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Three numbers accompanied each name. The first ranked the likelihood that Rickman would be aware of that individual’s existence on a scale of one to ten. The second used an inverse scale to rank each operative’s importance to America’s security. Finally, the third number was the sum of the first two.

The twenties—people who were low level and unquestionably known by Rickman—were already being prepared for extraction. Too much risk for not enough reward. The twos—critical personnel that Rickman would likely be unaware of—would be staying where they were. The question was, how far down did she go with extractions? Fifteens? Tens? How many lives would she jeopardize in the interest of America’s intelligence efforts?

Once again, Hurley intruded on her thoughts, this time whispering in her ear. You took this job, Princess. Suck it up and do it.

There was a knock on the door and Mike Nash poked his head in. “Bad time?”

She flipped the list facedown on her desk. “A welcome interruption. Are you bringing me good news?”

He entered but didn’t respond to her question.

“I’ll take anything at this point, Mike.”

“Coffee machine’s fixed.”

Kennedy smiled. She still wasn’t sure about Nash, but her view of the man was evolving. She’d been doing some detailed research into his background and discovered that he’d always been the charismatic charmer. Voted most popular in high school, class president in college, and the beneficiary of almost fanatical loyalty from the marines he’d led in combat.

It was a gift that few people had and one that couldn’t be taught. Kennedy had many competent people working for her, but their personalities often left a bit to be desired—mostly insufferable wonks, slick politicians, and swaggering cowboys. Then there was Mitch, who wasn’t exactly a favorite on Capitol Hill. At best, he elicited nervousness from Congress. At worst, fear and hatred.

Kennedy didn’t exempt herself from her clear-eyed evaluation. She was largely seen as an icy intellectual alone in a sea of people who made decisions based on their gut instead of their head. It was a trait that made people question whether there was anything she really believed in. The answer was that there was. She believed in getting the job done.

Nash could be a bit of a handwringer, but admittedly an extremely intelligent one. He’d performed well since Rapp had forced him out of the field and behind a desk. He was good at handling the overblown egos on the Hill and a near prodigy at motivating people. While she and Nash were very different, who was to say that her approach was right and his was wrong? As her mentor, Thomas Stansfield, had been fond of saying, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

“Unfortunately, I’m a tea drinker. Where are we on finding the people disseminating the Rickman files?”

“Let’s just say we’re moving generally forward,” he said, sitting in one of the chairs lined up in front of her desk. “Everyone agrees with your idea that he’d go to an attorney, but the category Every Ambulance Chaser on the Planet is a pretty big one.”

“Is the NSA producing?”

“That’s the problem. Their AI’s ability to filter out the junk is less impressive than they let on. We’re getting everything from a bunch of lawyers in D.C. who won an intermural softball game to a London firm that signed on to represent J. K. Rowling in a plagiarism suit.”

“Nothing useful, then.”

“We thought we had something with a break-in at a firm in Buenos Aires, but it turned out to be a drug addict who got caught two days later pawning their laptops. We have people working around the clock sifting through all the hits. Anything that looks even vaguely interesting gets sent to me.”

“What about Marcus?”

“He’s working on the next step under the assumption that the NSA will eventually turn up something we can use. He figures that the files are being released by some kind of hacker—someone crooked enough to be willing to decrypt and send out classified material but smart enough to keep it from being traced back to him. Finding a guy like that should be right in Marcus’s wheelhouse.”

Kennedy took a sip of her tea, not sure how much to say. It was in her nature to keep secrets, but if things went as badly as she expected, Nash would need to be aware of her suspicions.

“We have even less time than you might imagine, Mike. I believe that we’re not just in a race against Rick, but that we’re competing with another organization.”

Nash nodded. “The Pakistanis.”

She was pleased that he’d come to the conclusion on his own. “Please go on.”

“It’s hard to believe that Akhtar Durrani was the only person in the S Wing who knew about Rick’s files. And if they’re aware they exist, they want them something awful. Depending on how much Rick knew, the ISI could co-opt our entire network in the Middle East. Maybe worldwide.”

“But who?” Kennedy prompted.

“One of Durrani’s men? If you work for the ISI, getting hold of the CIA’s throat wouldn’t exactly be bad for your car

eer.”

It was a reasonable hypothesis—maybe even the right one—but she was concerned Nash was thinking too small.

“What about President Chutani?”

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