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But she keeps that opinion to herself—not even sharing it with her deputy, Jean Swantish—because this man is Terrence Grant, the director of national intelligence, retired admiral from the US Navy, and nominally her boss.
After 9/11 and the intense failure that was the search for Iraqi weapons of mass destruction, legislature was passed years back for one intelligence position that would oversee all of the alphabet intelligent agencies, from the National Security Agency to the Defense Intelligence Agency.
Terrence is a tall, slim man with brown-rimmed glasses, black hair, and a look and presence that he doesn’t feel quite comfortable either in his skin or his pricey gray pinstripe suit.
He says, “Hannah, with all due respect, I need more than just a fifteen-minute session here with you. We need to have a meeting of deputies and principals, clear up lines of communication andresponsibility, and get the intelligence community moving forward as one.”
Terrence waits and looks around the empty conference room table. In a traditional meeting, there would be a coffee and tea service, with some sort of late-morning snacks, but Hannah isn’t feeling traditional.
“Sorry, Terrence, but I’m doing a lot of catch-up,” she says, smiling sweetly, remembering her meeting with the Senate majority leader at the Button Gwinnett Room, where he said the president was delaying Hannah’s confirmation due to Terrence’s objections.
She adds, “I’m sure you know exactly what I’m facing.”
Terrence says, “Not entirely. Which is why I think this meeting is imperative.”
No, it’s not,Hannah thinks. Keeping the president in his lane and ensuring he doesn’t stumble this country into war is her imperative. And she’s wasted fifteen minutes that should have been spent dealing with that problem, instead of this worthless meet and greet.
But appearances must be kept.
“Sometime soon, Terrence, I promise,” she says. “We’ll get the biggest conference room here at the campus, and you can bring in as many principals and deputies you’d like, and we’ll get the job done.”
“Why not later in the week?”
“Like I said, I’m quite busy, my confirmation having been delayed so long.”
Plus, Hannah thinks, after spending this time with the DNI, the Four Ds—the directors of Operations, Intelligence, Administration, and Science and Technology—will be pushing her hard for a meeting.
Just not enough time!
“I hear you’ve set up a bed in your office,” he says. “As well as your deputy.”
Hannah says, “You hear right. I guess some of my folks here aresending you back-channel information. You must be thrilled. Our relatives’ plates are overflowing, and we’re trying to play catch-up by staying here, twenty-four/seven.”
He purses his thin lips, shakes his head. “I can cause a lot of trouble for you and the Agency, Hannah, if you don’t cooperate.”
“I’m sure,” she says, checking her watch. He has one more minute left and enough is enough. “But now we’ve run out of time.”
His face flushes and he says, “What makes you think you’re so special?”
“Excuse me?” she replies, nearly laughing at his question. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
A soft knock on the door, and one of her security officers, Gary, walks in and says, “Sorry, ma’am, but Deputy Director Swantish says she needs to see you right away.”
“Thanks, Gary,” she says, and stands up. “Thanks for coming over, Terrence. And I will make it up for you at a later date. If you’re still talking to me then.”
She takes a few steps and then turns. “You’re ex-Navy, Terrence. I’m sure you remember Admiral King, the CNO during World War II.”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, remember this,” she says. “After one of his unexpected promotions, he supposedly said, ‘When they get in trouble they send for the sons of bitches.’”
Hand on the conference room’s doorknob, Hannah says, “Well, we’re in trouble, and they’ve sent for the bitch.”
CHAPTER 91
LIAM GREY FEELS out of time, out of place, standing on a flat stretch of scrubland in South Africa, back in his civilian clothes, sweaty and tired and still stunned at what the past two hours have been like, flying so high and so dark. There’s an empty runway and a distressed-looking hangar that is holding the A-22 hypersonic jet that brought him here, and not much else.
The wind is blowing hard and all around this empty land is lots of sand and low brush, and a dirt road leading away to the south. Mountains are on the distant horizon. At this end of the dirt road is a dusty, black, two-door Volkswagen Polo sedan with Northern Cape province license plates.
