12
Vice President Gordon didn’t like Garfield Kromly. The old CIA trainer was a uniquely dislikable man, which was precisely the reason why Kromly had been put in charge of new field operatives instead of rising through the ranks. Unlike the military, the CIA had a place for people who would rise no higher than their current station. Kromly might suck at kissing ass, but he was very, very good at everything else.
Besides Kromly, two others sat at the briefing table across from the vice president: Bert Paralto and Bridget Dunn, both senior NSA staffers who had worked closely with Jonathan Riles.
George Gordon leaned back in his chair. “Okay, Kromly. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Kromly clicked a button on the remote control and a list of names appeared on the flat-panel display at the end of the table.
“As you requested, sir, this is a list of all the operatives capable of pulling off the Los Alamos truck hit. On the left is a list of contract mercenaries who could have been in the service of Jonathan Riles, before his unfortunate demise.”
“In other words, you haven’t been able to track down those people’s recent activities,” said Gordon.
“Precisely.”
“And the right column?”
“That’s a list of field operatives who were reported killed in the last five years but we don’t have a body for.”
“Show them to us.”
Kromly pressed another button on the remote and the photograph of a man replaced the list on screen. For the next hour and a half, he presented the photographs, accompanied by a brief biographical description of each. And after each photograph the two NSA people would shake their heads. They had never seen a single person on the live list.
The dead list presented problems. The files of several people on that list contained no photographs.
Having exhausted their usefulness, the vice president released the NSA staffers before turning his attention back to Kromly.
“I want pictures of everyone.”
“We have people working on it.”
George Gordon rose to leave, then looked back at Kromly.
“Jonathan Riles was the best I ever knew at picking his team. Worst-case scenario, who on that list would give us the most trouble?”
Kromly hesitated briefly but did not glance at the list to answer. “No question. That would be the Ripper.”
“I don’t recall that name on the list.”
“Real name’s Jack Gregory. Killed by Al Qaeda in Pakistan in two thousand two.”
“You know that for sure?”
“We don’t have his body.”
“I want a picture.”
As the vice president turned back toward the door, Kromly’s voice stopped him.
“Sir, I hope your intuition is wrong.”
“And why is that?”
“Best to let the nightmare sleep.”