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But he’s as jumpy as if going on his first overseas op.
Liam turns around, taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “I had a meeting with POTUS yesterday as well, and it wasn’t as bad as yours, but it was bad enough.”
“Tell me,” Noa says.
Liam says, “We lost a man in Paris. Boyd Morris. Good guy, good operator. And earlier I learned that another member of our team, Benjamin Lucas, was captured by Chinese authorities in South Africa while on a failed exfil operation. He had been TDY’d from my team back to the Directorate of Operations.”
“You’ve been thinned out, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. I told him that my team members and I wanted a review of our rules of engagement before any more temporary duty assignments get made. He basically told me to shut up, salute, and go up the hill.”
“And?”
“It just got worse. I told him that Boyd Morris needed to have a star carved for him on the Memorial Wall. He flat-out refused. I said I could understand if there was a delay, in order not to upset his current planning, but he said no, not ever. A former director of the CIA refusing to let a star be installed? Unheard of. Especially when he said Boyd died for him. Get that? Boyd didn’t die for the country or the Agency. Nope, in Barrett’s mind, Boyd died for him, and him only.”
“Jesus,” Noa says. “Now I’m thinking that somebody might visit me later tonight. With a box of flowers and a bullet to my forehead.”
Liam watches the happy shoppers out there, wondering if they could even imagine what was being discussed in this old Jeep.
Nothing major.
Just a nice peaceful talk about President Keegan Barrett’s current mental health, and what can be done about it.
Liam says, “Like I said, we need to see Director Abrams. Dump everything in her lap and let her take the lead.”
“Do you trust her?”
“More than I trusted Acting Director Fenway.”
“And how do you plan to talk to her? You know her extension? Think her admin assistants will let us talk to her?”
Liam says, “My plan is for us to go into work tomorrow, just like we belong there, and take the elevator to the seventh floor, and demand to see her.”
“Bold, but what if we get pulled aside before we get through the lobby? Start a fight? Pull a pistol?”
“How about you and I just stage a sit-down strike, hook our armstogether, and start singing, ‘We Shall Overcome’? That will get us what we need: public attention.”
“All right, we get to Director Abrams. It’ll be our word against the president’s.”
Liam says, “She’s one tough and smart cookie. She’ll at least look into it.”
Noa says, “Hold on,” and starts going through her purse. “Hold on, I’ve got something to show her. Something that will tilt the case in our favor.”
Liam watches her take her phone out and before he can say anything, she leans over and starts flipping through the screens.
“Look. A week ago, my team went to pick up a Donna Otterson from the Agency. She was suspected of passing along information to Chinese agents. These are photos of the surveillance operation … see?”
“Noa …” he starts.
“Three scenes of her dropping off information at this park, and the envelopes were retrieved by individuals that we assumed belonged to Chinese Intelligence. But something happened that made me question what was going on. I mean, why us, Barrett’s domestic crew? Why not someone from the FBI or Counterintelligence?”
Liam says, “What was her job?”
“Get this,” Noa says. “Finance resource officer in the Directorate of Support.”
“What the hell, what could she be supplying to the Chinese? Payroll data? What did she tell you after you picked her up?”
There’s a change of tone in Noa’s voice. “She didn’t. She was quiet, seemed unsurprised that we were there. Otterson asked to brush her teeth and get dressed. While in the bathroom, she suicided. Cyanide in a closed toothpaste tube.”