wooden matchstick in two.
— Excellent question, Jon. If you turn to page thirty-eight, you‘ll see Black River‘s detailed assessment of the training preparedness and arms expertise of this particular group, which both rate eight out of ten on their proprietary rating scale.
— You seem to be relying a great deal on Black River, Mr. Secretary, Hart said drily.
Halliday didn‘t even look at her; it was her people-Soraya Moore and Tyrone Elkins-who had brought his man, Luther LaValle, down. He hated her guts, but Hart knew he was too canny a politician to let his animosity show in front of the president, who now held her in high esteem.
Halliday nodded sagely, his voice carefully neutral. -I wish it were otherwise, Director. It‘s no secret that our own resources are already at their limits due to the ongoing conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, and now that Iran is on our radar as a clear and present danger, we‘re obliged to outsource more and more of our far-flung intelligence gathering.
— You mean the NSA is. CI created Typhon last year specifically to handle more of the Middle East field intelligence, Hart pointed out. -Every Typhon field agent is fluent in the various dialects of Arabic and Farsi. Tell me, Mr. Secretary, how many NSA agents are similarly trained?
Hart could see the color rising up Halliday‘s throat into his cheeks, and she leaned forward, further inflaming an intemperate outburst from him. Unluckily for her, the meeting was interrupted by the burr of the blue telephone at the president‘s right elbow. The entire room fell into a tense silence so absolute that the discreet sound had the resonance of a pneumatic jackhammer. The blue telephone brought bad news, they all knew that.
With a grim expression, the president pressed the receiver to his ear, listened to the voice of General Leland over at the Pentagon who briefed him, even while he told his commander in chief that a more detailed document would be on its way to the White House by special courier within the hour.
The president took all this in with his usual equanimity. He was not a man to panic or to take precipitous action. As he cradled the receiver, he said, — There has been an air disaster. American Flight Eight-Nine-One, outward bound from Cairo, was taken out of the sky by an explosion.
— A bomb? Jaime Hernandez, the new intelligence czar, said. He was slim and handsome, with calculating eyes as dark as his thick hair. He looked like the kind of individual who counted the wontons in his soup to make sure he wasn‘t being shortchanged.
— Are there any survivors? Hart asked.
— We don‘t know the answer to either question, the president said. -What we do know is that there were one hundred eighty-one souls on that flight.
— Good God. Hart shook her head.
There was a moment of stunned silence while they all contemplated both the enormity of the calamity and the terrible repercussions that might very well ensue. No matter what the cause, a great many American civilians were dead, and if the worst-case scenario were to come true, if those American civilians proved to be the victims of a terrorist attack…
— Sir, I think we should send a joint NSA-DHS forensics team to the crash site, Halliday said in a bid to take charge.
— Let‘s not get ahead of ourselves, Hart countered. Halliday‘s words had energized them out of their initial shock. -This isn‘t Iraq. We‘ll need the permission of the Egyptian government to send our troops in.
— Those are American citizens-our people blown out of the sky, Halliday said. -Fuck the Egyptians. What‘ve they done for us lately?
Before the argument could escalate, the president held up his hand.
— First things first. Veronica is right. He stood up. -We‘ll reconvene this discussion in an hour after I‘ve spoken to the Egyptian president.
Precisely sixty minutes later, the president reentered the room, nodded to those present, and sat down before addressing them. -All right, it‘s settled. Hernandez, Mueller, assemble a joint task force of your best people and get them on a plane to Cairo ASAP. First: survivors; second: identify casualties; third: for the love of God ascertain the cause of the explosion.
— Sir, if I may, Hart interjected, — I suggest adding Soraya Moore, the director of Typhon, to the team. She‘s half Egyptian. Her intimate knowledge of Arabic and the local customs will prove invaluable particularly in liaising with the Egyptian authorities.
Halliday shook his head, said emphatically, — This matter is already complicated enough without a third agency becoming involved. The NSA and the DHS have all the tools at their disposal to handle the situation.
— I doubt that-
— I needn‘t remind you, Director Hart, that the press will be all over this incident like flies on shit, Halliday overran her. -We‘ve got to get our people over there, make our findings and take appropriate measures as quickly as possible, otherwise we risk turning this into a worldwide media circus. He turned to the president. -Which is something the administration doesn‘t need right now. The last thing you want, sir, is to look weak and ineffectual.
— The real problem, the president said, — is that the Egyptian national secret police-what are they called?
— Al Mokhabarat, Hart said, feeling like she was a contestant on
— Yes, thank you, Veronica. The president made a note on his scratch pad. He‘d never forget al Mokhabarat‘s name again. -The problem, he began again,
— is that a contingent of this al Mokhabarat will be accompanying the team.
The secretary of defense groaned. -Sir, if I may say so, the Egyptian secret police are corrupt, vicious, and notorious for their sadistic human rights violations. I submit that we cut them out of the equation entirely.
— Nothing would please me more, believe me, the president said with some distaste, — but I‘m afraid that‘s the quid pro quo the Egyptian president insisted on in exchange for letting us help in the investigation.
— Our help? What a joke! Halliday gave a humorless laugh. -The damn Egyptians couldn‘t find a mummy in a
