“An accidental byproduct of the ancient manufacturing process?”
“Oh please! The effect was most certainly deliberate. The Romans employed glass infused with tiny particles of silver and gold, 50 nanometers or so.”
“Why are you showing me this?”
“This is my price. After I deliver the proof you require, I want to hold that goblet in my hand and drink out of it.”
“Nobody in their right mind would drink out of something that old.”
“Let me worry about that. Do we have a deal?”
Carver sighed. He had no authority to negotiate something of this magnitude, but he had to get Nico working. “Where is the cup now?”
“The British Museum in London.”
Now it was time to start bluffing. “As it happens, the president is close with the British Prime Minister.”
“So the tabloids say. I thought Eva would always remain a widow, but the gossip is that after she was his guest in his Wimbledon box, they spent three days at Camp David.”
Carver winked. “No comment.”
Nico grinned hopefully. “So you think it’s actually possible? Eva can get me the cup?”
“Given what’s at stake, she’ll do whatever she has to.”
“Then it’s settled. I will help you. But first, to consummate our deal, I ask that you stay for dinner.”
“Sorry, but I’m not really comfortable with the words ‘consummate’ and dinner in the same sentence.”
“I really must insist, Agent Carver. I have something special planned. In celebration of our language immersion exercise, Madge and Octavia have been marinating dormice for hours.”
Carver’s stomach flipped. “Dormice? As in a dormouse, on a plate?”
“Imported from Europe, of course. They were considered a delicacy in ancient Rome.” He stood, gripping Carver by the shoulders, his Afro wobbling to and fro. “Come on, Agent Carver. It’s just a little rodent between friends.”
University of Maryland
Greater Washington D.C.
“And finally,” Speers said, addressing the distinguished crowd of business leaders, scholars and government officials who had assembled for the black tie gala, “I will leave you with this. It’s only natural to be concerned by the crisis that has dominated our headlines this week. But let it also inspire us into action by funding scholarships for the next generation of cyber security leaders.”
Thunderous applause enveloped the Director of National Security as he left the podium. Speers smiled in gratitude at the standing ovation. But just as he had expected before he had gone onstage, there was no time for glad-handing now. Arunus Roth waited for him in the wings, and he was tapping his watch face.
Speers’ security detail led them toward the rear exit, through a backstage area cluttered with boxes and set pieces. “Nice speech,” Roth said.
“Thanks. You’re probably wondering why I asked you to come here.”
“Yes sir,” Roth said eagerly. Until now, the scope of Roth’s work had been largely limited to working under Carver, who had taken the green analyst under his wing.
They emerged into the chilly autumn evening, where Speers’ SUV and that of his security detail were waiting. He and Roth got into the back seat of the second vehicle. Speers shut the privacy glass and fastened his seatbelt as the SUV sped off toward the National Counterterrorism Center in Langley. Then he made eye contact with Roth, whose pupils were set behind thick black-framed eyeglasses.
“I have teams across many agencies working on the embassy bombing,” Speers said. “But as for Guardian’s piece of it, I want you to be my eyes and ears on this and report to me directly.”
“Thank you, sir. But what about Carver and Ellis?”
“I asked you here, not them.”
“This is a lot more responsibility. And I’m still just a GS-8.” Roth referred to the federal pay scale, which ranged from GS-1 for administrative assistants, to GS-15, for senior administrators and other highly qualified federal employees.”
“If you show results on this, you will be rewarded.”
“But I’ve been showing results. Isn’t that why you’re giving me more responsibility, sir?”
Speers shrugged. Roth had a point. “Fair enough. I’ll have my assistant draw up the paperwork. You’re a GS-9.”
Roth flashed a pained smile. “With all due respect, sir, my background, limited as it may be, is in cyber security. I have Silicon Valley recruiters calling me day and night. Until now, I haven’t been returning those messages. I wanted to give you at least two full years of service as a thank you for all the things Agent Carver has done for me. But now that window is closing fast.”
The director’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t expected the kid to negotiate a raise at a time like this. But Speers needed him. “GS-11, then. And that’s my final offer.”
They shook on it.
Speers’ phone rang. It was FBI Director Chad Fordham. “You’re not going to like this,” Fordham said.
“What?”
“We just got a so-called courtesy call from CNN. They’re going live with a story about Kyra Javan.”
The Four Seasons Hotel
Carver stepped out of the Four Seasons elevator, relieved to be back on the ground floor. He felt upbeat about his meeting with Nico Gold, the one person in the world with the talent to get the level of intelligence they needed quickly. It wasn’t just Nico’s intricate knowledge of programming languages and breach tactics that set him apart from the hackers working in federal cyber security. It was the fact that he understood that behind every machine was a flawed human being. His ability to exploit human weakness was what made him great.
Now, taking every precaution, Carver avoided the Four Seasons lobby, where he might have been seen coming in. He instead turned left, following the walkway until he entered the adjoining Mandalay Bay casino. His face twisted into a scowl as he entered the casino’s smoky atmosphere.
Slot machines stretched as far as the eye could see. So too did every imaginable type of human being. Thin fat, old, young, gray, purple and blond – all were welcome here. Carver quickly changed course, checking his six as he went. Just one person crossed the casino floor behind him – an Asian male in his late 20s with camo-patterned jeans and shaggy brown hair that reached his earlobes. Again, Carver changed course. The guy followed.
Carver didn’t believe in coincidences. He turned and stopped, observing, mentally recording, pretending to look at his phone while sizing up the possible tail. The man was perhaps five-foot-seven and trim, with a slightly effeminate gait. The oval face, low cheekbones and accentuated nose suggested Japanese heritage. But without seeming to notice Carver, he made a beeline for a Texas Hold‘em table, where he sat and plucked down a neat stack of chips.
Hmmm. Maybe his sleep deprivation was making him paranoid. The three hours he had snatched on the plane to Vegas had been the only rest he had gotten in 48 hours.
With that settled, Carver cut through the grid of machines and blackjack tables and continued walking through the mini-mall that bridged the Mandalay Bay and the Luxor, where he intended to get ground transport to the airport. He took out his phone – which had been off in the hours since Octavia had confiscated it – and powered it up.
The device shuddered as messages flooded in. One was from Eri, containing just three words: are you ok?
I’m the worst ex-boyfriend in the world, Carver thought, realizing that he had never returned her latest message. There were also multiple texts from both Speers, demanding that he report in.
As Carver walked past an Irish pub, the TV mounted over the bar seized his attention. It was tuned to CNN. A photo of Kyra Javan — aka Kyra Al-Mohammad, the CIA’s Butcher Bride — was onscreen. In the pic, Kyra was wearing a headscarf, which meant the pic had most likely been taken when Kyra was embedded in the Butcher’s Tripoli compound.
The ticker across the bottom of the screen: Libyan government seeks alleged CIA operative in connec
tion with Chinese embassy bombing.
Carver ducked into the pub and slid a $10 bill across the countertop to the bartender. He pulled up a stool. “Sparkling water, please. And would you mind turning that TV up?”
The camera cut to CNN newscaster Veronica Dutton. Unbeknownst to Dutton, Carver happened to have found himself behind her in a D.C. grocery store the previous summer. He had been struck with how much thinner and paler the waifish TV personality looked in person. It was no wonder. Her shopping cart had been full to the brim with cactus water, kale, pine nuts, beets and radishes. Food fit for a tortoise?
DUTTON: We’re devoting today’s program to the stunning turn of events that has the world on edge. A senior official in the Libyan government claims that the woman on your screen, Kyra Javan, is in fact a CIA operative who had taken up residence in Tripoli sometime in the past year, presumably to surveil the Chinese embassy. Libyan local police are reportedly searching for Javan due to mounting evidence suggesting that Kyra Javan actually coordinated this week’s drone strike from the ground. With us to explain the implications is Gavin Riley, an expert on U.S.-China relations from Stanford University. Dr. Riley, welcome to the program.
RILEY: Thank you, Veronica. Glad to be here.
DUTTON: This development isn’t bound to please the White House.
RILEY: Quite the opposite, Veronica. It appears to be just the latest in a series of diplomatic missteps. First the White House denied involvement over the attack. Hours later, they admitted responsibility only after the Libyans produced evidence that an American attack drone was operating over Tripoli, claiming they had in fact intended to target a terrorist threat.
DUTTON: But they have refused to name the terrorist or terrorist target they were going after, correct?
RILEY: That’s right. And the outing of this alleged CIA operative, Kyra Javan, seems to place doubt on the original story. What’s going to be interesting is how China responds to these allegations.
DUTTON: Some analysts have suggested that the embassy attack was retaliation for China’s continued espionage operations against American companies. Based on what you know about the relationship between the two countries, do you think there’s truth in that?
RILEY: We may never know for sure, but we are definitely seeing real world consequences of the frayed relationship. The American stock exchanges were knocked offline this week, and while Beijing did not claim responsibility, they didn’t deny involvement, either. And let’s not forget that just a few weeks ago, we had an incident where Chinese planes reportedly came close to firing on American ships patrolling the East China Sea. That, of course, was in the vicinity of islands that are the subject of a territorial dispute between China and Japan.
DUTTON: Let's touch on that. Japan’s Prime Minister actually called the U.S. out for not taking a tougher stance. He actually suggested that the Americans should have shot the Chinese planes down.
RILEY: That’s right, Veronica, and I have to think that given what has transpired over the past few days, that’s exactly what might happen the next time there’s a showdown. And that’s a real problem, because the Americans need China to come back to the table over economic issues, as they were scheduled to do at the G8.
Carver picked up his phone and dialed Speers, who answered on the first ring. Carver didn’t have to ask if Speers was also watching the broadcast. He could hear it playing on the other end.
“We have a leak,” Speers said with spice in his tone. “The question is, which part of the plumbing is leaking?”
“We can rule Kyra out,” Carver said. “Mohy Osman almost killed her trying to get her to confess to being a spy. I was there.”
Feeling the bartender’s eyes on him, Carver took his leave and went back out into the mini-mall that bridged the two hotels. Speers sighed into the phone. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Where have you been?”
“In Vegas. Eating a rodent cooked by Nico Gold’s wife.”
“Come on.”
“That’s the truth. And Nico agreed to help us, by the way. You’re welcome.”
“I’m not so sure getting Nico involved is a good idea. You have a bigger problem on your hands.”
“Like what?”
“Haley Ellis.”
“What do you mean?
He listened quietly as Speers described the scathing memo Ellis had written, in which she cited examples of what she deemed as Carver’s “erratic behavior” and recommended that he be investigated in connection with the circumstances of the past three days. Speers continued his monologue, but by then, Carver was no longer paying attention.
A visceral memory of something Ellis said at Verizon Center surfaced in his consciousness. When he had refused to arrest the Pink Dragon before she had picked up the drop. My objection will be documented in the operation brief. Later, she hadn’t concealed her jealousy when Carver had been tapped to brief the president. The president tends to shoot the messenger.
“Blake?”
“I’m here. Just reeling.”
“Me too. This is garbage as far as I’m concerned, but for my own satisfaction, you’ll have to indulge me on one thing. The other night at Verizon Center, how did you know Jessica Wu had been killed with a cyanide injection?”
“The scent, Julian. It was clear as day.”
“But how would you recognize the smell of cyanide?”
“Document number DK11044781PF2. Look it up.”
“Good Christ, Blake. I don’t have time to go looking up old case files. Just tell me.”
“I was with JSOC back then. We were on a mission to capture a Taliban warlord, but we were a few minutes too late. He had vomited up everything in his system. Some foul smelling stuff, again, like burnt almonds. We found a cyanide injection mark on his butt. That was later confirmed by an autopsy, of course.”
Speers exhaled heavily. “That’s helpful. I’ll direct the Office of Security to the file you mentioned and make sure they include it in the investigation.”
“Investigation?” Carver said. “Wait, can’t you just make this go away?”
“I’m afraid it’s out of my hands.”
Carver couldn’t believe his ears. He’d been in hot water more or less continuously throughout his career, but nothing had come close to this. “Who’s running intelligence, Julian? You, or the president?”
“Contrary to popular belief, we live in a republic, not a democracy. I have to do what the president says.”
“And what exactly is that?”
“She ordered a multi-agency task force to look into your activities. You have to report to them in 48 hours.”
“Sounds like a witch hunt.”
“Just don’t do anything stupid. This thing is going to blow over, I promise. In the meantime, it won’t be fun. You just have to show up, talk to these people, and play ball. Just tell them the facts. If you aren’t transparent, then they’re going to dig in even deeper.”
A bench in the middle of the mall beckoned Carver. He sat down and caught his breath. “When and where?”
“Two days from now. FBI headquarters. Can I count on you to show up?”
FBI headquarters. Well at least there was that. Carver had always liked FBI Director Fordham. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but competent and fair. “So in the meantime, I have two more days to find out who hacked into the drone?”
Speers let out an astonished chuckle. “You’re kidding, right? These are serious accusations. As of this moment, you’re on administrative leave. With pay, of course.”
So that was it. He was out. Exiled. How was Carver supposed to simply step away? The biggest firestorm between the U.S. and China was ablaze. His nature was to run toward fires, not away from them.
“Blake, you didn’t answer the question. Can I count on you to meet with the task force? Think about your answer carefully.”
He thought for a good long moment. “Sounds like I have no choice.”
“Good man. Now as your friend, I h
ave some advice, which I hope you’ll take.”
“I’m listening.”
“Don’t fly straight back to Washington. The Arizona state line is an hour’s drive from Vegas. Spend some time with your family. While you have the chance.”
PART III
Two Elk Ranch
35 Miles Outside Flagstaff, Arizona
Carver stood before the corral and inhaled a lung full of mountain air. He was conscious of his own breathing. He wasn’t winded, exactly, but the 7,000-foot elevation was going to take some getting used to.
A storm was blowing in. The afternoon sky was bruised purple and black with intermittent streaks of lightning so far away that he could not yet hear the thunder. On either side of the valley stood gently sloping hills of volcanic rock, dotted with junipers and scrub oak. To the east, a kettle of turkey vultures screeched as they circled over some unseen animal in distress. And to the north, the peaks were blanketed with early season snowfall.
He wasn’t all that surprised to find a sun-bleached mountain lion skull nailed to one of the tall posts marking the corral entrance. There was always a new skin, antler or bone nailed up somewhere. If his father hadn’t become a rancher, he would have made a fine witch doctor. Carver vaulted himself up on the fence so that he was high enough to peer out at the dusty cattle corral through the cat cranium’s hollow eye sockets.
His father’s Springer Spaniel, Duke, spotted Carver and let out a trio of hearty barks. The liver and white hunting dog sprinted without fear through the phalanx of bovine legs, causing several guttural complaints from the startled cattle. The impeccably trained dog wagged furiously at the sight of him, but did not jump.
“Duke!” Carver said. He jumped down into the corral, roughhousing with the dog as it swirled around him. “How are you, buddy? You staying out of trouble?”
Now the herd parted, revealing his father’s sturdy figure in green flannel, sneaker boots and a Stetson hat. He held an orange irrigation kit in one hand. In the other, a Winchester rifle.
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