William Rubens rose from his desk and unfolded the gray security blanket, draping it over the work surface with the same precision that he brought to every task he undertook. The corners had to be positioned just so over the shallow baskets at the corners; the creases were lined so they cut the large desk into an exact chessboard. Rubens smoothed the surface with his fingers, running them down the sides in the same manner his tailor used to set the seams on his pants. The National Security Agency’s regulations called for the blanket to be used to cover sensitive papers on a desk whenever an NSA employee left his or her office. Rubens rarely left any papers, sensitive or otherwise, on his desk, but he would sooner neglect his personal hygiene than fail to place the blanket when leaving the building. Attention to detail was the only thing that allowed the mind to make order from chaos, and in his job as the number-two man at the NSA — and the head of the agency’s ultra-high-tech covert “Deep Black” force, known officially as Desk Three — delineating order from chaos was William Rubens’ prime concern.
Desk covered, chair positioned, Rubens stepped to the wooden credenza at the side of the office, double- checking that the drawers were locked. Finally, he reached to his stereo — hand — built by the agency’s technical division to prevent the possibility of bugging devices — and turned off the Schumann midmovement.
Rubens had nearly reached the door to his office when the secure satellite phone in his jacket began to vibrate. The sat phone was one of two he carried; the other he might not have answered, as the number could be reached by anyone in the agency and quite a number of people beyond. But this phone was used exclusively for Desk Three operations, and so with a sigh he sat down in the chair near the door and entered the code to accept the transmission.
“Rubens.”
“Mr. Rubens, this is Charlie Dean.”
“Charles.”
Dean was an ex-Marine foisted on Rubens by the White House for a recent mission. Though considerably older than most of Rubens’ operatives, he had proven so capable that Rubens had added him to Desk Three’s operations team. A Vietnam veteran who’d spent the last days of that war as a sniper, Dean brought a certain maturity to the job that Rubens appreciated.
“I have a bit of a problem here,” said Dean.
“I thought you were on holiday,” said Rubens, who had given Dean and the rest of the team from Russia a few days off.
“I came up to New York to see a friend and, uh, I found a body in his house.”
“Your friend?”
“No, he’s not here. I don’t know where he is.”
Rubens stared at the painting on the wall across from him, noting the subtle use of the green shades.
“Where is your friend, Charles?” he asked again.
“Haven’t a clue. I was wondering whether I should call the police.”
“By all means, you should call the police.”
“If they ask what I do?”
“You’re a government employee, Mr. Dean. It need go no further than that. Who is your friend?”
“James Kegan. He’s a scientist.”
The name registered in Rubens’ brain, but he could not decide why. He knew Kegans and Kagans — Tom Kegan in at the Pentagon, Kagan at State, the historian, of course….
“Do you think he murdered this person?” Rubens asked.
“I don’t — I wouldn’t think so.”
“Are you there now?”
“I’m standing over the body.”
How inconvenient, thought Rubens.
“Alert the authorities. Keep me informed.” He glanced at his watch. He was due for his weekly haircut in forty minutes; after that he had a session with his yoga master. “Charlie, you were right to call me. For the next few hours I’ll be tied up. If you need anything, speak to Marie in the Art Room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rubens clicked off, entering his security codes as required to disentangle the phone from the system. He rose and went to the desk, pulling the blanket back from the comer so he could pick up the secure phone that tied to the Art Room — Desk Three’s control room, where Marie Telach was on duty as supervisor.
“Marie, I’d like you to find out what you can on a James Kegan of New York. He lives in—” Rubens slid his thumb over the buttons on his phone to retrieve the GPS location that Dean had called from.
“Athens, New York,” said Telach. “We’re on it already. Charlie talked to me first.”
“Very good.”
“Listen, boss, you’re going to want to take a look at this.”
“Why would that be?”
“He’s some sort of expert in germ warfare. His name is on our file as a potential consultant.”
Rubens considered the painting once again. Green faded to gray; gray merged with black… shadow blurring to shade, shade to shadow: the perfect representation of the world Rubens and his people operated in.
“Is Mr. Dean aware of this?” Rubens asked.
“I don’t think so. He knows he’s a big-shot scientist, but when I spoke to him I hadn’t run the name.”
“I will be back in the building no later than eleven-thirty. Please have the details waiting in my queue.”
3
“You found him just like this?”
“Haven’t touched him. You can see where the blood is. I would have to have stepped into it.”
“How’d you know he was dead?”
“Well, I guess in theory I don’t,” Dean told the plainclothes investigator.
“All right, let’s go outside. ID people have to go over the place.”
“ID?”
“Crime-scene guys.”
The state police investigator put his hand out in the direction of the door. Dean walked out to the front of the house and followed down toward the driveway, which was now filled with several troop cars, an SUV, and an unmarked Bureau of Criminal Investigation sedan.
“You mind showing me your license?”
“I went through this with the trooper.”
“Yeah, I know.” The BCI investigator didn’t sound particularly apologetic. “You right- or left-handed?”
Dean held out his arms so the investigator could look at his sleeves himself. “You want to dust me or something?”
The investigator stared at Dean’s arms and hands. Probably he was trying to decide whether Dean was smart enough to wash and change his clothes after firing a gun, so there were no traces of gunpowder.
Or blood.
“How ’bout that license?” said the investigator, looking up.
“Your name again was—”
“Achilles Gorman. License?”
Dean took out his wallet and handed over his ID. He’d already put his pistol and its holster in the car — not hiding them, exactly, just trying to avoid unnecessary questions.
Gorman called in the license information, then copied it in a small notebook he’d taken from his pocket.
“You live in California?” the detective asked.
“I’m in the process of relocating.”
“Up here?”
“Maryland.”
They went back and forth like that for a while, the investigator gathering useless background information.
