Paul Cooke, the CIA’s deputy director, returned the smile and shook the secretary’s hand. “My pleasure, Mr. Secretary. I always like an excuse to spend some time in Georgetown on a fall afternoon.”
“I know what you mean, and call me Franklin when we’re not in our official capacities,” Wilson said as he closed the door and led his visitor down the hall, “That’s why I bought the place, by the way. No suburbs for me. Too quiet.” Wilson opened a door and pointed down the steps. “Do you like to play billiards?”
Cooke hiked his shoulders. “What Harvard man doesn’t?”
Wilson slapped him on the back. “Good man. You’re class of sixty-five, right?”
“Yes.”
Once they were downstairs, Wilson turned on the stereo and flipped a few switches behind the bar. A hearty fire was already burning and a college football game was on the TV. Wilson didn’t bother asking his guest what he wanted to drink. He grabbed two lowballs and placed three ice cubes in each glass before filling them halfway with single-malt scotch. He gave Cooke his glass and said, “I hope you don’t mind hanging out down here, but I had certain devices installed in this room that make it easier for us to discuss things of a delicate nature.”
Working at the CIA, Cooke understood all too well. He wondered who Wilson had used and when the equipment had been installed. Listening devices and countermeasures were constantly changing.
Wilson held up his glass. “To Harvard. The finest institution in the land.”
Cooke smiled. “To Harvard.”
Wilson made small talk while he racked the balls and continued to keep the conversation light all the way through the first game. After trouncing Cooke, Wilson smashed the second break and moved the conversation in a more serious direction. “Paul, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“This is serious, Paul . . . from one Harvard man to another.” Wilson looked at the other man from across the table for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. The innuendo was simple. We are both gentlemen. We do not lie to each other.
Cooke inclined his head respectfully, signaling that he understood.
“Do you trust Thomas Stansfield?”
Cooke was in the process of sipping his scotch, which was a good thing because it helped conceal the grin on his face. He quickly put his business expression on and said, “That’s an interesting question.”
Wilson knew he’d have to lead this one by the nose so he said, “Listen, I’ve known Thomas for close to thirty years. During the Cold War there was no one better, but the Cold War is over, and I’m afraid he’s failing to keep pace.”
Cooke had known there was some reason the secretary wanted to see him, but he had not expected it to be about Thomas Stansfield. He gave a noncommittal nod.
“Do you trust him?” Wilson asked again.
Cooke allowed himself to laugh openly. “If you knew him as you say you do, you wouldn’t bother asking that question. Thomas Stansfield was born to be a spy and is the most secretive man I have ever met in my life.”
Wilson pointed his glass at Cooke and extended his forefinger. “My point exactly.”
Treading carefully, Cooke added, “It does kind of go along with the job description.”
“To a degree, but he is not a king unto himself. He still has to answer to certain people.” Wilson searched the younger man’s face for a sign that he could be an ally. So far he was getting nothing. “He’s never been very good at handling oversight, and I’m afraid with the director slot open he’s gotten even worse.”
The previous director had unexpectedly retired for health reasons one month earlier and the president had yet to nominate a replacement, so for the meantime, Cooke was minding the store. “He does tend to run his own turf, and doesn’t take too kindly to anyone sticking his nose in his business.”
Cooke leaned against his pool cue, understanding that they were finally going to get to the heart of the matter. “All right.”
“You’re on the president’s short list for director.”
This came as a surprise to Cooke. His intel had told him that the president was set on bringing in someone who hadn’t been tainted by the Agency. “Really?”
“Yes . . . and would you care to know how you ended up on that list?”
Cooke nodded.
“I put you there. I told the president you are a man who we can trust to get the job done.”
“Thank you, sir.” Cooke’s guard was up. He barely knew Wilson. If the man was recommending him to the president for the top spot at Langley, he must want something in return.
“Do you know who else is on that short list?”
“I’ve heard a few names,” Cooke said honestly. The rumor mill in D.C. was churning out a couple of new possibilities every week.
“Thomas Stansfield is on that list,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “There’s a group of very influential senators who are pushing for him. And I mean pushing hard.”
Cooke nodded. Stansfield was connected, and on top of that, he knew where all the bodies were buried. Cooke
