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Nash put his phones back together, turned them on, and headed for the elevators. When the doors opened on the sixth floor, he forced himself to get out. He walked across the carpeted hallway, held his card up against the black pad, and waited to hear the click that would allow him to enter the bullpen. It came and he opened the door and stepped into the big room. Men and women from virtually every federal agency that had anything to do with law enforcement, intelligence gathering, and the military were present. They were sprawled out across the gymnasium-sized room in working pods designed to make them more efficient. On the far wall was a massive screen the size of a neighborhood movie theater. It was flashing images from eight different news organizations.
Nash didn’t look at them, but he could feel the hush spread through the buzz of the room and knew that one by one they were turning to note his arrival. Nash had spent much of the day bracing himself for what was about to happen. His voice mail was full, and he hadn’t bothered to clear it. He figured he’d wait until he could sit down at his desk and call it up on speakerphone. Besides, the people who really mattered knew not to call that number.
Nash broke left and headed down the side of the room. He passed several glass-walled offices and kept his chin down. He’d made it to within a few feet of his own office when he heard his name barked by an all-too-familiar voice. Nash slowly turned and faced Art Harris. The forty-two-year-old was the bureau’s deputy assistant director of their CTC division. He was almost six feet tall, had receding close-cropped hair, and mocha-colored skin. He was extremely fit for a man who spent his days behind a desk.
Harris had one hand resting on the hilt of his 357 Sig and the other held a copy of the Post. “You want to tell me what in the hell this is all about?”
“Good afternoon, Art.”
“Don’t good afternoon me. Explain this.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
“Bullshit.”
Nash pointed at Harris’s hip. “Are you gonna draw on me, cowboy?”
Harris, feeling slightly foolish with everyone watching, took his hand off his gun. “Don’t change the subject. I asked you a direct question.”
“I wasn’t aware that I answered to you, Art.”
“Don’t play games with me, Nash. I’ll have your ass transferred out of here by sundown.”
“Please do. Although I might miss watching you play wet nurse.”
Harris shook the paper. “Stop dodging my question.”
“It’s all bullshit, Art.”
“Fiction?”
“Yep.”
“You know I’m no fan of the Post. They usually manage to put their little spin on most of the propaganda they put out there, but I don’t recall them being in the business of just making shit up whole cloth.”
“I don’t know what to tell ya.”
“How about the truth?”
Nash sighed and said, “Art, I don’t know how to say it any other way. I have no idea what that reporter is talking about.”
“If I find out that you’re lying to me, I’m going to nail your ass to the wall.”
“You arrogant prick.” Nash took a couple of steps toward Harris. “You gonna start investigating people based on what’s printed in the Washington Post? Because if that’s the case, maybe we should investigate you guys for being a bunch of nutless pussies.”
Harris took three quick steps forward and got right in Nash’s face. “You want to take this down to the parking garage?”
“You wouldn’t stand a chance, and you know it.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I’m sure,” Nash said as he backed away. “Why don’t you call that reporter and find out why he’s printing lies about the CIA. Maybe you could indict him for treason.” Nash slipped into his office and slammed the door. With a smile on his face, he walked over to his desk and looked down at a printed call list. The damn thing was a page and a half long. His wife had called three times. Nash quickly picked out which ones were the most important and then checked his watch. He had about an hour before he’d have to leave for the command performance with the Intelligence Committee. He would have done almost anything to get out of it, but he knew he had no choice. He’d have to sit there and take their pompous shit, and then lie to them, and thank them for their thoughtful and patriotic stewardship.
CHAPTER 31
SENATOR Lonsdale stared up at the vote total on the board and looked around for someone to choke. She’
d waited sixteen years for her party to get control of the Senate, and now with a five-person majority they couldn’t even pass a simple spending resolution. She scanned the well of the Senate in search of the majority whip. She’d never liked the little pudd from Illinois and had led a very vocal opposition to his being given the post. Her dark brown eyes zeroed in on him, and she began muttering a few profanities under her breath.
