by Jack Bowie
Walker had hoped to pick up some insights into the ongoing projects, but all she had been able to discern from the presentations was that the PMs had moderate technical knowledge and spent most of their time worrying about schedules and production of deliverables. All in all, pretty boring jobs.
Forty agonizing minutes later, Nolan adjourned the meeting. As they were walking out, the balding man came up and touched her arm. He was overweight, with sallow skin and a suit that looked two sizes too big. She could have written him off, but there was a brightness in his eyes that made her hesitate.
“Ms. Walker?”
“Yes.”
“Hi. I’m Andrew Labret. Y’all can call me Andy. I’m the Project Manager you’re replacing.”
Apparently, this was the soon-to-be retiree Cutler had mentioned. Would have been nice for her to have mentioned his name.
“Mr. Labret. Good to meet you.” Walker extended her hand and Labret took it with a surprisingly firm grip.
“Candice asked me to help with your onboarding. Would y’all like to grab some lunch and get started?”
The growl in Walker’s stomach was all the answer she needed. “Absolutely.”
They walked down to the building’s basement lunch room. Walker was pleased to see it was a full-service cafeteria, not just a simple sandwich bar like in Tysons Tower, with a variety of hot meals, a sushi bar and vegetarian counter. Despite all the tables, she noticed most of the employees boxed up their purchases and headed back upstairs.
“Most people eat at their desks?” she asked after picking up a fresh salad. Labret had gone for a spicy jambalaya entree.
“Well, MITRE is full of Type As. There’s a lot of pressure to deliver. And our clients aren’t the most laid back folks on the planet. I assume you can sympathize.”
Walker nodded her head, thinking back on her superiors at DIA. “How long have you worked in the Program Office?”
“About three years. Been with MITRE for twenty though. Spent most of that time on DOD projects. Got a pretty good understanding of how those ole boys think.”
Walker was enjoying listening to Labret’s slow Southern drawl. It sounded like Louisiana or Mississippi. She had a good ear for language and had to be careful not to pick up the inflections. That was usually not appreciated.
“So what are the Jasons like?”
Labret hesitated. “Well, that there’s an interesting question. First, they are scary smart. Real eggheads, as my daddy would have said. It’s an honor to know them. But they’re also arrogant assholes. Pardon my language. Think they know everything. And sometimes they’re petty, childish and downright nosy. You’ll be having a conversation, and they’ll explain how the accelerometer in your new exercise watch works. Or tell you how easy it is to hack your pacemaker.”
Walker’s eyes popped.
“Oh, sorry. Too much information. I had a heart attack last year and the docs implanted a pacemaker. Somehow my Jasons found out.” Walker didn’t think that would have been so hard. She had nearly guessed the same thing from his appearance. “Anyway, the MI is one of the reasons I’m retiring. Time to have a real life.”
He spun a plain gold band on his left hand. Walker bet that more time with his family was a major consideration.
“That’s quite a picture.”
“Thought y’all ought to know the bad parts first. But I know a little of your background. Guess you’ve dealt with difficult people before.”
“You could say that.” And you don’t know the half of it. “So where do we start?”
“The timing is good. We just received a request from the Navy. A set of questions, actually. That’s how the process begins. We discuss the request with the Jason that heads up the domain and they decide if they want to take the assignment.”
“They decide? Jason can refuse?”
“Yup. That’s the way it’s worked for over fifty years. ‘Course they accept most of the requests, but not all. Mostly, the problem has to be hard science, not just policy. Jason doesn’t set policy, just informs it. Hopefully, at least.”
Walker was taking all this in while trying to read between the lines and find any weak link in the information flow. From what she was hearing, it was going to be hard to identify which Jason was the traitor.
“Who will be our Jason contact?”
“That would be Professor Ian Donnelly from Stanford. He’s Jason’s expert in communication technology. Ian’s relatively young and one of the good guys. You’ll like him. Worked with him on my last project. That was a real interesting one.”
“Oh? What was it about?”
Labret hesitated. “Probably best you talk to him about that. Clearances and all that. But he’ll be here next week for a project review.”
“Sounds good.”
They finished their lunches in silence and Walker followed Labret to the window to bus their dishes.
“Let’s head on upstairs and get you settled in your office.”
“I have an office?” That was something she didn’t have at Cerberus.
Labret gave a good-ole-boy grin. “Absolutely. You’re with the A-Team now.”
Chapter 10
Pierena's Restaurant, Bethesda, MD
Friday, 7:00 p.m.
The Plan called for Braxton and his conspirators to have dinner at the end of the week. Walker had recommended Pierena’s, an Italian restaurant near her apartment in Bethesda, Maryland. It was unlikely they would run into anyone from MITRE, but if they did, she had said she would explain it as a meeting with colleagues from her previous job.
He arrived at 7:00 and saw Walker waiting for him at a table. Back of the room with a clear view of the front door and easy access to the kitchen. Once a spook always a spook.
According to Walker, Pierena’s was a small family-owned restaurant that had been in Bethesda for decades. Ten tables were set across the floor, each with a faded red and white checkerboard tablecloth and a small white vase with a single crimson rose. Paintings of bucolic Italian landscapes covered the walls, and dark exposed beams crisscrossed the ceiling. It was the kind of place that took Braxton back to a more relaxed, less urgent, time. Walker had chosen well.
She wore a powder blue silk blouse, open at the neck, with a contrasting navy blue jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a short pony-tail. Light make-up, and just a hint of that damned perfume. He didn’t know what it was, but the scent stayed in his head long after she had gone.
Braxton couldn’t think of a single time since he’d known her when Walker hadn’t looked great. And he had seen her in some seriously dicey situations. He had never been able to figure out how the ex-government agent, and now grossly underpaid security consultant, could ever afford her wardrobe. He didn’t know anything about her background, but somewhere along the line, she had taken the adage “dress for success” to heart.
But her demure looks were deceiving. Probably a good characteristic for an undercover agent. In their short time together, she had saved his life twice. First, she had disarmed a psychotic assassin, breaking his wrist in the process. Then, soon after she had been hired, killing a mercenary who was threatening Braxton’s life by slitting the man’s throat with a stiletto hidden in her boot. Sydney Walker was a very surprising lady.
A young waitress appeared to take their drink orders.
“Should we wait for Sam?” Walker asked.
“Unfortunately not. He called this afternoon and said he wanted to have dinner at home tonight. Too many late nights apparently.” He turned to the waitress. “I’ll take a double Talisker on the rocks.” There was a lot to discuss.
Walker raised her eyebrows. “A glass of Chardonnay will be fine, thank you,” she added.
They reviewed the menus while they waited. When the waitress returned with their drinks, Walker ordered a grilled salmon and Braxton chose the seafood arrabbiata. He was a sucker for spicy Italian.
Walker raised her wine glass. “To the successful completion of the Plan.”
> Braxton clicked with his tumbler. “Sam did give me an update. Donnelly is a free-wheeling bachelor who travels a lot. Always flying off to some international conference in Europe or Asia. All paid for by his work, of course. Academic retirement plan, nothing remarkable in his finances.
“Turner is a little different. Messy divorce a couple of years ago. Two daughters, one in Georgetown the other at UPenn. Between alimony and child support he’s got a lot of outflows. Here’s the kicker, every month or so for the past year he’s made deposits in his bank accounts that don’t track with salary or other business.”
“How big?”
“Tens of thousands of dollars each time.”
Walker tilted her head. “Not enough to get too much attention but it does make one wonder.”
“Sam’s going to set up some surveillance. It’s easy because Turner works downtown at NRL. Maybe we’ll catch him at something. How did MITRE go?”
“Very well. I think. My boss is a real piece of work. She runs a tight ship. And I get an office.”
Braxton felt the thrust. It hurt.
“Karen is working on that, Sydney. I promise.”
“So you say.” Braxton would have been worried, but her playful smile belied any real antipathy. “The staff meeting was boring as hell, but I did get to meet most of the other PMs. Had lunch with the man I’m replacing, a really sweet old guy. He explained how the Program Office works and showed me my first assignment: a request from the Navy for evaluation of some new type of submarine communication.”
They had talked about the issues of confidentiality and had decided “In for a dime, in for a dollar.” The stakes were too high to worry about small matters of national security policy.
“Even more interesting is that I’ll be working with Donnelly. Seems like a pretty big coincidence.”
“Maybe. Or it could be Hawthorne pulling strings.” That would fit his persona as the Jason puppet master.
“I suppose. But I guess that means he’s my guy to track. I’m meeting him next week. I hope I can get a good read.” She took a sip of her wine. “I had some free time this afternoon and went through MITRE’s Jason files. They weren’t all that helpful, mostly just CVs and project summaries. Very little personal information. They didn’t even have a record of Turner’s divorce.”
Walker had suggested checking the files after their meeting at Cerberus. It didn’t sound like they were going to help.
“Have you heard anything back from Trevor?”
Braxton had told her about his meeting in Crystal City. “Nothing yet. Trevor’s company has a lot on its plate. I don’t know when he’ll be able to follow up. I’m checking with some of my other sources, but my money’s on him.”
The waitress brought their dinner. It looked delicious and Braxton dug in.
After a few minutes, Braxton looked up. Walker seemed happy with her salmon, but there was an uncomfortable silence. They had already covered most of the Jason topics, and it was time for small talk, but this was not Braxton’s forte. He again realized just how little he knew about his new employee. He didn’t even know where to start. Maybe it was time to try.
“Sydney?”
“Yes?” she said, looking up from her meal.
“You’re very knowledgeable about the D.C. area. Did you grow up around here?” Having said it, he realized how dumb it sounded, but it was out there now.
Walker stared back at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my socially-challenged boss?”
He felt his face flush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just want to learn a little—”
She waved her hand at him. “No need to apologize. I’m just kidding. I know I haven’t been very open about myself. It’s one of my less appealing traits. And we have known each other for quite a while now. Guess it is about time I told you a little of my background.
“I know the area since I grew up here. I’m an Army brat. But without all the globe-trotting drama. My father was career Army: West Point, the whole nine yards. He was deployed all over the world and rose through the ranks pretty quickly. After one notable promotion, was given a staff position at the Pentagon with the Joint Chiefs. Gave him a lot of visibility.
“He was at a fancy embassy party one night and saw this striking woman. He introduced himself, and they hit it off. That was all it took. It turned out she was the daughter of the CEO of a major defense contractor. Her dad liked the idea of a military son-in-law. They had a whirlwind romance that ended with a wedding in the Washington National Cathedral. It was the social event of the year.
“I was born about a year later. We lived in this McMansion in Great Falls, Virginia. A wedding present from my grandfather. Father was gone a lot, of course, and Mother had her charities and social events. Nannies were always around, but I had the run of the house. I learned how to enjoy my own company. Guess that made me a bit of a loner.”
And you’re not the only one.
Braxton noticed that Walker had been referring to her parents in the past tense. This story likely didn’t have a happy ending.
“Did well in high school, went to Michigan. Got a call late one night from my father’s CO. My parents were coming back from some bigwig fundraiser when a drunk driver hit their limousine on I-495. They both died.”
Braxton noticed a single tear in the corner of her eye.
“Sydney, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No. That’s fine. My choice. You need to know who I am.”
She picked up her fork and poked at the remnants of the salmon. Then she continued. “Mother brought me up to be a lady, but Father wanted a soldier. I made my choice when I joined the Army after I graduated. You know the rest.”
Braxton couldn’t decide whether he felt guilty or flattered. Sydney Walker is one complex lady.
“For what it’s worth,” he replied, “I think they’d both be very proud of you.”
Walker set her fork on the plate. “‘Okay. Enough of this soul baring. Your turn will come later. Is Cerberus going to spring for dessert or not?”
Chapter 11
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 5:00 p.m.
Slattery had gotten the confirmation call at his home in Fairfax around noon. He cleaned up and drove to Langley where a CIA SUV was waiting to take him and Markovsky to the White House. They entered through the West Wing portal and were led by a stone-faced Marine through the labyrinthine hallways to a stairway that took them down to the first security level. Slattery had been on edge all day, wondering what, if anything, the raid would tell them.
The day before, Markovsky had gotten the operation approved by the White House, CENTCOM had been contacted, and the logistics finalized. The rapidity at which the plan had been put in place spoke to the priority the engagement had been given.
Slattery felt a familiar rush of emotion as he approached the secure situation rooms. The walls had been given a fresh coat of paint, and new faces stared out from within the picture frames, but other than those minor differences, the area felt the same as it had during Desert Storm. The same cheap deodorant smells, the same shadowless indirect lighting. A synthetic, antiseptic land where time stood still. There was never any day or night; no morning or evening. Just the unrelenting, oppressive tension of crisis. A place where a man could age years in only a few days. It was at once both thrilling and debilitating.
The Marine guard opened one of the doors and Slattery followed Markovsky into the room. The last time he had been here was during the Liberty crisis. The only difference he could see was that now the room contained even more electronics. If that was even possible.
He glanced at the digital clock glowing from the top of one of the wall-sized LCD panels. It was 3:00 a.m. in Islamabad.
“Roger!”
Slattery turned and saw President Matthews striding toward him, hand outstretched.
Joseph Matthews was in his second term as POTUS. An ex-Marine, after leaving the military he became a
politician in his home state of Wyoming and rose quickly to his current position as the most powerful man in the world. He was a strong supporter of the military and that support was reciprocated.
One of Matthews’ greatest gifts was the ability to look comfortable under any circumstances, from the frozen steppes of China to the sweltering heat of the Brazilian rain forest. He had conquered them all, including the blistering intensity of the White House Press Briefing Room. This afternoon looked to be no different.
“Mr. President,” Slattery replied with as much calm as he could muster.
Matthews took Slattery’s hand and gave it a well-practiced, hearty political shake. “Good to see you again,” he said. “And this time, it isn’t because you just saved my butt. Congratulations on setting up this op.”
Slattery had met Matthews twice before, and each time it had been in the aftermath of an attempt on the President’s life. Thankfully, those attempts had been thwarted by teams under his command. Slattery appreciated the recognition, but wasn’t vain enough not to understand that visibility by the Commander-in-Chief came with its own set of dangers. One botched operation could end an otherwise spotless career.
“Thank you, Mr. President. I hope this raid will get us to the source of the attacks.”
Matthews flashed another toothy smile and headed off to work the rest of the attendees. Slattery gave the man credit for making the effort. He had known other Presidents who could have cared less about those around him. At least Matthews seemed to appreciate the human aspects of the job.
The number of attendees was relatively small. In addition to Matthews, Markovsky and himself, Slattery recognized the Director of National Intelligence, and the Secretaries of Defense, Navy and State. A pair of Air Force technicians were present to monitor the communications equipment.