Hollingshead returned the salute. “Oh, do be at ease, Captain. As I was saying… fallout shelter, yes. Never used for that purpose, of course, and abandoned for years. When I needed a quiet little place to set up shop, I figured it would do. The walls are concrete six feet thick and it’s swept for listening devices every day. Can’t be too careful. I do apologize, Captain, but will you allow me to show you a seat? Time is rather… ah. Short.”
“Damn straight,” someone else said.
Chapel hadn’t noticed the bar’s only other occupant until he stood up from his chair. This one was much more what Chapel thought of when he imagined a high-ranking intelligence official. He wore the customary black suit, power tie, and flag pin. He had heavy jowls that made him look a little like Richard Nixon, and he stood a little hunched forward as if his posture had been wrecked by years of whispering into important ears.
The two of them, Hollingshead and this man, couldn’t have been less alike. But Chapel could tell right away they had the same job. Spymasters — the kind of men who were always behind the scenes pulling strings and counting coup. The kind of men who could start wars with carefully worded position papers. The kind of men who briefed the president daily, but who never let their faces show up on the evening news.
Chapel had been in intelligence long enough to know that you never, ever questioned or messed with men like that. You saluted and you said sir, yes, sir and you did what they said and you never asked why.
You couldn’t keep yourself from wondering, though.
“That’s Thomas Banks,” Hollingshead said. “CIA, though — shh! Don’t tell anyone I told you that.”
He gave that warm smile again and Chapel couldn’t help but return it. He found himself liking Hollingshead already.
Banks, on the other hand, was going to be a hard man to love — that was evident from his whole manner. “We need to get this started,” he growled. “We’ve already lost five hours. Five hours we’ll never get back.”
“Of course,” Hollingshead said. “As for your friend here, will he be staying?”
Chapel and both officials turned to look at Laughing Boy, who had taken up a position just to one side of the door. Laughing Boy didn’t so much as squirm under the scrutiny.
“He’s been cleared. Your man is, too, I assume,” Banks said. “What are his qualifications? Doesn’t look like much.”
“Captain Chapel’s a war hero, actually,” Hollingshead said. He went over to the bar and poured himself a glass of water. He raised one eyebrow at Chapel, but Chapel shook his head to say he didn’t need anything. “If you were to ask him about his past, I’m sure he would be unable to tell you a thing, and quite right. His entire service record and most of what he’s done since he came home is oh, quite classified. So I’ll have to sing his praises myself. He was one of the first to put, ah, boots on the ground as they say, in Afghanistan, as part of Operation Anticyclone.”
“What, that mess with the Taliban?” Banks asked.
Chapel had kept quiet about Afghanistan so long even hearing other people talk about it made him feel weird. He kept his peace, though — a captain didn’t speak to men at this level until he was spoken to.
“Hmm, yes. He was dropped into Khost Province with a number of Army Rangers. The idea was they would make contact with some highly placed mujahideen and arrange with them to support our incursion there. This was right after September eleventh, of course, when we still thought we had friends in the Khyber Pass. Chapel and his men grew beards to honor the local customs, and, more important, they carried briefcases filled with cash. The men he was supposed to meet with were, after all, the same men the United States had once armed and paid to fight the Soviets. That all happened on your side of the aisle, Banks, I’m sure you remember—”
“That was before my time,” Banks grunted.
“Of course. Of course,” Hollingshead said, waving away the protest. “The point is, Captain Chapel did his job and made contact. Sadly, the men he was meeting with had already chosen their path and decided the future lay with al-Qaeda. When the negotiations, ah, collapsed, the captain found himself on the wrong end of a rocket-propelled grenade. This unfortunately killed all the Rangers with him and left Captain Chapel badly wounded. His captors refused to give him medical attention until he told them every single thing he knew about U.S. troop movements in Afghanistan. He refused. By the time our boys rescued him, his arm had gone septic and had to be removed.”
“He’s a cripple?” Banks demanded.
“Look for yourself, Banks. He’s fine.”
“This is the best man you could find me? I guess on short notice—”
“Captain Chapel has my complete confidence,” Hollingshead shot back. His eyes flashed with anger. “He is exactly the man we need.”
“What’s he been doing since we scraped him up and brought him home?”
“Oversight on weapons system acquisitions. It should come as no surprise to anyone here gathered that the private firms we employ see defense contracts as an opportunity to rob America blind. Captain Chapel here is in charge of keeping an eye on them and bringing them to justice when they actually break the law.”
“So he’s a professional snitch,” Banks said.
Hollingshead sighed a little. “I prefer the term whistle-blower. The point is, simply, that you are looking at a man with Special Forces training, field experience, and a finely tuned mind for police work. Who, not least of all, knows how to keep a secret. Am I beginning to approach your idea of a satisfactory candidate?”
“Maybe,” Banks said. “Considering the desperate circumstances, and the sensitivity of the matter—”
“There’s certainly no time to find anyone else,” Hollingshead said, with those flashing eyes again. Chapel got the sense that for all his genial nature, Hollingshead loathed Banks with a passion. Banks just seemed like he hated everyone.
Hollingshead took a sip of his water. “Captain Chapel,” he said, “I’m afraid there’s no room for ceremony here. We need you to come work for us and I’m sorry, but you aren’t allowed to say no. As of this moment, you’ve been seconded to this office and I will be your new reporting officer.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Chapel said.
“And God help you, I’ve already got a job for you. God help us all.”
THE PENTAGON: APRIL 12, T+5:19
Hollingshead went behind the bar and pressed a button hidden among the whiskey bottles. On the far side of the room a shelf of books slid away to reveal a flatscreen monitor. It displayed the DIA seal, a stylized earth orbited by red ellipses and surmounted with a torch.
“This is going to be a quick briefing,” Hollingshead said. He sounded apologetic. “Since most of what we have is strictly need to know. I can’t stress enough how sensitive this mission is.”
Chapel wanted to ask why he was privy to it, then. He was hardly the man for a top secret mission, not anymore. But he kept his mouth shut.
“A little more than five hours ago — that would be ten past six in the morning — a person or persons unknown carried out an attack on a Department of Defense facility in upstate New York. At this time we suspect domestic terrorism.”
“It doesn’t matter why it happened,” Banks insisted. “Stick to the what.”
Hollingshead took another sip of water. “Very well. The purpose of the facility is classified, but I can tell you it housed seven individuals who were not allowed to leave.”
“Permission to ask for a clarification, sir?” Chapel said.
“Absolutely granted,” Hollingshead told him.