More often, nearly every day as far back as he could remember, he had driven north on the George Washington Memorial Parkway to the exclusive entrance to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. The epicenter of his life’s work. Thirty-five fucking years.
Beyond the CIA was the highway ringing the nation’s capital, the artery that fed the city’s sprawling suburbs. The Beltway was the barrier, physically and psychologically, between Washington, D.C. and the rest of the world, he thought. The bubble.
Twenty excruciating minutes later, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled into the parking spot next to him. The Deputy Director impatiently stepped out of his car, double-checked to be certain that no one else had entered the overlook lot, and then slid into the passenger seat of the SUV.
“Sorry I’m late,” said the driver.
“No need to apologize.”
“Damn fund-raisers. They always run late.” She checked her hair in the rearview mirror. “Donors always have to tell you one more story. Some favor they need. Or some boohoo about their successful daughter looking for a job.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the Deputy Director said.
“I don’t think this town used to be like this,” she said. “It’s still beautiful.” To the east, across the river, they could see the top of the steeples of the old buildings at Georgetown University. Farther down the river, off in the distance, they could just make out the peak of the brightly lit Washington Monument. “I love Washington. I really do. But the money has made it dirty.”
The Deputy Director grunted noncommittally.
“This town used to be about principles. About American values. When I first ran for office, I could talk about ideas and what we wanted to achieve. How we were going to stand up for what we believe. For freedom. Now . . . it’s all about money.”
This topic made the Deputy Director uncomfortable, so he changed the subject. “Madam Chairwoman, I saw your hearing this morning.”
“Don’t call me madam, dammit,” Brenda Adelman-Zamora hissed. “It makes me sound like an old woman. And don’t blow smoke up my ass about the hearing. I don’t have much time. Where are we?”
He cleared his throat. “We’re proceeding.”
“How’re you going to do it?” She leaned toward him.
“I believe we agreed that it was better that I not share any operational details.”
“I’m the goddamn chair of the House Intelligence Committee. I have constitutional oversight of your agency. I think I can handle a few details.”
“I promised to update you on progress. That’s why I’m here now,” he said with as much patience as he could muster. “But we also agreed that it was best if specifics be kept to a minimum. If there’s anything you need to know, I will tell you.”
She sat back and frowned. “I’ve heard that need-to-know shit before. I won’t stand for another screwup.”
“We won’t have another failure. I’m personally taking charge of this operation,” the Deputy Director said.
The congresswoman harrumphed.
“I’m sticking my neck out,” he said, hiding his irritation.
“I am fully aware of our deal. You make this happen and I will ensure that you are the next Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
He winced at her words, their arrangement laid out so crudely. So quid pro quo.
“You just make sure you hold up your end,” she said.
He grunted again.
“What else do you need from me?” she asked.
“The less you’re involved, the less you know, the better. I don’t think we should meet again. Not until the operation is over.”
“I’ve heard that all before. You think I can just trust the CIA to get this done for good? How many times have we been down this road?”
“This time is different. I told you. This is my operation.”
“I hope so,” she said. “No excuses. So I’m asking you again: What do you need?”
“Nothing, ma’am.”
“Nothing? I’ve never heard that one before. You don’t need money?”
“No.”
“How’s that possible? How are you running a major covert operation and you don’t need cash?”
“Your committee oversees the intelligence budget. You know we have resources.”
“You buy that constitutional bullshit I just threw at you? You think we have oversight?” She laughed. “I don’t know shit. That budget is a long list of black accounts.”
“I have all the resources I need. We agreed it’s in both our interests that the sources of any financing remain undisclosed. For operational security.”
She eyed him. “For deniability, you mean. In case it all goes wrong again.”
He didn’t reply.
“Fine,” she huffed. “I don’t want to hear later that this thing flopped because you were short of cash.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want any excuses this time.”
“There won’t be.”
“Christ, it’s almost midnight,” she said, checking her watch and turning the ignition back on. “I’ve got to go. I’m on the first flight tomorrow morning down to my constituency for another fund-raiser. You may not need cash, but I do.”
12.
RONALD REAGAN WASHINGTON NATIONAL AIRPORT