“I see.” Rodgers took a short swallow of black coffee. Then another. “Ron Plummer is more qualified for my position than I am for his,” he said. “When do you want me to clear out?”
“Mike, we need to talk about this—”
“Talk to Liz Gordon. That’s what she’s here for.”
“No, you and I need to work this out,” Hood said. “I don’t want our friendship to end.”
The sentiment made Rodgers squirm. He was not sure why. “Look, don’t worry about it. I’m probably overdue for a change. The army will reassign me. Or maybe I’ll do something else.”
“Maybe we can outsource some of our intel or recon activities, work with you on scenarios for the crisis sims,” Hood said.
“I’d rather look at other options,” Rodgers replied.
“All right. But the offer stands.”
“Was there an offer?” Rodgers asked. “I heard a ‘maybe.’ ”
“It was an offer to try to find projects—”
“Busywork, you mean,” Rodgers said.
“No,” Hood replied. “Assignments for a uniquely skilled intelligence professional.”
Rodgers took a swallow of coffee and rose. He did not want to talk to Paul Hood right now. He had no doubt Hood fought to keep him. Perhaps he had even threatened to resign. But in the end, Hood chose to stay on and confront his “friend” with hard facts and cold efficiency. “When does the CIOC want me out of here?”
“Mike, no one wants you out of here,” Hood said. “If they did, we would have done this when Striker was officially disbanded.”
“Right,” Rodgers said. “It’s the position that’s being eliminated not the man. I’d like to resign rather than being downsized. That has a little more dignity.”
“Of course,” Hood said.
“How long will Plummer need to take my post?”
“Two weeks?” Hood guessed.
“Fine,” Rodgers said and turned to go.
“Mike—”
“I’m okay,” Rodgers said. “Really.”
“I was going to say that it has been a privilege working with you.”
Rodgers stopped. Screw this, he thought. He was a soldier, not a diplomat. He turned back. “Would it be a privilege to resign with me?” he asked.
“If I thought that would have changed Debenport’s mind, I would have done it,” Hood told him.
“As a maneuver,” Rodgers said. “A tactic. What about standing shoulder-to-shoulder as a point of honor?”
“To me, falling on my sword would be vanity, not honor,” Hood said. “It would be an act of surrender.”
“Backing a friend and coworker?”
“In this case, yes,” Hood said.
“Jesus,” Rodgers said. “I’m glad I didn’t have guys like you watching my ass in ’Nam. I’d be under a pile of rocks somewhere.”
“This isn’t combat, Mike. It’s politics. People fight with words and access. They don’t die. They get marginalized, they get recycled, they regroup. It’s the nature of the beast. Some people do it for ego, and some do it for principle. I took this job to serve the people of the United States. That is sacred to me. I won’t give it up to make a dramatic statement. One that won’t change a thing.”
“Is that how you view loyalty, Paul? As a dramatic statement? Was I just being dramatic when I helped save your daughter in the UN takeover?”
“That’s not fair,” Hood said. “We’ve been in the line of fire for people we don’t even know. We agreed to do that when we went to work here. We agreed to protect our nation and its interests.”
“I don’t need the sermon,” Rodgers said. “I’ve served the country for my entire adult life.”
“I know, which is why you should understand what it means to work for a government agency,” Hood said. “Op-Center has this much in common with the military. We are impacted by political trends and public whim. Whoever sits in this office has to work with whatever he is given. And with whatever is taken from him.”
Rodgers shook his head. “That’s what the Vichy collaborators did when they capitulated to the German invaders.”
Hood’s expression was no longer neutral. He winced, as though he had taken an uppercut square in the chin.
“I’m sorry,” Rodgers said. “I did not mean to imply that you’re a coward.”
“I know,” Hood said.
An uncomfortable quiet settled upon the room. Hood stood. He walked toward Rodgers and offered his hand. The general accepted it. There was surprising warmth in Hood’s handshake.
“If you need anything, let me know,” Hood said. “Or you can talk to Bob, if you prefer.”
“I’ll talk to you,” Rodgers said.
“Good.” Hood held on to Rodgers’s hand. “Mike, I need you to believe something. This place cost me my family. If it costs me your friendship, I’m going to have to live with that. If it costs me your respect, I’m going to have to live with that, too. But I want you to know that leaving here would have been easier than what I just did. You talked about loyalty. I did what I believe was right for Op-Center, not what was convenient or comfortable or even best for me.”
“I believe you, Paul,” Rodgers said. “I just don’t agree with you.”
“Fair enough,” Hood said. “But you need to know this, too. If there were a resistance movement fighting the CIOC, I would join it.”
“We can start one,” Rodgers said. “I’ll have some free time.”
“I doubt that,” Hood said.
“We’ll see,” Rodgers said and withdrew his hand. He felt much better having taken a swing at Hood’s piety. He saw the man’s point, but he still did not agree with it. Friends stood by friends. Period.
Rodgers left and went to his own office. Or rather, Ron Plummer’s office. He already felt uncomfortable here, like a noncom cleaning out the locker of a dead soldier. He forced himself to look beyond this, to the meeting with Senator Orr and whatever lay ahead.
A little anarchy, Rodgers hoped.
He was in the mood.
SEVEN
Hood was about to buzz Ron Plummer when his outside line beeped. He glanced at the Caller ID. It was his former wife. He did not feel like talking to her now. The conversations were usually difficult. Sharon was still bitter because he had not been around very much since they moved to Washington. Hood was angry because she had not supported the work he was doing at Op-Center. But none of that mattered. The call could be about the kids.
“Good morning, Sharon,” Hood said when he picked up the phone. He tried to sound pleasant.
“Hi, Paul. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” he said. Sharon sounded unusually relaxed.
“I need a favor,” she said. “You met my friend Jim Hunt.”
“The caterer.”
“The home party restaurateur, yes,” she said.
Hunt was someone Sharon had known for years, dating back to when she had her own cooking show. They used to have an occasional lunch together. Now the kids told him they were having frequent dinners together.
“His son Franklin will be studying poli-sci at Georgetown in the fall,” Sharon went on. “The school will give him college credit if he interns in a political institution over the summer. Is there anything he might be able to do at Op-Center? He’s a very sharp young man, Paul.”
Hood’s former wife, who had always resented the hours he spent at Op-Center, was asking him to help the son of her boyfriend get an internship there. And she happened to make her request on a day when Hood had been ordered to lay people off. Bob Herbert once said that CIA stands for Convergent Incongruities Abound. That certainly applied here.
“Does he have any particular interests?” Hood asked. He did not really care, but he needed to think for a moment. Did he really want to do this?