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“I got a briefing on that matter you asked about.”
The Otterson suicide.
“Go on,” she says.
“Not here, not now,” he says. “I need to show it to you personally.”
“That important?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he says. “Can we set a time for a meet?”
“Depends on how this session goes with POTUS,” she says. “I’ll call you when I’m free.”
In his small office on the second-floor family quarters, President Barrett says, “I’ve had some connections of mine in the Virginia State Police and FBI tracing the license plate to that Ford Town Car thatwas at your seizure location. Good job, not letting that car distract you, even if you were a day early—”
Noa is sitting in a chair next to the president’s desk and interrupts him. “Sir, sorry to interrupt, but have you done the required notification to the Gang of Eight as to CIA activities on American soil?”
She’s expecting him to explode, or snap back at her, but instead he shakes his head in what looks to be amusement and says, “Our Miss Himel, looking to dot thei’s and cross thet’s.”
Noa says, “This Miss Himel wants to ensure that her actions are legal. Sir, have the notifications been made?”
Simple answer, and to the point: “No.”
All right,she thinks,here we go.
“Sir, it’s been two months since I began operations in the United States, which is against the CIA’s charter and the law,” she says. “I cannot proceed in the future under your direction.”
“What do you propose to do, then?” he asks, voice still cool and calm. “Go squeal to theNew York Timeson how poor Noa Himel is being mistreated by that bad man in the White House?”
Noa’s voice rises in response. “Frankly, sir, what you’ve just said is beneath you. I won’t break my vows of confidentiality and I won’t leak to the press what missions I’ve accomplished.”
“Even if they were good missions, designed to protect me and the nation?”
Noa says, “If the missions were done on American soil without congressional approval, it doesn’t matter what kind of missions they were.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, Noa, I can’t let you go. You will continue doing your job.”
Noa stands up, knowing she’s losing it and not caring. “Mr. President, go to hell. We’re becoming your personal hit squad—assassins—like some Central American dictatorship. It ends with me today, and you can’t stop me.”
“Give me ten seconds,” he says.
She remains standing. Takes a breath.
“All right, sir, ten seconds.”
The president opens a desk drawer, takes out a computer tablet, wakes it, works a few keys, and rotates it so that Noa can see the image on the screen.
An apparent drone photo, taken at about a dozen feet or so in altitude, but showing in great clarity the Virginia landscape and her team and the stopped vehicles, but, most important of all, her with a pistol aimed at the forehead of the Iranian Quds member lying on the pavement.
“It’s also on video,” he says. “Do you want to see it?”
“No.”
“Then sit down.”
Noa returns to her chair, legs weak. The president sighs, closes the tablet, and returns it to the desk. “If I were to show this to a member of the attorney general’s office, how long before you were indicted on a first-degree-murder charge? And what evidence could you provide on your behalf? Was the man threatening you? Was he armed? Or were you performing an extra-legal execution?”
Noa speaks but it’s like someone else’s voice is coming out of her mouth. “I had to make a tough field decision, in an operation sanctioned by you, Mr. President.”
