purely clinical recitation of the facts as they were believed to be known. Now the DNI wanted to know what she
thought
. What was her gut, her experience, telling her?

“I know Nasiri. I don’t think he or the Jordanians are bluffing.”

“What about this former supervisor of yours back at Langley?” the DNI asked, glancing at his notes. “This Phil Durkin. Could
he
be bluffing?”

“Absolutely,” McGee interjected. “The guy is a frickin’ weasel.”

The DNI held up his hand and turned his attention to Ryan. “What do
you
think?”

“Did Durkin shut down the program like he said he did? Maybe. But if he fired everyone else, why keep me? I didn’t screw up as bad as the rest of them, but I certainly made my share of mistakes. They could have easily built a case against me, too,” she stated. “But they didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe because Durkin was interested in me. But if that’s true, why didn’t he try to use it to his advantage? Why not offer to save my career in exchange for sleeping with him? I wouldn’t have done it, of course.”

“Of course not. But it’s still a good question.”

“Which doesn’t have an easy answer.”

The DNI looked at her. “If you had to come up with some sort of explanation for all of this, what would it be?”

“Easy. He never shut that program down. He simply moved it off the books and into the shadows. I got to keep my career with the CIA, just in a different capacity. The other members of my team got to keep their careers, too, but for that to happen, the program had to go full black.”

“But why compartmentalize you off? Why not send you into the shadows with them?”

Ryan shrugged. “I’ve run that through my mind a thousand times.
The only thing I can come up with is that it was a pride thing with Durkin. He’d been tasked with bringing the team to heel. As a last-ditch effort, he assigned me to them as the Girl Scout who would get them in line. If I had been fired, it would have been yet another example of his bad judgment.”

The DNI nodded. “Agreed. What bothers me the most, though, is Durkin’s apparent lack of interest in the plot the Jordanians claim to have uncovered. While I don’t like the fact that they’re trying to horse-trade with us intelligence-wise, I understand it. Durkin should, too.”

“Well, sir, if he did in fact shut the team down as he claims and now they have popped back up, it could be a real source of professional embarrassment for him,” Ryan stated, more in an attempt to figure out Durkin’s motivations than to defend him.

“You know what’s even more embarrassing?” the DNI retorted. “Allowing a terrorist attack to happen on American soil because you’re too proud to admit that you screwed up.”

The man was right. Ryan didn’t try to offer any more insights on Durkin.

The DNI tapped his pen against his legal pad. “We have a public trust to live up to. We’re accountable to the American people. It’s our job to keep them and the country safe. We don’t have the luxury of playing chicken in our line of work, not when the stakes are as high as they are. This guy Durkin is either unqualified for his position, or he’s hiding something. Both of which greatly concern me.”

Ryan and McGee knew they shouldn’t speak. The direction the DNI planned to take was already forming in the man’s mind. At this point, he was simply trying to figure out the best way to get where he wanted to go.

“If word gets back to the CIA director about this, he’s going to want
both
of your heads on a pike. He’s a real stickler for chain of command. And I don’t blame him,” said the DNI, “but I understand why you wanted to bring it to me. There may, though, be a way around this.”

Turning to his assistant, he then said, “What kind of channels do we have open with the Jordanians?”

“What are you thinking?” the assistant replied.

“I’m thinking if we can plug into Nasiri’s boss, or even better the King
himself, we’ll not only be able to smoke out whether or not Nasiri is telling us the truth, but we’ll convey back to them how seriously the United States is taking this matter.”

The assistant nodded. “It would also provide you an opportunity to lean on them for more information than what Mr. Nasiri has already provided Ms. Ryan.”

“Agreed,” the DNI said. “Which brings us to the other issue we need to deal with.”

“The destabilization team,” Ryan offered.

General Johnson nodded. “Agree or disagree with the politics, the President has been abundantly clear that he supports the Arab Spring. He has also been adamant that we not influence the outcome. He sees this as an organic, democratic process that must be allowed to ‘bloom,’ as he says.”

McGee shook his head.

“Like I said,” the DNI repeated, “agree or disagree with the President’s position, this is his call. That said, there appear to be two potential things happening here. Either Durkin’s old team has reconstituted and is operating on behalf of someone else, or Durkin and others at the CIA are running the team in direct contradiction of the President’s orders. Whatever the answer is, I want to know. And I want to know as soon as possible.”

Ryan looked at him. “How do we make that happen?”

General Johnson turned back to his assistant. “Can we come up with a way to requisition Ms. Ryan away from the CIA for a little bit?”

“Probably. What do you have in mind?”