The more the story was retold, the more the details were simultaneously obscured and embellished. One current version had it that the whole thing started as a bet, much like the Vietnam War. But this much was certain: a person of political influence met up with a person of lobbying influence, had way too many pints of Pabst Blue Ribbon one night—hell, it was a blues bar, what were you supposed to do, sip Johnnie Walker Black among the civilians?—and started talking about what to do about all these goddamn terrorists. Though in the smoky haze, the word was pronounced
On a car ride to a houseboat party on the Potomac, a loose plan was formed. Secret financing secured. Types of operations determined.
“It’ll be like the CIA and MI-6 got drunk and went to bed together, then didn’t tell anybody the next day.”
Hence, CI-6.
Pickle your brain in enough Pabst, it’ll seem funny to you, too.
There was no official name for the covert offspring of that drunken evening.
Those parents weren’t around to see their child take its first step; the political fixer found himself caught up in a Capitol Hill scandal soon after and was drummed out of the city posthaste. The lobbyist, too, was caught in the vacuum pull of the tidal pool. But other men were in place to handle the birth, education, and development of this fledgling life-form. The baby grew fast.
The baby grew so fast, it quickly forgot its parents.
The baby grew so large, it forgot parts of itself, like a toddler running through an antique shop. Such a baby doesn’t realize that swinging its arms out willy-nilly will shatter rare teacups and serving plates. All of that is boring anyway. The fun thing is to
Guys like David Murphy were a vital part of the baby.
On the outside, Murphy had surprised his fans within the conventional intelligence world by retiring and starting a financial services company. Like, what?
He called it Murphy, Knox.
Even the name was a gag: Knox=NOCs, CIA slang for “nonofficial covers.” Murphy and his NOCs.
Murphy had quickly become a key player in CI-6.
So had Keene, once he saw how useful he could be. How much more power he could wield working for an outfit like this.
But what was Murphy mixed up in that, suddenly, he had to wipe out his front company? Along with more than a few of his employees, including several operatives?
This was the problem with the baby that was CI-6. An invisible structure meant a hazy sense of self. Lack of accountability.
Could a guy like Murphy just go and wipe out his own front company on a whim?
Sure he could.
But why?
And did everyone else know about it?
McCoy wouldn’t be much help in this department. He was too distracted by Girlfriend. He was more about recruiting—“nurturing talent,” he was fond of saying—than running operations. Keene couldn’t complain; it was how they’d met. Keene had liked being wooed. But now, he worried that his man didn’t have his eye on the full picture here.
Keene fired up the laptop and hit the phones. Told the barman to keep the OJ coming.
David was imagining he was inside a Wawa, and he was browsing the aisles, and he had an unlimited operational budget.
He was able to procure microwaveable hamburgers, Italian submarine sandwiches—Philadelphians called them “hoagies”—tubs of cottage cheese, ooh, cottage cheese. That suddenly sounded good. If he could get himself up off this floor, and take care of everything that needed taking care of, he’d fix the elevators and ride down to the lobby and walk out to Twentieth Street. Just a block south … okay, two half blocks south, if you counted the stupid little side street below Market … there was a Wawa, right at Twentieth and Chestnut. He sneaked down there at lunch, sometimes. A man in his position was expected to dine at one of the Market West hot spots. Truth was, he hated those places. Gimmicky names, nine-dollar cheeseburgers. He preferred to buy lunch in some common place, bring it back in a brown paper bag, feast behind his closed office door. And Wawa was one of his favorites. The refrigerated dairy section was along the right wall. He could see the stacks of 2 percent cottage cheese, blue plastic containers, stacked in the middle. Oddly enough, the whole-milk cottage cheese was too cloying, while the 1 percent skim version was too acidic. Two percent was perfection. Perfect chunky creamy goodness …
Someone touched his face.
“I know you’re still there.”
A female voice.
Someone he recognized. Sort of.
“I’m going to bring you around. But a bit of warning: This is going to hurt.”
Hurt?
Hurt was fine.
As long as he woke up to a blue plastic container of Wawa 2 percent cottage cheese, already open, white plastic protective layer already peeled back, white plastic fork gently shoved into the side.
And crackers. Plenty of Nabisco saltine …
Nichole held the adrenaline shot two feet above David’s chest, then stabbed down and thumbed the plunger.
A supersize dose of epinephrine—the so-called fight-or-flight hormone—pumped into David’s heart and made a lightning tour of his circulatory system.
The reaction wasn’t immediate. It took a few seconds.
But soon David was spitting blood and convulsing.
Then he said, “…
Jamie realized that he’d been holding his breath for a full minute.
Nichole didn’t waste a second. She flung the empty syringe across the conference room and placed her left foot on David’s throat. She applied enough pressure for him to start squirming slightly, even though he was still in the process of regaining consciousness.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
“Can’t … breathe …”
Jamie touched Nichole’s shoulder. “Hey, you might want to ease up—”
Nichole slapped Jamie’s hand away. “Don’t.” Then, she said to David, “Everything, or I snap your neck.”
“Ffffffine.”
Nichole eased up. Slightly. As far as Jamie could tell, neck-snapping was still a distinct possibility.
Jamie was still stunned, despite all that had transpired in the past thirty minutes. If you had called him at home yesterday and told him that he’d be seeing Nichole with her foot pressed against David’s neck in the conference room, with Stuart’s dead body lying in the corner, Jamie would have laughed. Okay, part of him would have hoped it was true. But most of him would have laughed.
Now here it was. Everything took on that harshly lit look of surreality. The hyperreal. The couldn’t-actually- be-true-but-here-it-was.
Nichole was saying: “Who ordered this? And why?”
David smiled, which was creepy, because his eyes were still closed. “Who do you think?” he asked.
More foot pressure. David winced.
“I’m not asking about what I think. I’m asking about what you know. Tell me now and I’ll get you the medical attention you need. Refuse and I’ll be the last thing you see.”
David swallowed. “I used to masturbate to your face.”
A grim smile flashed on Nichole’s face; then she removed her foot and straddled David’s body. Both hands on the sides of his head. She turned him so they were face-to-face. Her thumbs were at his throat.
