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He picks up his phone, gets to work.
CHAPTER 13
IT’S NEARLY ELEVEN p.m. and Liam Grey is at the Tuckerman Roadhouse outside of Langley, Virginia, finishing up a hot roast beef sandwich, homemade fries, and a draft Sam Adams beer, when he spots a familiar face at the other end of the bar. Nearly sixteen hours have passed since this morning’s meeting with the president but he still feels wired and alert. He drops three ten-dollar bills on the mahogany bar and picks up his beer, to see if the woman down there feels the same.
Noa Himel sees him approaching and lifts a glass of clear liquid in salute, and he returns the gesture. She has on blue jeans and a plain gray sweatshirt, and as he gets near, he leans in and over the noise of the customers, says, “Want to find someplace private?”
“Sure, if there is such a place.”
Noa picks up her drink and he maneuvers her to the rear of the tavern. This roadhouse is off the beaten path for most tourists and is a popular after-hours destination for military and civilian workers from the Pentagon, as well as those working for the Agency. One of the old-timers who had mentored Liam at the Farm told tales of how decades ago, off-duty workers would go to bars wearing Company lanyards around their necks, badges hidden in their shirtpockets. A way of concealing your true employment but quietly demonstrating your importance.
That was probably a cool thing to do during the Cold War, but ever since 1993—when a terrorist shot up a line of cars waiting on Route 123 to turn into CIA headquarters and killing two CIA employees and wounding three others—the rules had changed.
Noa finds a corner table that is cluttered with half-empty glasses and crumpled napkins. She sits down, back to the wall, and he does the same.
He sits quietly with her for a long few seconds and says, “Well?”
“Well, what?” she says sharply. “You were so damn chatty this morning, I thought I’d let you go first. You suddenly shy all the time?”
Liam takes a swallow of his beer. “What to say?” He checks the crowd, knowing from training and instinct how to converse out in public, without letting classified details slip out. “The boss made good points. I liked what he had to say. You … you sounded like he was about to set up reeducation camps or something like that.”
Noa frowns, runs a finger around the edge of the glass. “Remember your first real day at work? In the Bubble? We took an oath about defending the Constitution. Not the president of the United States.”
“He’s making it legal. That’s good enough for me.”
“He’s stretching it, and you know it.”
Liam says, “There’s an opportunity here for both of us to make an impact, to really hit some bad guys where it counts.”
“So pretend we’re in the Army, just salute smartly, and go up that hill?”
“No, as Agency employees, we say ‘yes, sir,’ and follow his instructions. The Agency works for the president. I don’t have a problem with that.”
Noa stays quiet. Liam takes in the faces of the government employees and contractors, crowded around the tavern’s square barand tables, talking in small groups, seeing lots of smiles and laughter, but also seeing the quiet ones. They were the ones with haunted eyes, either just home from abroad with fresh, bloody memories, or just left their offices, the burden of looming deadly threats still fresh in their minds.
Liam says, “Last year I was in the Middle East. Country in the middle of a civil war. Keeping watch on things. A couple of folks of interest wandered into this house we were observing. Checked them using our facial recognition software … two solid hits on … guys of interest. With long histories, you know? We sent word up the line, and the word came back. Leave them alone. Negotiations were in a delicate stage. They left later, and they were responsible for … some stuff. Deadly and horrific stuff.”
He finishes his beer. “You know what? Negotiations are always in a delicate stage. Screw it. And if you don’t want to take the job, Noa, don’t. I plan to do it, and with great professionalism and enthusiasm.”
She picks up her drink and lowers it. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Liam.”
“Didn’t think I was.”
“Six or seven months ago, I was in Cambridge,” Noa says.
“The one here or the one over there?”
“The one here,” she says. A loud burst of laughter pauses Noa for a second, and when it quiets down, she continues, “I was assigned liaison to an FBI task force, running surveillance on a foreign intelligence cell working out of Cambridge.”
Liam says, “Were they on the city council?”
For a moment it looks like Noa is considering a smile. “No, it was a husband-and-wife team, and their neighbors were another husband-and-wife team. They all had jobs in various defense firms out on Route 128. I was getting briefed by the lead FBI agent and I asked how long they had been here. Three years … can you believe it? Three goddamn years … I asked, well, when are you planning totake them out? The FBI guy just laughed at me. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘They’re money in the bank. We keep them happy, let them do their work, and if there ever comes a time when one of you folks gets captured overseas, we use them for an exchange.’”
Liam stays quiet, sensing she wants to say more.
She does.
“Get that?” she says. “We were letting those four spies steal our most advanced military technological developments, just because one day, someday, they could be used as poker chips. Meanwhile, our enemies get advanced targeting technology, software, and weapons systems schematics without being bothered. We weren’t thinking about the now, about damage they’re doing every damn day, week, and month. Once again, we were being played for suckers for some possible future goal.”
