But as Rogers neared the aircraft carrier of a desk, AD Fisk met her eyes and said, as if uttering an expletive, “Accountants.”
Obviously Fisk was referring to her previous visitor.
Taking the waiting chair opposite her seated boss, Rogers shrugged, smiled just a little, and said, “Accountants.”
“GAO’s threatening another audit,” Fisk said, her voice matter-of-fact, her eyes hooded.
The Government Accountability Office audited, evaluated, and ran investigations for Congress. Another GAO audit would be the first step in the process of stripping the Bureau of much-needed dollars. Theoretically, the GAO could recommend more funds, but Rogers knew that with the economy in a downturn, such a thought bordered on fantasy.
Sensing an opening, Rogers said, “Would it help if we successfully took on the biggest case the Bureau ever had?”
Fisk’s smile had a bitter edge. “I believe, Agent Rogers, that John Dillinger is no longer at large.”
Rogers kept her tone businesslike. “Suppose, just hypothetically mind you, that there was a rogue element in the US government. A shadow government within the government, manipulating certain events.”
To Rogers’ relief, the AD neither laughed out loud nor threw a paperweight at her. But the woman did say, “So, you’re a conspiracy theorist now.”
Rogers had expected a reaction like this, and had decided not to point out to her superior that just a few years ago evidence had finally surfaced clearing Lee Harvey Oswald.
“It doesn’t seem to be just a theory, ma’am. I’m confident I can prove it.”
Fisk straightened in her high-backed chair. She studied Rogers, as if perhaps the need for a major crime for the Special Situations Task Force had turned the younger agent desperate.
Then Fisk said, “Make your case.”
Rogers laid out everything that she, Altuve, and Hardesy knew, as well as what Reeder had contributed... without compromising his presidential mission, merely reminding the AD that four CIA agents had been killed in Azbekistan despite their presence in that country contradicting a presidential directive.
When Rogers was done, Fisk said nothing for several endless moments.
Just when Rogers thought she had blown it, her boss said, “About half of the dots you’re connecting aren’t there.”
Deflating a little, Rogers said, “But what about the other half, ma’am?”
Fisk mulled that, but only for a moment. “You may not have a convincing argument where your ‘shadow government’ theory is concerned... at least not yet... but your case for Secretary Yellich having been assassinated is sound. And obviously that is a very serious matter, a threat to the government itself. We’ll start there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Make this investigation your task force’s priority. Get right on it.”
She rose, nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”
Rogers was halfway out the AD’s inner-office door when Fisk called out, “Oh, and Rogers?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Good work.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She flew through the outer office, thinking that sometimes a trip to the principal’s office wasn’t so terrible after all.
When Rogers got downstairs to the bullpen of the Special Situations Task Force, the team was waiting for her, having been assembled by Miggie at her request before she went up to see the AD.
Half a dozen desks, with no cubicles but plenty of space, faced a video screen that took up much of a wall; a small table looking back at them was reserved for Rogers in briefing mode, and she took her seat there. Smaller video screens were here and there around the room, and of course several offices in back — her own, Miggie’s, and an unassigned one that had been reserved for Reeder as consultant.
Miggie was sitting at the desk he used when not in his office. Hardesy and his usual partner, Anne Nichols, had desks next to each other. Tall and fashion-model striking, the African American Nichols was as tough as she was stylish, and she was plenty stylish. Today she wore a single-breasted, gold-buttoned black business suit and leopard-print blouse.
The other pair of field agents, Jerry Bohannon and Reggie Wade, made up the more senior team, having been partners for years now.
The craggily handsome, fortyish Bohannon had started dating a woman his own age a while back, his post-divorce second childhood finally over, and consequently had stopped dyeing his hair, the natural gray at his temples giving him a distinguished look. So did his navy worsted suit, solid light blue tie, and blue-and-white-striped white-collared shirt.
The six-foot-four, African American Wade was a seasoned investigator who liked to push the limits of the Bureau’s regulations of what comprised the acceptable “look” of an FBI agent. Today he was risking a black vested suit with black shirt and black skinny tie — all that black, yet the style of it said Italian.
The final member of the team, behaviorist/profiler Trevor Ivanek, was a balding human scarecrow with a broad forehead over deep-set eyes. Open-collar dress shirt under a sweater vest gave him the air of the scholar he was. For a man who spent so much time trying to understand monsters, he had a quick, easy wit.
Rogers got up from the table facing the team and rolled out a whiteboard that she’d asked Miggie to call down for. Something this low-tech was rarely used anymore, but it gave her a form of communication that the security camera behind her could not witness.
When she finished outlining what she and Fisk had just talked about, to an audience whose expressions ranged from squinting skepticism to wide-eyed alarm, Ivanek was first to speak up.
“With all due respect, Agent Rogers, you and Mr. Reeder are bucking for a psychiatric evaluation.”
Wryly amused, Wade asked, “That your considered expert opinion, Doctor?”
His eyes staying on Rogers, Ivanek said, “I don’t doubt that you have outlined some troubling events, chiefly the assassination of a cabinet member. And that seems entirely appropriate for an examination by this task force. But making the leap to a conspiracy within our government is ill-advised, reckless, and even foolish.”
Hardesy said, “Then put me down for a psych session, too, Doc. I was standing right next to the black ops operative who got eliminated by a sniper. And I for one find it highly suggestive when four CIA agents get themselves killed where they were forbidden to be by, oh, just the President.” He glanced around the bullpen. “Reeder and Rogers are right. We’ve got players on the inside who’ve gone rogue.”
Shaking his head, Ivanek said, “Conspiracies are fine in fiction, but in the real world they’re almost impossible to keep hidden, especially something on this scale.”
Rogers said, “But we don’t know the scale of it. We could be dealing with a handful of people... but powerful people.”
“Most so-called conspiracies,” Ivanek said, “are simply the individual acts of, say, police officers trying for the makings of an easy conviction, or politicos drumming up pseudo-scandals on a major figure from the other side. But sending agents overseas to die and tying it to the death of a cabinet member, even the probable murder of that cabinet member... it’s strictly Through-the-Looking-Glass stuff.”
With a pretty eyebrow arched, Nichols said, “That little party at the Capitol last year — you were here for that, right?”
Ivanek nodded. “I was. And ever since 9/11, we have lived in a curiouser-and-curiouser world. I grant you that. But Agent Rogers and Mr. Reeder are still making an ill-advised leap. My opinion is that we begin with the assassination of Secretary Yellich and treat it like what it is: a murder case.”