Prior to becoming CIA director, Christine had been well aware that relations between the CIA and FBI were strained, with difficulties dating back to former FBI director J. Edgar Hoover and former CIA directors Allen Dulles and Richard Helms. The tension stemmed partly from bureaucratic rivalry created by overlapping responsibilities for counterintelligence activities and from conflict caused by decidedly different cultures and agendas. Succinctly put, the CIA played offense while the FBI played defense. Add in each agency’s concerted efforts to protect their sources, and information sharing between the two organizations was often a casualty.
When it came to Mixell, Christine was determined to ensure all relevant information was provided to the CIA, and there was only one way to do that.
She asked McFarland, “Do we have the ability to tap into domestic data collection systems?”
McFarland glanced at Rolow and Bryant, then replied, “You mean, do we have the ability to infiltrate the surveillance and data systems of domestic law enforcement and sister intelligence agencies?”
Christine nodded. “And the answer is…?”
McFarland leaned forward. “That depends on who’s asking.”
Christine contemplated McFarland’s response. She had answered the question.
“Do it,” Christine said. “If anyone learns anything about Mixell, I want us to know as soon as possible.”
After the meeting ended, the three deputy directors departed Christine’s office, heading down the corridor toward their own offices. After McFarland stepped into hers and closed the door, Bryant turned to Rolow.
“I didn’t care much for our new director at first, but she’s starting to grow on me.”
“I told you,” Rolow said. “Christine is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The president knew what he was doing when he nominated her for director.”
“However,” Bryant said, “she’s still more loyal to the president than to the agency.”
“I agree,” Rolow replied, then lowered his voice. “There are some things that must remain between the two of us.”
14
SILVERDALE, WASHINGTON
Angie Harrison fluffed a couch pillow, then stepped back and examined it with a critical eye. She straightened a corner, then surveyed the couch and the rest of the living room again. After ensuring everything was in its place, she stopped in the foyer and inspected herself in the mirror. For this afternoon’s visit, she had picked out a pair of capris and a shirt that accentuated her figure.
Looking out the dining room window, she searched for a sign of the expected guest. But there were no cars on the long road approaching their house in the countryside. That wasn’t unexpected, however. Christine O’Connor was supposed to call when her meeting at the nearby Naval Undersea Warfare Center had ended and she was on her way, and there had been no word thus far. Angie checked her watch. She should be calling anytime now.
Angie entered the kitchen and stopped by the sink, looking out the window. A light mist was falling from a gray overcast sky, but that hadn’t stopped Jake from working in the backyard.
They were both so predictable.
Several months ago, they had both spent the hours before Christine’s previous visit the same way: Jake working in the yard to take his mind off Christine, while Angie worried how she would measure up to the woman Jake had dated for ten years and proposed to twice. Angie had met Christine for the first time four months ago, and it was obvious that Jake’s former flame was a beautiful, accomplished, and powerful woman, while she was…
Angie caught a partial reflection of her face in the kitchen window. She was attractive, no doubt. She turned heads when she entered a room, and she could have dated almost any man she wanted in high school and college. But she still felt inferior to Christine. The woman who had spent three years as the president’s national security advisor and was now the director of the CIA was in a different league from someone who was a member of an elementary school’s parent-teacher association.
The phone rang, and Angie let the answering machine pick up. It was Christine, letting them know she would arrive in fifteen minutes. After she hung up, Angie took a deep breath, then opened the back door and yelled to Jake, letting him know Christine was almost there.
She returned to the living room and waited, checking over her shoulder occasionally to see if Jake had come in from the yard, until she spotted a black SUV with two men in the front seats approaching. The vehicle pulled into the driveway and stopped. Christine stepped from the vehicle and walked to the front door, accompanied by one of her protective agents holding an umbrella over her, shielding her from the misty rain.
Angie glanced over her shoulder again. There was no sign of Jake.
Damn him. Leaving her alone to greet Christine again.
She waited for the doorbell to ring, then after one last glance in the mirror and a rearrangement of a wayward lock of hair, she opened the door.
“Director O’Connor, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Angie forced the words out.
“Please, call me Christine,” the CIA director said as she entered the foyer.
The protective agent, after a quick look inside, returned to the SUV.
“Thank you again for accommodating my visit on such short notice,” Christine said as she accompanied Angie through the living room and into the kitchen. “During my last visit, I forgot to mention what a lovely home you have.”
Angie was sure Christine didn’t mean it. Her home was nice, but it surely didn’t measure up to the luxurious homes and mansions Christine would have visited during her career in Washington. But at least Christine was trying to be nice. They stopped at the kitchen window, looking out over the backyard. Jake was edging a flower bed with a straight-edge shovel, cutting back the intruding grass.
“That’s so like him,” Christine said. “Trying to take his mind off things.”
“Yeah,” Angie said as she was hit with a twinge of jealousy. Christine knew Jake as well as she did, and maybe even better.
Angie opened the back door. “Jake! Christine’s here!”
Harrison looked up, then stowed the shovel in a nearby barn before trudging toward the house in the light rain. Angie disappeared into an adjacent laundry room, returning with a towel she tossed to her husband as he entered.
“Hi, Chris,” he said as he dried his face and hair.
“Hi, Jake,” Christine replied, then smiled warmly.
Jake didn’t return the smile. He gestured toward the kitchen table, and all three took their seats. Harrison draped the towel around his neck.
“What’s so important this time?” he asked.
Under the table, Angie placed her hand on Jake’s thigh and squeezed it gently, showing her appreciation. Prior to Christine’s arrival, they had discussed her pending visit and potential reasons why — most likely another CIA job offer. Angie had pointed out that Jake had agreed years ago to take a safer job after retiring from the Navy, one where he didn’t put his life on the line every time he went to work. Jake had loved being a SEAL, but it was time now to think of Angie and their twelve-year-old daughter, Madeline, and the impact on them if anything happened to him. His first responsibility was to his wife and daughter now, not his country. He had already served it well.
Following Jake’s retirement, Angie had looked forward to the end of sleepless nights, lying awake wondering if she and Maddy would ever see him again. But then Jake took the CIA job, and a few weeks later, she had received the call she had always dreaded. Jake was in a hospital in critical condition, and they didn’t know if he was going to make it. She had left Maddy with a friend and flown to Virginia, joining Jake in his hospital room after his surgery. He’d been lucky. Although Mixell’s first bullet had been the most painful, shattering a shoulder blade, the second one had almost killed him, narrowly missing his heart.