“Wait!” said the woman at the counter.
Faud turned to her. Something in her eye showed him he had given himself away.
Fear had betrayed him. He was unworthy; his cowardice was shameful in the sight of angels.
“You forgot your change,” she said.
He forced a smile, went back for the money. Hopefully this would end soon.
Chapter 6
Blitz rushed into his office, head tilted forward, walking so fast that he nearly bowled Mozelle over. As if the difficulties in Korea weren’t enough, the Israelis had just launched a massive raid against Palestinian terror groups, rounding up more than a hundred leaders of Hamas. Under other circumstances Blitz might have applauded the move, but it came at a particularly bad time: The U.S. secretary of state was due in the region next week for the latest round of peace talks, and now there were sure to be reprisals and more unrest. Blitz’s staff was already working on a paper listing potential fallout.
“Colonel Howe needs to talk to you,” said Mozelle as she backed up to let him pass.
“God, I forgot all about him. Did John call about the CIA review?”
“He was going to e-mail you.”
Blitz dropped into his chair behind his desk, grumbling to himself. He wasn’t sure exactly what to tell Howe, but he couldn’t let the poor guy hang out there, either.
“Coffee?” asked Mozelle. She’d already figured out the answer: A fresh cup was in her hand.
“Thanks.”
“Where do you want to start?” she asked.
“Better get Howe on the line,” he told her. “Might as well get that over with.”
“Then you’ll want to talk to Keiger at State.”
“All right.”
Blitz opened his e-mail queue and began going through his messages. He was about three e-mails in when Mozelle buzzed through, indicating Howe was on the line.
“Colonel, I’m sorry,” said Blitz immediately, without waiting for Howe to say anything. “The CIA is throwing a roadblock up.”
“That’s why my clearance was pulled?”
“It’ll be restored. They moved ahead before I could cut it off.” Blitz had decided to simply have interim clearances posted through his office; he scanned the list of his e-mails to see if he had received confirmation that this would happen.
“What’s going on?” Howe asked. “Am I being screwed here? Because if I’m being screwed, I don’t want the job. The hell with it.”
“Colonel… Bill. You have to calm down. This is unfortunately something that occasionally happens around here. I’ll deal with it. I promise you, I’ll deal with it. What happened was that the CIA launched a review, and as part of the standard practice, certain individuals who aren’t under immediate control — say, a military person still working in a certain area — the clearance gets—”
“The CIA is screwing me?”
“It’s not clear, precisely,” said Blitz, who wasn’t about to stick up for the agency. “On the one hand, the investigation has nothing to do with you. But on the other hand, they may be using it — may, I emphasize — they may just be trying to put pressure on. You’re in a bit of a unique position. It’s possible that they’re looking for you to genuflect.”
“You know what they can do with that.”
Blitz drew a breath.
“Colonel, let me ask you a question,” he said. “You knew nothing about the Korea operation until the Pentagon contacted you, correct?”
“That’s a question?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know anything about it, no.”
“And you’ve already told several people everything that happened.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then there’s not going to be a problem. One of my aides will clear this up for you. As a matter of fact, it may already have been cleared up. In the meantime, you can just go about talking to the board members.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
There were already two other lights lit on his phone, the next calls he had to make. Blitz decided to push on: Either Howe would stick with him or not. He couldn’t afford any more time on this today.
“It’s important that NADT be headed by someone with your experience and abilities,” Blitz told him. “This isn’t a roadblock, this is a pothole. Please don’t get discouraged.”
“Right.” Howe hung up, clearly unhappy.
Blitz hit the Next button, moving ahead.
Chapter 7
Fisher had the cabdriver drop him off behind the department store that sat next to the diner. He waited for the cab to drive off, then went over to the Dumpster near the loading dock. The aroma mixed stale aftershave with week-old fish, and it got ten times worse when he opened the lid. But Fisher had given his nose for his country before; he took a step away, gulped semifresh air, then came back and began climbing up on the garbage bin.
“Yo, dude, what you up to?” said a store worker, appearing from the back.
“Stargazing,” said Fisher, putting his hands on the roof and pulling himself up.
“Dude. Dude,” said the store worker below as Fisher got up to the top. The roof was covered with tar, and Fisher realized he’d have to try vouchering the shoes on his expense account. But there was nothing to be done; he walked out to the end of the roof, peering over the side toward the parking lot where he’d left his car.
The car was there. If someone was watching it, they weren’t being obvious about it.
“Yo, dude, you can’t climb up on our roof, man,” said the store employee, who’d climbed up after him.
“You don’t think?” asked Fisher.
“What are you doing, dude?”
“FBI,” Fisher said.
“Really. Like, whoa. Cool. You got, like, a badge?”
“Sure,” said Fisher, without showing it to him. “I’m, like, with the roof-climbing division. We’re checking to see if there have been any UFO landings here.”
“No shit, whoa,” said the kid. He turned his eyes toward the sky. “I think I saw a flying saucer the other week.”
“You filed the report?”
“Wasn’t me, dude.”
Fisher went back to the spot where he’d climbed up.
“Hey, dude, I think I’m stuck in this tar.”
“I’ll send a helicopter.”
On the ground, Fisher tracked around the back of the lot adjoining the diner, still looking to see if anyone was watching his car. Finally he went back inside, going up to the counter to order a takeout coffee. A man in the front booth near the window got up promptly and left; Fisher turned and watched him, trying to decide if he’d seen the man earlier or not. There was a problem in the kitchen about an order of hash browns after the eleven A.M. cutoff; by the time Fisher got his coffee, the man had driven off.
Fisher took a sip from his cup and surveyed the area. Either the surveillance operation on Howe was pretty
