from Canada in 1776. Before leaving Paw Island, though, they torched the fort. Nothing was ever rebuilt, the site abandoned to the elements, the fire-blackened walls left standing as a reminder of the insult.
Now only birds occupied them.
“Mr. Malone,” a voice said over the intercom. “We have a weather delay. They’re asking us to hold on the runway.”
“I didn’t think those rules applied to the Secret Service.”
“Unfortunately, there’s a nasty storm between here and Maine and even the Secret Service has to bow to that.”
“Keep in mind, we’re in a hurry.”
“It could be a little bit. They didn’t sound encouraging.”
He tapped the keyboard and found a map of Mahone Bay, deciding how best to arrive on Paw Island. They would be landing at a small airstrip to the south, specifically avoiding Halifax and its international hub, since Wyatt could be traveling through there. The Secret Service had run a check of all flights to Nova Scotia, but no seats had been booked in Wyatt’s name. No surprise. He was surely flying under an alias with a clean ID, or he may have chartered something.
It didn’t matter.
He wanted his adversary to have a clear run to the island.
There, they would get reacquainted.
FIFTY-FOUR
CASSIOPEIA FOLLOWED EDWIN DAVIS INTO A ROOM NOT MUCH larger than a closet. Inside was a small table that supported a console with an LCD monitor. The screen displayed a room dotted with oil portraits dominated by a conference table, whose seats were rapidly filling with men and women. She’d returned with Davis to Washington. Later, she’d head back south to Fredericksburg to make use of Kaiser’s phone tap.
“He had me order them here,” Davis said, pointing to the screen. “Heads of the eighteen largest intelligence agencies. CIA, NSA, NIA, Defense Intelligence, National Counter-Terrorism, Homeland Security, Foreign Terrorist Asset Tracking, National Geospatial, Underground Facility Analysis-you name it, we have somebody spending money on it.”
“Bet they’re wondering what’s going on.”
Davis smiled. “These people don’t like surprises, or one another for that matter.”
She watched on the screen as the president of the United States burst into the room and moved out of view to the head of the table. The camera had apparently been installed behind where he sat so only the participants would be recorded.
Everyone sat.
“It’s good to see you’re okay,” one of the participants said to Daniels.
“It’s good to be okay.”
“Mr. President, we had little notice of this meeting so nothing has been prepared. We weren’t even told of the subject matter.”
“Head of Central Intelligence,” Davis told her. “The president owes me five dollars. I bet he’d be the first to probe. He said NSA.”
“You people love to tell me how good you are,” Daniels said. “That this country would be in dire jeopardy if we didn’t spend billions of dollars every year on what you do. You also like to hide behind that secrecy you so righteously demand. I don’t have the luxury of working in secret. I have to do what I do with a cadre of reporters camped out less than a hundred feet away from where I work. Hell, I don’t even know where half of your offices are located, much less what you do.”
“Do they know we’re watching?” she asked.
Davis shook his head. “Pinhole camera. The Secret Service installed it a few years ago. Nobody knows but senior staff.”
“This monstrosity of government called homeland security,” the president said, “is absurd. I have yet to find anyone who knows how much it costs, how many are employed, how many programs there are and, most important, how much duplication there is. Best I can tell there are nearly 1300 separate organizations working homeland security or foreign intelligence. That’s on top of nearly 2000 private contractors. Nearly 900,000 hold a top secret clearance. How could anything possibly be kept secret with that many eyes and ears?”
No one said a word.
“Everyone said they were going to streamline things after 9/11. You folks swore you were finally going to start working together. What you did was create 300 new intelligence organizations. You produce over 50,000 intelligence reports each year. Who reads them all?”
No answer.
“That’s right. No one does. So what good are they?”
“He’s going right for their throats,” she said to Davis.
“It’s all they understand.”
“I want to know who hired Jonathan Wyatt and had him in New York yesterday,” the president asked, breaking the room’s silence.
“I did.”
“Is that her?” Cassiopeia asked.
Davis nodded. “Andrea Carbonell. Head of NIA.”
She’d noticed the woman’s entrance, her swarthy complexion, dark hair, and Latino influences similar to her own. “What’s her story?”
“Daughter of Cuban immigrants. Born here. She worked her way up through the ranks until finally snagging the head of NIA. Her service record is actually exemplary, except for her ties to the Commonwealth.”
Carbonell sat straight, hands folded on the table, eyes intent on the president. Her features remained expressionless, even in the face of an angry commander in chief.
“Why did you have Wyatt in New York?” Daniels asked her.
“I required outside assistance to counter pressure I was receiving from CIA and NSA.”
“Explain yourself.”
“A few hours ago someone tried to kill me.”
The room fell into a hush.
Carbonell cleared her throat. “I wasn’t planning on bringing it up in this meeting, but an automated weapon was waiting for me in my residence.”
Daniels hesitated only a moment. “And the importance of that? Besides the fact that you could be dead.”
“Wyatt was in New York to help me decipher the recent actions of some of my colleagues. We were meeting to discuss the situation. But a CIA deputy director and another deputy from NSA interrupted that meeting and took Wyatt. I would like to know the purpose of that action.”
She was good, Cassiopeia thought. Carbonell had yet to answer a question, but she’d managed to shift attention away from herself. Her inquiry clearly interested some of the others around the table, who stared at CIA, and another man whom Davis identified as the NSA director.
“Mr. President,” CIA said. “This woman has been conspiring with the Commonwealth. She may well have been involved in the attempt on your life.”
“Do you have proof of that?” Carbonell calmly asked.
“I don’t need proof,” Daniels said to her. “I just need to be convinced. So tell me, did you have any involvement with the attempt on my life?”
“I did not.”
“Then how did Wyatt get himself right smack in the middle of things? He was there, in the Grand Hyatt. We
