Abyss

definitely not the CIA’s black ops officers — such as McGarvey had been. Yet he freely admitted that he considered Mac an asset too valuable to dismiss. He motioned to a chair.

“There are one hundred and three other nuclear plants out there, just as vulnerable.”

“We’re putting things in place.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

“The White House wants this thing to be handled low-key for now,” French said.

“Why’s that, Admiral?” McGarvey wanted to know. “The president doesn’t want to start a panic by letting people know we haven’t a clue how this happened, why it happened, who made it happen, or if it’s likely to happen again?”

“The FBI is working the case, so is the CIA. Anyway, you signed on to help with just that, remember?”

This was a morning for remembering. “Nobody’s listening,” McGarvey said, wondering about the depth of his bitterness.

“You’re wrong,” French countered. “I’m sorry about what happened in Florida. We all are, and not for the reasons you think — not for the negative PR impact. You came to me with a chip on your shoulder, and I understand that, too. Losing your wife and daughter. And I even understand your background, your deep background before you became director of the CIA. But here we are, and we need your … particular set of skills. And that comes directly from the White House via Walt Page who thinks like I do that you’re a loose cannon, always have been. But it’s a loose cannon we need.”

“As you said, the FBI’s working the case,” McGarvey said. “And I’m sure Caldwell didn’t sign off on me.”

“He had no choice, and before you dismiss him as just another bureaucrat, take a hard look at the man’s record. In two short years he’s managed to jump-start the alternative energy field despite the low oil prices. He’s an ass, but he does get the job done. On top of that, Homeland Security is in high gear, as is every other intel and LE agency in the country — just like after nine-eleven.”

McGarvey knew what was coming next, and he had known it the moment French had called him up here. And nothing had changed in his mind about going back into the field versus simply turning his back and walking away, and yet he’d been intrigued since the call from the hotline OD. Even more intrigued now that Page had brought up his name.

French was watching him closely, but he was bright enough to hold his piece. He’d said what had to be said and now the ball was in McGarvey’s court.

“I’ll need a free hand.”

“I’d expect you to work outside the system, especially independently from this office, but you’d have our resources at your disposal.”

“But quietly.”

“Yes.”

“That part won’t last, and you have to know it and understand why.”

French nodded after a moment. “As I said, I saw your file before I hired you.”

“I want Gail Newby to help out, and maybe Eric Yablonski.”

“You can have them if they’ll go along with you. This is a strictly volunteer operation. The way it was explained to me, the Bureau and everyone else will be beating the bushes for evidence and making a lot of noise doing it. Reassure the public. In the meantime you’re to do what you’ve always done; go through the back door and the hell with the niceties.”

“People are bound to get hurt.”

“I imagine they will,” French said evenly. “Do you have any ideas yet?”

“This was done by professionals. The very best, which means the most expensive. Considering what they tried to do — kill a lot of people — narrows down the list of organizations with that kind of money.”

“Al-Quaeda?”

“It’s a start,” McGarvey said. “But this time we’re not going to war, because I think the answers, when we find them, aren’t going to be so simple. Something else is going on.”

“Find out what it is,” French said.

“I’ll try,” McGarvey promised, and he got up and walked out.

Back in the field, he thought, just that easy. And in some ways he was feeling something new, a new emotion, almost relief to finally be doing something worthwhile. He supposed he carried the same look now that he had seen on Gail’s face when he’d handed over the video disk, only with one added burden — people were going to die before this was over, and he was going to kill them.

TWENTY-THREE

Gail’s boss Louis Curtley, who was possibly the most disinterested and uninteresting man she’d ever known, had dismissed her out of hand when she’d reported to him on the Hutchinson Island situation, stopping her before she’d really gotten started. He’d told her that he had been sorry to hear about Larry’s death, insincerity dripping from just about every word, and about the other deaths, but whatever theories she might want to run past him would have to wait until she had all the facts. Not only Forcier’s true background, but the name of the man she’d seen leaving the facility and concrete proof that: A. he knew Forcier; B. that he had actually gotten inside the control room; and C. and D., who, if anyone, he was working for and some sort of motive that made sense as to why he’d wanted to sabotage the plant.

“When you have your facts come back and talk to me,” he’d told her.

He was tall, dark, and slender, handsome, almost beautiful, but she’d always thought he looked and acted like a toad.

“And since there’s nothing for you to do at Hutchinson Island — leastways until it’s back up and running — finding the facts is your new assignment. Your only assignment.”

And now she was downstairs in the data center adjacent to operations with Eric Yablonski, a man who, if complete opposites actually existed, was Curtley’s counterpoint. Short, dumpy, homely, only a whisper of fine gray hair on his pink head, he was the kindest, nicest, and brightest man she’d ever met, with an open, generous heart, an easy laugh, and a sarcasm that had never fooled anyone — not her, not his staff, and especially not his wife and eight doting children.

“Curtley didn’t want to hear what you had to say so he kicked you out and sent you down here,” he said. “What makes you think that I’m any different?”

His office was separated from the main floor of the data center by a plate-glass window to the right, which in turn was separated from operations, which was called the Watch — the same as at the CIA — to the left by another large window. Four computer experts in the data center compiled and analyzed the real-time information gathered by five specialists in the Watch 24/7. It was all about threat assessments, what was coming at the U.S. right now, or what was developing somewhere — perhaps an intercepted telephone call or calls shunted over from the National Security Agency, or satellite images from the National Reconnaissance Office showing increased activity at some camp on the Syrian desert, or perhaps a field report from a CIA agent somewhere in the Middle East, Russia, or just lately South America.

“ Veni, vidi, vici, ” Yablonski had once said, gazing out the windows at what he considered was his private domain, because everything flowing from the Watch to the data center was his to ponder, to rearrange, to fit into patterns that no one else was seeing, and translate the patterns into real-world events. His job was to penetrate the haze to find what was happening and why.

Only he and everyone else had missed Hutchinson Island, and he’d been beating himself up about it all night, so that now he looked like a train wreck in progress, his tie askew, his dress shirt rumpled, and his jacket dropped in a heap on top of one of the lockboxes.

“I never saw it coming, but I should have,” Gail said, sitting down across from his desk that was dominated by a pair of wide-screen monitors.

“If it’s any consolation, neither did I, sweetheart,” Yablonski said, and his face fell a little. “I’m sorry as hell about Larry. I didn’t know him, personally, but if he was a good enough man to work with you down there then he