The president’s eyes canvassed each person at the table.
“I want a full-court press on this. Track down and apprehend the perpetrator and figure out who’s pulling the strings. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Christine replied, as did the others around the table. It wasn’t like they weren’t already trying their best, but the president had a point. They needed to do better.
“Any questions?” the president asked.
There were none.
“Keep me up to date.”
The president pushed back from the table. As he stood, he addressed Christine. “Stop by the Oval Office before you leave.”
Christine acknowledged and the president departed. After a few minutes discussing matters with the other directors and cabinet members, Christine left the Situation Room and stopped by the president’s secretary, inquiring about the president’s schedule.
After the secretary verified he was available, Christine entered the Oval Office to find the president seated behind his desk, framed by the tall colonnade windows overlooking the South Lawn and Rose Garden. He stood and greeted her as she entered, motioning toward one of the two couches instead of the three chairs by his desk, where she had sat countless times while discussing issues with him over the last three years. It felt odd being treated as a guest instead of a White House staffer.
The president took his customary place in a chair at one end of the two sofas as Christine took a seat.
“So, how do you like the new job?”
“There’s a lot to learn, but I’m getting the swing of things.”
“That’s good to hear.”
The conversation continued, covering nothing of much consequence until the president said, “The main reason I nominated you for CIA director is because you’re someone who’ll get to the bottom of things. Another reason is that you have no political ambitions I’m aware of, and likely to stay on as director for the long haul. I’d like you to consider staying in the job for as long as I’m president.”
“Five more years?” Christine smiled. The president was up for reelection next year.
“Of course,” he replied. “Five more years. As long as you manage to stay out of trouble.”
The president glanced at her wrists before briefly surveying her face.
She could tell he was searching for the scars left behind during her stint as his national security advisor, when she had found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time on more than one occasion. She was wearing a business suit today and the sleeves covered the marks on her wrists, while makeup adequately hid the faint scars on her cheek and neck.
“Oddly enough,” Christine replied, “since I’ve been director, I’ve gotten into far less trouble than when I was your NSA.”
“I hope things stay boring for you, at least at the personal level.”
Now that the pleasantries were over, the conversation shifted to business.
“Regarding Hill’s assassination, I have no doubt the trail will lead to a terrorist organization overseas. Pull out all the stops. Find out who’s responsible, and do what you can to help the FBI track down Mixell.”
Christine replied, “After we identify who’s responsible, I assume we’re to classify those involved as enemy combatants, dealt with appropriately?”
“Certainly,” the president replied.
“And if the CIA gets to Mixell before the FBI? What leeway do we have regarding interrogation?”
The president’s eyes searched hers for a moment before he replied, “I leave that to your discretion.”
4
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Christine O’Connor entered her spacious seventh-floor office after her return trip from the White House, still contemplating the information revealed in the Situation Room. She hadn’t let on during the meeting, but she’d been embarrassed, caught flat-footed by the revelation the ambassador’s assassin was Lonnie Mixell. The director of the CIA, head of an organization with a vast intelligence collection apparatus, had been unaware of that key fact during her first meeting with her contemporaries and before the president himself.
Upon reaching her desk, she activated the intercom to her secretary. “Are the DD and DDO in?”
“Yes, Miss O’Connor.”
“Have them meet me in my office.”
When the two men arrived, Christine motioned toward the round conference table, where Monroe Bryant, the agency’s deputy director, and Patrick Rolow, the deputy director for operations, took their seats. They must have sensed something in her demeanor, because the two men cast curious glances between them.
Christine joined them at the table, taking a few seconds to determine how best to proceed.
Finally, she said, “I just had an uncomfortable meeting at the White House.”
“In what way?” Bryant asked.
“Do you know who assassinated the ambassador?”
“We do now.”
“I was blindsided during the White House meeting. I’m the director of the CIA and I didn’t even know that the man responsible was someone I went to school with.”
Bryant replied, “When it comes to domestic issues, the FBI has access to more data and analysis resources. They’re going to discover information faster than we can.”
“I don’t want to hear excuses,” she said firmly. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
Neither man replied, and as they waited for further direction, Christine evaluated the two men seated before her.
In his late fifties, Monroe Bryant was your quintessential bureaucrat, one Christine found easy to read. In Bryant’s mind, Christine and the other CIA directors who rolled through Langley learned just enough to be dangerous, making well-intentioned but often damaging decisions. His self-ordained job was to manage the issues that rose to her attention, ensuring she did no harm.
On the other hand, Patrick Rolow, who went by PJ, was unreadable. The deputy director for operations was a man of average height, weight, and dress, blending into the background of almost any setting. That anonymity was more than a result of his unremarkable appearance. He had spent fifteen years in the field before rising quickly through the management layers in the Directorate of Operations, and in his late forties was one of the youngest DDOs ever.
As both men waited for Christine to continue, she regretted her harsh words — admonishing them for not informing her of Mixell’s role before the White House meeting. That the ambassador’s assassin was Mixell had hit too close to home.
She hadn’t revealed it during the Situation Room meeting, but Mixell was more than just someone she knew. He was the best friend of her former fiancé, Jake Harrison, and for most of high school, the three of them had been inseparable. There had been a fourth wheel during most of that time, as Mixell cycled through various girlfriends, but the three of them had done just about everything together. That Mixell had assassinated the UN ambassador — that he was capable of such evil — was difficult to digest, and she was taking it out on her DD and DDO.
Christine took a deep breath, then addressed both men. “I apologize for being abrupt with you.” She went on to explain the details regarding her relationship with Mixell. Additionally, she expounded on Jake Harrison’s role in Mixell’s downfall.
“Harrison and Mixell were best friends. They joined the Navy together and both became SEALs. They had a falling-out at some point. I don’t know what happened, but Harrison was the one who turned Mixell in for killing captured terrorists. He was also the main witness during Mixell’s court-martial.”
Bryant replied, “We’ll track down Harrison. See what he knows.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Christine replied. “He just retired from the Navy, and I’m sure he’s looking for a job. Offer him one.”