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“I am well aware of your history with Agent Hayek. Stay the hell away from her, or I will make your life miserable in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.” K
ennedy took a step back and in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear said, “Now, in the future, Special Agent Wilson, if you would like to conduct an interview with any of my people you will contact my office to coordinate. Are we clear?”
Before Wilson could answer, a shrill voice carried down the hallway like a Klaxon. “What in the hell is going on here?”
Wilson looked over his shoulder to see the ball-busting Latino waddling her way toward them. His face went slack.
Shaking her finger at Wilson, she said, “You better have that warrant we talked about or I swear to God I’m not just going to have you thrown out of this hospital, I’m going to have you thrown off this base.”
Wilson had had enough altercations for the day, and he really didn’t want to stick around and answer more of Kennedy’s questions. “Sorry about the miscommunication, Director. I’ll be in contact with your office.” Not waiting for a reply, he brushed past Kennedy and out the door.
Kennedy watched with more than a bit of confusion. The blustering Joel Wilson was known for seeking out confrontation, not running from it. She looked back to a very upset Command Master Sergeant Sanchez, who was still making her way down the hall. Kennedy had spoken with Sanchez earlier, and the woman had been very helpful in regard to Rapp’s care. “Command Master Sergeant Sanchez, what was that you said about a warrant?”
Sanchez was out of breath and flushed. She held a finger up to Kennedy and said, “Excuse me one second.” She turned to the young airman behind the desk and said, “Get base security on the horn. I want to speak to Colonel DePuglio ASAP, and if he’s not available get me Major Callahan. You’d think we were running a damn zoo here.” Turning back to Kennedy, Sanchez took a heavy breath and said, “I’m sorry, Director. What did you want?”
“That man who just left. Did you say something about a warrant?”
She nodded vigorously, “He was trying to bully his way in to see your man Mr. Cox, although he was calling him Mr. Rapp. Part of some official investigation, he said, all full of himself.”
Sanchez was still talking, but Kennedy was only half listening. She had the ominous feeling that someone out there, or more likely an organization, had gone to great lengths to cripple the Clandestine Service. Too many seemingly random things were beginning to pile up—far too many to be a coincidence. Wilson would be easy enough to play. The man had an infatuation with himself, and by extension a need to validate himself, by tearing down those who were not part of the Counterintelligence Division. Unfortunately the CIA was the perfect target for him. And Wilson had a reputation for tenacity. He would dig until he got what he wanted, and he wouldn’t play fair. Kennedy decided then and there that she was going to need to get proactive.
CHAPTER 32
KENNEDY asked Sanchez if Wilson had gotten in to see Rapp, and if so, what he wanted. Sanchez retold the events in her colorful, clipped military diction and made it very clear that she wasn’t going to let that clown get anywhere near any of her patients. Mr. Cox was safe, Sanchez assured Kennedy. Kennedy wondered if she should suggest placing a guard outside Rapp’s door, but thought better of it. Sanchez was likely to take that as an indictment that she couldn’t do her job. A better angle was to bring Sanchez into her confidence.
Asking her for a word in private, Kennedy followed Sanchez down the hall about twenty feet and then said, “I need to be very careful about what I say, since this is all very classified material, but I get the sense I can trust you.”
Sanchez nodded as if to say “you’re damn right.”
“Mr. Cox is one of my top covert operatives. He was working on something very sensitive. Another one of my people has gone missing and we need to find him ASAP. I think Mr. Cox might have some information that could help us, but unfortunately his memory is very spotty at the moment.”
Sanchez nodded. “Doctors told me they don’t expect that to last. Every day he’ll remember more and more.”
Kennedy smiled, “And when he does, I need someone there. With your permission I would like to have one of my people at his bedside.”
“Twenty-four-seven.” Sanchez frowned. It was obvious she didn’t like the sound of this.
“If at any point you think someone is misbehaving, by all means you can throw them off your floor, but I can assure you, Command Master Sergeant, like you, I run a tight ship. My people will be as quiet as church mice.”
After considerable thought, Sanchez relented. Kennedy thanked her for all of her help and handed her a card. “That’s my mobile number. I always have it. If you need me for anything, please call. And if that man from the FBI shows up again, please call. I will have him dealt with.”
When Sanchez was gone, Kennedy turned to her assistant. “Eugene, please get Samuel Hargrave on the line and tell him it is extremely urgent.”
Paranoia was part of her business. Sometimes it was a big part and other times not so much. As discomfiting as it was, you were a fool to ignore it. The key was to make sure it didn’t paralyze you. After nearly three decades in the intelligence business Kennedy had learned to recognize the natural rhythms of the job. The pace, usually glacial, was often interrupted by moments of extreme action—like right now. This one felt different, though. It was too orchestrated.
Her mentor, Thomas Stansfield, had taught her to think in broad strategic terms—like a battlefield commander. Your flanks must always be protected and your center must be anchored with reinforcements. Supplies needed to be secured from raids and scouts needed to be deployed as aggressively as possible to discern the strength and position of the enemy.
The problem right now was that Kennedy was flying blind. Someone was maneuvering against her and she had no idea who they were or what their next move would be. Rickman, Hubbard, the attack on Rapp, and now Wilson showing up: She had an unnerving suspicion that they were all part of a concerted effort to weaken her Clandestine Service. She and her people could draw up a list of who would benefit most from this type of action, but it would only be a list. Kennedy wanted something more concrete, and she thought she knew where to start.
“Mike,” Kennedy said to Nash. She motioned for him to follow her, and the two walked to the far corner of the lobby. “Where is Marcus?”
“Virginia, as far as I know.” Nash thought about their extremely quirky computer hacker. Despite all of the protocols they put in place, the man could be unnervingly difficult to track down.
“Find him and bring in your best people. I want to know what Joel Wilson is up to.”
Nash’s face turned pensive. “Are you sure this is a good idea? If anything goes wrong . . .” Nash shuddered at the thought of the FBI finding out they were spying on them.
Kennedy remained stoic. Nash was one of her top people, but he was increasingly becoming the type of person who was followed by dark storm clouds. In other words, he spent too much time worrying about the downside of everything. This had been Rapp’s chief complaint of late. “Mike,” Kennedy said in a firm tone, “we’re flying blind, and it looks like someone has launched an operation aimed at crippling the Clandestine Service. Sitting around is not an option. Get your people spun up. In two hours I want to hear how you are going to penetrate Joel Wilson’s group, and I want to start seeing results in the next twenty-four hours.”