jumbo. I want the truth, and I want it now!' President Sam Castilla growled. He glared down the long table at his uncharacteristically silent CIA director.
Ordinarily trim and dapper under even the most trying circumstances, David Hanson looked a wreck. There were deep shadows under his eyes and his rumpled suit looked as though he had slept in it. He held a pen clutched tightly in the fingers of his right hand in a futile effort to hide the fact that his hands were trembling slightly. “I've told you what little I know, Mr. President,” he said warily. “We're digging as deeply as we can into our files, but so far we haven't found anything even remotely connected to this so-called TOCSIN operation. If Hal Burke was involved in anything illegal, I'm certain that he was running it on his own hook — without authorization or help from anyone else in the CIA.”
Emily Powell-Hill leaned forward in her seat. “Just how stupid do you think people are, David?” the national security adviser asked bitterly. “Do you think anyone's going to believe that Burke and Pierson were paying for a multi-million-dollar covert operation out of their own pockets — all with their personal savings and government salaries?”
“I understand the difficulties!” Hanson snapped in frustration. “But my people and I are working on this as hard and as fast as we can. Right now I've got my security personnel combing through the records and logs of every operation Burke was ever involved in, looking for anything remotely suspicious. Plus, we're setting up polygraph tests for every officer and analyst in Burke's Lazarus Movement section. If anyone else inside the CIA was involved, we'll nail them, but it's going to take time.”
He frowned. “I've also sent orders to every CIA station around the world immediately terminating any operation that involves the Movement. By now there shouldn't be an Agency surveillance team within shouting distance of any Lazarus building or operative.”
“That's not good enough,” Powell-Hill told him. “We're getting killed over this — both domestically and overseas.”
Heads nodded grimly around the Situation Room conference table. Coming as it did right on the heels of the nanophage butchery in La
Courneuve, the press reports of an illegal clandestine operation against the Lazarus Movement had been perfectly timed to inflict the maximum amount of damage on American credibility around the world. It had landed on the world stage like a match tossed into a room full of leaking gasoline drums. And the Movement was perfectly positioned to profit from the resulting explosion of anger and outrage. What had been a relatively minor nuisance for most governments and businesses was rapidly growing into a major force in global politics. More and more countries were aligning themselves with the Movement's demands for an immediate ban on all nanotech research.
“And now every lunatic who claims that we're testing some sort of nanotech-based genocide weapon is being treated respectfully by the international media — by the BBC, the other European networks, al-Jazeera, and the rest,” the national security adviser continued. “The French have already recalled their ambassador for so-called consultations. A lot of other nations are going to do the same thing in a tearing hurry. The longer this drags on, the more damage we're going to suffer to our alliances and our ability to influence events.”
Castilla nodded tightly. The phone call he had received from the French president had been full of ugly accusations and barely concealed contempt.
“We're in almost as much trouble on the Hill,” Charles Ouray added. The White House chief of staff sighed. “Practically every congressman and senator who was screaming at us to go after the Lazarus Movement has already pulled a full 180-degree turn. Now they're falling all over themselves to put together a Watergate-style investigative committee. The wilder talking heads are already discussing a possible impeachment, and even our usual friends are lying low while they wait to see which way the political winds are blowing.”
Castilla grimaced. Too many of the men and women serving in Congress were political opportunists by habit, inclination, and experience. When a president was popular, they crowded in close, hoping to share in the limelight. But at the first sign of trouble or weakness they were only too eager to join the pack baying for his blood.
Estelle Pike, the president's longtime executive secretary, opened the door to the Oval Office. “Mr. Klein is here, sir,” she said waspishly. “He doesn't have an appointment, but he claims that you'll see him anyway.”
Castilla turned away from the windows. His face was lined and weary. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past twenty-four hours. “He's here because I asked him to be here, Estelle. Show him in, please.”
She sniffed, plainly disapproving, but then obeyed.
Klein stepped past her with a murmured “thank you” that went unacknowledged. He stood waiting until the door closed behind him. Then he shrugged. “I don't think your Ms. Pike likes me very much, Sam.”
The president forced a dutiful smile. “Estelle isn't exactly a warm and cuddly people person, Fred. Anyone who bucks her daily calendar gets the same treatment. It's nothing personal.”
“I'm relieved,” Klein said drily. He looked narrowly at his old friend. “I assume from your pained expression that the NSC meeting did not go well?”
Castilla snorted. “That's almost on par with asking Mrs. Lincoln how she liked the play.”
“That bad?”
The president nodded glumly. “That bad.” He motioned Klein toward one of the two chairs set in front of the big table that served him as a desk. “The senior people inside the CIA, FBI, NSA, and other agencies are too goddamned busy trying to dodge the blame for this TOCSIN fiasco. Nobody knows how far up the ladder the conspiracy reached, so nobody knows how far anybody else can be trusted. Everybody's circling one another warily, waiting to see who gets it in the neck.”
Klein nodded quietly, not greatly surprised. Even at the best of times, debilitating turf wars were a fact of life within the American intelligence community. Their long-standing feuds and internecine conflicts were largely why Castilla had asked him to organize Covert-One in the first place. Now, with a major scandal embroiling the two biggest overseas and domestic intelligence agencies, tensions would be rising fast. In the circumstances, no one with a career to protect was going to risk sticking his or her neck out.
“Is Colonel Smith on his way to Paris?” Castilla asked at last, breaking the silence.
“He is,” Klein said. “I expect him there by late tonight, our time.”
“And you honestly believe Smith has a chance to find out what we're really facing here?”
“A chance?” Klein repeated. He hesitated. “I think so.” He frowned. “At least, I hope so.”
“But he is your best?” Castilla asked sharply.
This time Klein did not hesitate. “For this mission? Yes, absolutely. Jon Smith is the right man for the job.”
The president shook his head in exasperation. “It's ridiculous, isn't it?”
“Ridiculous?”
“Here I sit,” Castilla explained, “the commander in chief of the most powerful armed forces in the history of mankind. The people of the United States expect me to use that power to keep them safe. But I can't. Not this time. Not yet at least.” His broad shoulders slumped. “All the bombers, missiles, tanks, and riflemen in the world don't matter worth a damn unless I can give them a target. And that's the one thing I cannot give them.”
Klein stared back at his friend. He had truly never envied the president any of the various perks and privileges of his position. Now he felt only pity for the tired, sad-eyed man in front of him. “Covert-One will do its duty,” he promised. “We'll find you that target.”
“I hope to God you're right,” Castilla said quietly. “Because we're running out of time and options fast.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jon Smith looked out the windows of the taxi, a black Mercedes, speeding south from Charles de Gaulle International Airport toward the sleeping city. Dawn was still several hours away, and only the hazy glow of lights on both sides of the multi-lane Al Motorway marked the suburban sprawl around the French capital. The highway itself was almost deserted — allowing the cabdriver, a short, sour-faced Parisian with bloodshot eyes, to push the Mercedes up to the legal limit and then well beyond.
