He had just placed the cup to his lips when she struck.
“The vaunted E-Program has obviously crashed off the tracks.”
He swallowed too large a mouthful of coffee and tried to keep his eyes from watering as the liquid burned his throat. He set the cup down, sponged his lips with his cloth napkin.
“We have issues, yes, but I wouldn’t say that we’ve crashed.”
“How would you describe it?” she asked pointedly.
“We’ve gone off course, but we are working hard to get back on. And I—”
She held up a finger, silencing him. Foster lifted a phone and spoke three words. “The reports, please.”
Moments later an efficient-looking aide delivered the folder to her. She leisurely turned the pages as Bunting stoically watched. He wanted to say,
She said, “The report quality has degraded considerably. Usable intel from the E-Program has fallen thirty-six percent. The reports are a mess. The dots are not being connected like they were. You told me the operation would not be measurably impacted. It clearly has.”
“It’s true that the bar has been set very high. But I—”
She broke in again. “Now, you know you have no bigger supporter than me.”
He knew that was a blatant lie but automatically said, “I appreciate that very much. You’ve been a true asset and marvelous leader during very stressful times.” Cabinet secretaries’ butts were large indeed and required an inordinate amount of kissing.
She smiled for the requisite few seconds, then her expression turned dour. “There are those out there, however, who do not share my enthusiasm. Over the years the E-Program has ruffled some important feathers. Taken budget dollars and mission responsibility from other agencies. That is the Holy Grail in our world. The pie is what it is. Someone gets a bigger slice, others have to make do with a smaller one.”
And DHS, thought Bunting, had taken by far the biggest slice of all.
He said, “But it’s indisputable that the E-Program has been tremendously successful. It’s kept this country safer than if every agency was competing with each other. That model just doesn’t work anymore.”
She said slowly, “I wouldn’t necessarily agree with that assessment. But nevertheless it’s the old question: What have you done for me today? The barbarians are at the gate. And do you realize what might happen if this all becomes public?”
“That will not happen. I can assure you.”
She closed the file. “Well, I’m not assured, Peter, not at all. And neither are the other people who matter. When the CIA director learned of it I thought he was going to have a heart attack. He thinks it’s a colossal time bomb waiting to explode. How do you respond to that?”
Bunting took another swallow of coffee, giving him a few more precious seconds to think.
“I believe strongly that we can turn this around,” he said finally.
She looked at him with incredulity. “That’s your answer? Really?”
“That’s my answer,” he said firmly. He was too exhausted mentally to think of any clever response. And it wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. The lady’s mind was obviously made up.
“Perhaps I’m not getting across to you, Peter.” She paused, seeming to size up what she was about to say. “There are some who think preemptive action is necessitated by the circumstances.”
Bunting licked his dry lips. He knew exactly what that meant. “I think that would be a most unwise move.”
She hiked her eyebrows. “Really? So what’s your recommendation? Wait until the other shoe drops? Wait until the crisis engulfs us? Is that your strategy, Peter? Should I phone the president and let him know of this?”
“I don’t think we need to bother him at this stage.”
“For a smart man you are acting incredibly dense today. Let me make this as clear as possible. This will not blow back to us, do you understand? If it seems like it will, preemptive action will be taken.”
“I will do everything in my power to make sure that does not become necessary, Madame Secretary.”
The use of her formal title by him made the woman smile in amusement.
She rose, put out her hand. He shook it. Her nails were long, he noted. They could scratch his eyes out. Probably reach through his skin and dig out his heart, too.
“Don’t burn bridges, Peter. If you do, very soon you’ll have nothing left to stand on.”
Bunting turned and walked with as much dignity as he could muster from the office. He only had one thought in his head.
He had to go to Maine.
After he was gone Foster finished her coffee. A few moments later the man walked in, responding to the text message she’d just thumbed summoning him.
James Harkes stood at attention a few feet from Foster.
Six foot one, he was perhaps forty years of age, a bit of white in his short, dark hair. He wore a black two- piece suit, white shirt, and straight black tie. He looked ominously strong, his hands thick and fingers rough as barnacles. His shoulders had muscles on top of muscles, but he moved like a cat. Smooth, not an ounce of wasted energy. He was a veteran of many missions on behalf of America and her allies. He was a man who got the job done. Always.
He said nothing as she poured out another cup of coffee without offering him one.
She took a sip and finally looked up at him. “Did you hear all that?”
“Yes,” said Harkes.
“What’s your take on Bunting?”
“Smart, resourceful, but running out of options. The guy doesn’t chase windmills, so we can’t underestimate him.”
“He didn’t ask about Sohan Sharma’s ‘accident.’ ”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Such an unpredictably violent world we live in.”
“Yes it is. New orders?”
“You’ll get them. When the time is right. Just stay on top of it all.”
She gave an almost imperceptible nod and Harkes departed. Then she finished her coffee and went back to her important work protecting herself and her country. And strictly in that order.
CHAPTER
16
CUTTER’S ROCK.
Close to midnight.
Visiting hours long over.
The tower guards patrolled their beats.
The concertina wire glistened in the strong moonlight.
The electrified middle fence was fully powered, ready to char anyone unfortunate enough to collide with it.
The outer gates swung open and the Yukon drove through.
No electronic checks, no vehicle sweeps. No requests for ID. No cavity probes. The Yukon raced down the road.
Next, the hydraulic blast doors on the facility hissed open. At the same time the doors of the Yukon swung open. Peter Bunting was the first one out. As his long feet touched gravel he looked around and pulled his trench coat tighter around him. His young assistant Avery was the only person with him.
Bunting’s private jet had touched down at a corporate jet park less than an hour away by car. They had come directly here.
Carla Dukes met the pair at the entrance.
“Hello, Carla,” said Bunting. “What’s the status?”
