THE DIRECTOR OF National Intelligence jiggled the ice in his glass, a sure sign he was pleased about something. “With respect to item six, Mr. President, the FBI domestic wireless telecommunications operation has been decommissioned with no disruption of emergency nine-one-one service. The single FBI agent injured by gunfire will fully recover.”
The president sat back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers. “And operational security remains intact? We can expect no blowback on any possible civil liberties questions?”
“That is correct, Mr. President. And we believe the swift conclusion has indeed given the message we discussed.”
“John, I’d like you to write a letter under your own signature commending Special Agent Dillon Savich for his briefing and the successful execution of his plan.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” the director said. “Now to item seven, the request for new countermeasures on the Afghan border.”
EPILOGUE
THAT SUMMER
RUTH WARNECKI KNOCKED on the front door of a small tract house in a subdivision of Midlothian, Virginia. Linda Massey answered the door with two boys, both under the age of four, clinging to her jeans, and a baby nestled in the crook of her arm. She gave Ruth a harried smile. “I hope you’re not selling encyclopedias,” she said. “This crew is still a little young and no one else has the time.”
“No, I’m not selling anything,” Ruth said. “I do have a story to tell you about your family that goes back to the Civil War. I think it might interest you.”
Linda Massey, the closest surviving descendant of Lieutenant Charles Breacken of the Union Army, was five hundred thousand dollars richer.
Ruth left an hour later, feeling so fine she clicked up her heels. She waved to Dix, who was leaning against his Range Rover, waiting for her. She gave him a huge grin and a thumbs-up.
