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CHAPTER
33
HE WAS NOT OFFICIALLY KNOWN as the NSA, because that would have confused him with the National Security Agency. Technically he was the assistant to the president for national security affairs, or APNSA. He was not Senate-confirmed, but was selected directly by the president. His office was in the West Wing near the Oval Office. The APNSA had no authority over any government agency, unlike the secretary of homeland security or the defense secretary.
Given those limitations it would be easy to conclude that the APNSA wielded little authority or influence. That conclusion would be patently wrong.
Anyone with the direct ear of the president had enormous authority and wielded staggering influence. In times of national crisis the APNSA operated directly from the White House Situation Room, with the president usually right next to him.
Robie knew all of this as he was driven to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The tank-stopping gates opened and the SUV motorcade swept into arguably the most famous address in the world.
The walk was short once they left the vehicles. Robie was not taken to the Situation Room. That was reserved for a national crisis. Well, he thought, if things kept going the way they were, it might become a very busy place.
He was taken to a small conference room and told to sit. So he sat. He knew there were armed men right outside the door.
He wondered if the president was in town today. He was certain the man had been briefed on all this. What he had made of that briefing was anyone’s guess.
Robie sat alone for five minutes, long enough to show that the man he was waiting for was very important and that Robie’s matter, though critical, was only one of many the APNSA was juggling.
The world, after all, was a very complicated place. And America, as the only remaining superpower, was right in the middle of all the complications. And no matter what the United States did, half the world would hate it and the other half would complain that the Americans were not doing enough.
Robie refocused when the door opened. The man entering the room was largely unknown to a public that would have a hard time naming any cabinet member and sometimes even tripped over the vice president’s name.
Robie assumed he preferred the anonymity.
His name was Gus Whitcomb. He was sixty-eight years old, a little soft in the gut, but he still had broad shoulders carried over from his days as a linebacker at the Naval Academy. He must not have taken too many hits to the head, because his brain seemed to be working on all cylinders. He had the reputation of going after America’s enemies with a potent mixture of passion and ruthlessness. And he was thoroughly relied on by the president.
He sat down across from Robie, put on wire-rimmed spectacles, and glanced down at the e-tablet he had carried in with him. The White House, like the rest of the world, was going paperless. He read down the screen, took off his glasses, slipped them into his jacket pocket, and looked up at Robie.
“The president sends his best.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Well, he appreciates you.”
The niceties over, Whitcomb shifted gears. “Tough night for you.”
“Unexpected, yes.”
“Last update on DiCarlo looks better. They think she’ll pull through.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’ve read your account several times. But it gives no indication of who the attackers could have been.”
“I never got a clear look at any of them. They were firing from long range. Forensics on the ground provide anything?”
“Lots of shell casings.”
Robie nodded. “Any bodies?”
Whitcomb looked at him sharply. “Why would that be? You could hardly have hit them with your pistol from that range.”
Robie had walked right into that one. He never should have offered anything other than what was in his official report. He must be more tired than he thought.
“They were advancing on us when I got us out of there. But I fired some shots right at them. You never know if you’re going to get lucky or not.”
Whitcomb didn’t seem to be listening to this, which was troubling to Robie. That made it seem as though Whitcomb had already made up his mind about something. Then what the man had said registered in Robie’s brain, and he tried hard to keep the realization off his features.
Shell casings. Lots of them.
As though he had actually read Robie’s mind, Whitcomb said, “More than forty shell casings were found by a tree to the left of DiCarlo’s home. The way most of the casings were positioned when they were found on the ground indicates that the shooter was firing toward where you reported the other shooters to be and also where blood and different shell casings were discovered. Also found there were glass shards that have been identified as being from both sniper scopes and flashlights. So the question becomes, who else was out there?”
He stared pointedly at Robie.
When Robie said nothing, Whitcomb said, “You could hardly have missed seeing the person who fired over forty high-powered rifle rounds at a target that was firing on you. So who was your guardian angel? That’s the first question. The second question is, why wasn’t that information already in your report?”
“It’s an issue of trust, sir.”
From his slack expression, this was not the response Whitcomb was expecting. “Excuse me?” he said sharply.
“Ms. DiCarlo expressed to me that things were not as they should be at the agency and other places. Things that troubled her. She indicated that a crisis was approaching. She only had two men guarding her because they were the only two she trusted.”
Whitcomb put his glasses back on, as though doing so would make him see more clearly what Robie had just said.
“Am I to believe that the number two at the agency didn’t trust her employer? Meaning the CIA?” He shook his head slowly. “That is very, very difficult to comprehend, Mr. Robie.”
“I’m just telling you what she told me.”
“And yet that extraordinary assertion also was not in your report. And Ms. DiCarlo unfortunately is not available to corroborate your statement.”
“She invited me to her house, sir. To tell me these things.”
“Again, your word only.”
“So you don’t believe me?” Robie said.
“Well, you apparently don’t believe anything either.”
Robie shook his head but didn’t respond.
Whitcomb pressed on. “My briefings indicate that we have a rogue agent killing agency personnel. You were assigned to come on board, find, and terminate said rogue agent. It does not seem to me that you are any closer to finding her. Indeed, it seems that you are starting to believe that the true enemy is located on the inside instead of on the outside.”
“When one’s own side withholds information from me I think it only natural that my confidence in my side goes down. And it also makes it a lot harder to do my job.”
“Withholds information?”
“Redacted files, corrupted crime scenes, cryptic meetings where more is left unsaid than said. Agendas that seem to keep shifting. Not an ideal platform for success in the field.”
Whitcomb stared down at his hands for a few moments before looking up and saying, “Just answer this simple question. Did you see the person who fired off those rounds?”
Robie knew if he hesitated with his answer it would be calamitous. “It was a woman. I didn’t see the face clearly. But it was definitely a woman.”
