Page 60 of Denied Access (Mitch Rapp #24)

Unlocking and then opening a desk drawer, Stansfield withdrew a leather-bound address book.

Spies might be famous for their memories, but his wasn’t quite in the same shape it had been fifty years earlier when he’d memorized entire radio cyphers before parachuting into Nazi-occupied France.

The address book had been a gift from his wife when he’d officially joined the CIA shortly after its inception.

She’d joked that it was the last time she expected to see it because Stansfield would fill its pages with secret names and numbers.

This wasn’t far from the truth. While the multiple pencil-annotated entries weren’t classified per se, the information was sensitive.

The book had never left his office, and Stansfield didn’t expect it ever would.

The first page contained an abbreviated organizational chart of the governmental agencies and bureaus Stansfield most often had cause to communicate with.

The names annotated in his distinctive hand beneath each agency had changed many times over the years, as had the numbers, but for the most part the departments had stayed the same.

People came and went, but governmental bureaucracy was forever.

Stansfield slid his neatly trimmed fingernail past the Secret Service, continuing down the page in search of greener pastures.

He still wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he felt confident that he’d know it when he saw it.

Three entries from the bottom of the page he did just that.

Reaching for his secure phone, Stansfield punched in a series of digits and then waited for the call to go through. On the third ring, someone answered.

“Commissioner Fay speaking.”

“Bill, this is Thomas Stansfield over at CIA. How are you today?”

“Director Stansfield? This is a surprise. How can I help you?”

“First off, just ‘Thomas’ is fine. I’m not officially director yet and may never be, but I’m quite certain the Thomas thing is going to stick. No one wants to cross swords with my mother.”

The answering chuckle sounded convincing if hesitant.

Bill Fay had a critical, albeit unglorious, role in the federal government.

The average American had probably never heard of the commissioner and likely never would, unless Bill failed to do his very important job.

Then everyone would know his name. But important job or not, Commissioner Fay did not regularly receive calls from the director of the CIA.

Even if that person was only the acting director.

“No disrespect to your mother, but I sincerely hope your nomination sails through, Thomas. Regardless of what those fools in Congress are saying, your agency is vital to our national security, and the men and women who work thanklessly from the shadows deserve the kind of leadership I know you would provide.”

Thomas Stansfield was not a man overly given to sentiment.

If offered the opportunity to choose differently, he would still have volunteered to serve the nation he loved as an OSS operative, but that service had not come without cost. As with many men of his generation, he’d entered combat barely a man and he’d returned from Europe old beyond his years.

While he hadn’t landed on the beaches of Normandy or nearly frozen to death during the Battle of the Bulge, Stansfield’s version of the war had been no less horrible.

Though his targets were soldiers, his fellow partisans were not.

Early on he’d had to learn to steel his emotions or else risk coming undone.

Fifty years later, he was not a man easily moved to tears, but Fay’s comment stirred something deep within him.

Perhaps it was because in a town so consumed with superficiality in the name of career advancement, the commissioner’s praise was genuine.

Fay had nothing to gain by voicing his support and everything to lose if his comments were made public.

This, more than anything else, confirmed that Stansfield had called the right man.

“I very much appreciate that, Bill. You’ve been at this a long time, and I’m grateful for your trust.”

“Absolutely. Now, what can I do for you?”

“I need your help with a delicate situation that must be handled with the utmost of discretion.”

“Hmm. That’s one hell of a lead-in, Thomas. Is this the kind of situation that has the potential to get me jailed or fired?”

“Jailed? No. Fired? If it goes right, potentially. If it goes wrong, certainly.”

A raspy chuckle echoed from the phone. “For a spy, you’re pretty honest. I take back what I said earlier—you might not have a future at the agency after all.”

Static filled the line for several seconds, leading Stansfield to wonder if the connection had somehow severed. Then Fay’s voice returned.

“Sorry about that. I had to close my office door. Sometimes the walls have ears. Too damn many of the next generation think they’re in government service to star in Bob Woodward’s next book. Pisses me off. Now, tell me what you need.”

Prior to making this call, Stansfield had been wrestling with how much to tell Fay.

While the commissioner had an excellent reputation, Stansfield knew him only slightly.

He had decided to hold back some of the pertinent information both in the name of operational security and to provide Fay with protection in the form of deniability if this blew up in their faces.

Now he felt differently.

Fay would be putting his career and reputation on the line based on the say-so of a man he barely knew.

He deserved to know why.

“Here’s the situation,” Stansfield said before relaying everything that had happened in Moscow with a handful of terse sentences.

He left nothing out. Fay needed to make his decision with a clear-eyed view of both the risks and the potential reward.

The commissioner listened without interrupting, then Stansfield asked if he had any questions.

He voiced one.

“So lemme guess, you want me to send a message?”

“Just so. A message that will be impossible to misunderstand.”

“I can see why you think this might get me fired.”

“If this is too big of an ask, I understand. I just—”

“Holy hell, Thomas. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it, I just said it would probably get me fired. Of course I’ll help. I just need to get some things in order so that whoever replaces me can hit the ground running. When do you need this done?”

Stansfield smiled. Men like Fay were the reason his cohort had been labeled the Greatest Generation. “Immediately would be great.”

“Then you’d better buckle up. This flight’s about to get bumpy.”