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“Is it as bad as I think it is?”
“Probably worse—” Bunting paused because the waitress came over to take their orders. She was wide of hip and weary of face, and her calves were red and puffy, probably from being on her feet for ten hours carrying large platters of seafood and mugs of beer. They ordered coffees and she departed, looking relieved that that was all they desired.
Bunting put down his menu and took off his glasses.
“Tell us,” said Paul simply.
“They want to shut down the E-Program. They want to destroy me. They want to do the same to your brother.”
“In fact they want things the way they were, you mean,” said Paul.
“Yes.”
“You had to know this day would come.”
“Knowing and doing something about it are two very different things. And I guess I had hoped, however naïvely, that the climate had changed for the better. I was wrong, obviously.”
She said, “Who’s playing the black chess pieces?”
Sean said, “Hold on, here comes our coffee.”
The waitress set down the mugs, creamer, and sugar and said, “Will you all want anything else? The kitchen is getting ready to close up.”
“No, thanks,” said Bunting. He handed the woman a hundred-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.
She walked off beaming, and Bunting turned back to Paul.
“The black pieces, Peter?” she said again. “I think I know but I want confirmation.”
Bunting pulled out two photos from his jacket. He laid them next to each other on the checkered tablecloth. “Just so we’re absolutely clear on the point.”
Paul nodded and said, “Thanks for the confirmation.”
“So you suspected?” he asked.
“Of course. She was the most logical choice.”
“Do you know who they are?” Bunting asked Sean.
Sean couldn’t seem to pull his gaze from the photos. “The lady is Ellen Foster from DHS. I don’t recognize the man.”
“Mason Quantrell, CEO of the Mercury Group.”
“They’re a big player in the intelligence field, right?” asked Sean.
“One of the biggest. And my chief competitor. Ever since the E-Program came on-line and supplanted what he was doing for the government, he’s been mostly relegated to low-hanging and far less valuable fruit. Though he still makes truckloads of money.”
“And that didn’t sit well with Mr. Quantrell, did it?” asked Paul.
“You know him?”
“Of him. He has a reputation for underperforming and overbilling. In most sectors that would lead to disaster. In the defense and intelligence-gathering world it simply gets you more of what you don’t deserve.”
“It’s not just about the money, it’s about the prestige. He doesn’t like playing second fiddle, getting my leftovers. He’s been after me ever since,” said Bunting. “His way is to throw a lot of expensive shit against the wall and see what sticks. No integration. No thought. God forbid any sharing of resources or results. With that philosophy it’s a wonder we only had one 9/11.”
Paul tapped the photo of Foster. “I knew Ellen Foster before she was Madame Secretary. You would be hard-pressed to find someone more ruthlessly ambitious. With the brains to match.”
Sean said, “But DHS? I thought it would be more likely CIA or NSA playing dirty games like this. DHS is homeland security. Are they that big on intelligence now?”
