“I understand, Carl.” Then Trafford paused for a moment, and Carl realized he was seeing a brilliant mind come up with a solution. He waited.
Temp said slowly, “I think I know how to save our asses and keep those idiots in Congress from censoring us. You will quietly give all the needful information to Maitland at the FBI. If they manage to find these people and bring them down, we’ll stand back, out of the limelight, and let him and his team take the credit. Nicholas Drummond and Mike Caine are the leads on COE, both smart and focused. Maitland has put Dillon Savich on the case—they’ve worked with him in the past. Yes, they’ll fit right in. And if they manage to stop Damari, then no one need ever know the CIA was involved here.”
“I see a big hole,” Carl said. “If Vanessa survives surgery, the FBI will insist on speaking to her. There’s no way, if you’re forced in front of Congress, that I’ll allow Vanessa to be thrown to the wolves, Temp.”
“No, no, of course not. Carl, I can massage that. This is our play: we’ll dump it off on the FBI, let them run with it. They can have all the glory and keep us out of it. Vanessa isn’t dirty. She was trying her best to keep us all safe. They’ll understand and we’ll cover for her. I promise, it will all work out.” And he beamed at Carl and added, “I want you to meet with Drummond and Caine personally and give them anything they want to help them find Matthew Spenser and Zahir Damari. Many lives are at stake, Carl, not the least of which is Callan’s. You must find out what Vanessa knows about COE’s plans, when and where, before the FBI grills her. Then we can move toward neutralizing this assassination threat against Callan, because the last thing we want is her dead. You’re on board, right?”
“Of course.”
When Carl Grace left him, Trafford sat down at his desk, laced his fingers behind his head. He’d been tired, but now, if everything went right, if Maitland’s wunderkinds proved themselves as great as their rep, then he would keep his job and the CIA wouldn’t get a black eye.
? ? ?
Carl’s cell phone rang as he left Trafford’s office. It was the hospital. His heart hammered in his ears; his mouth went dry. “Any news?”
The nurse said, “Mr. Grace, your niece started bleeding internally again and that bottomed out her blood pressure. They believe it was into her collapsed lung, on the side of her pneumothorax. The doctors are still working on her. I’m afraid it’s rather dire, sir.”
39
KING TO F1
George Washington University Hospital
Vanessa wasn’t floating this time. She knew immediately she was in the hospital, knew she was in bed, tethered to more needles than she wanted to think about, all of them helping her stay alive. Yes, she was still alive.
She couldn’t open her eyes, nor could she really think, so she let herself drift. Back, back to Londonderry, Ireland. Was it four months ago that it all started? She remembered being undercover in Northern Ireland, working her way ever closer and closer until finally Ian McGuire had talked in a lowered voice about the Bishop, patting her hand, telling her how he was the one she needed to join up with, given her amazing talent at building bombs.