“We’re fucked,” Fenton said.
Morris nodded. “Royally. So I’m thinking it would be a real good idea to stop this from happening, assuming it’s really in the works.”
“You believe this vampire?” Fenton asked. “Any chance he’s been feeding you a load of bullshit?”
“I’ve given that a hell of a lot of thought,” Morris said. “And I can’t see how spinning me a yarn about this plan benefits him, or vampires in general. And if he just wanted to fuck me over, he could have done it right there in the desert. I could have ended up as a ghoul entrée, or even worse, one of the undead.”
“I bet you’d make a hell of a vampire, Quincey,” Colleen said with a tiny smile.
“Yeah, and wouldn’t that get my ancestors turning over in their graves. Great-grandpa would probably climb out of the ground and stake me himself.”
“So, assuming Muñoz told you the truth,” Fenton said, “it looks like you’ve already got it covered. I mean, Libby’s talking to the President—the guy at the top of the food chain. If something’s going on, he’s the man to fix it. What do you need me and Colleen for?”
“Because there are too many variables at the White House level.” Morris ticked them off on his fingers. “One: the President tells Libby that there’s no way anybody in the government could do this without his knowledge—and since he’s never heard it if, it’s not happening. Case closed. Two: Leffingwell says, truthfully, ‘I had no idea something like this was happening, but if it is, I’ll stop it.’ So, he goes to the DCI and says, ‘What the fuck is going on?’ And the guy says, ‘No way we’d do anything like that, Mister President—put it out of your mind.’ And the DCI—what’s his name?”
“Hinton,” Colleen said.
“Right, Gus Hinton,” Morris said. “So, if he says that, there’s three additional possibilities—one, he’s well informed and telling the truth, two, he’s well-informed and lying about it to Leffingwell, or three, he’s not aware of what going on, but thinks he is. In other words, Hinton’s telling Leffingwell what he thinks is the truth when he says ‘No way’, but people somewhere in the Agency are actually planning to carry out this demon idiocy, and Hinton doesn’t know about it.”
“Yeah, the CIA is fucking huge,” Fenton said. “I guess it would be possible to keep something like this from the big boss. After all, secrecy is what these guys eat, drink, and breathe.”
“So, if there’s no way to know for sure if Leffingwell is either lying or being kept in the dark,” Colleen said, “Why is Libby going to see him in the first place?”
“Because he’s still our best chance to stop this thing—assuming it’s really going on.”
“If he really wants to stop it,” Fenton said.
“Exactly,” Morris said. “And if he doesn’t—that’s where you guys come in. You’ve got contacts in the CIA, I assume?”
Fenton and O’Donnell looked at each other. “Some,” Colleen said after a moment. “We know a handful of people, and a few of them know some other people. The two agencies still don’t have a real close relationship, even after 9/11 showed us all the costs of not cooperating.”
“But if something like this demon project is really in the works,” Fenton said, “it’s gonna be buried pretty deep.”
“I know,” Morris said. “On the other hand, something of this magnitude—keeping it completely contained is going to be difficult. The Agency is good at hiding stuff, but mostly from outsiders. Inside... maybe not so much.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do about getting inside, without getting out own asses in a sling. Maybe a little magic will help with that.”
“I hope so,” Morris said. “And much though I hate to rush you folks in what is essentially a favor...”
“We don’t know how much time we have until D-Day,” Fenton said. “I hear you.”
Colleen O’Donnell looked at her partner. “D-Day?”
“D for demon,” he said.
“Not to mention ‘death,’ ‘destruction,’ and ‘devastation,’” Morris said.
“We’ll get on it today,” Colleen said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Conference Room C
The White House
1446 hours
Two days later
THE PRESIDENT WAS running late, of course. The three men had been in Washington long enough to know that the President—any President—is almost always late for meetings and appointments. They were not inclined to take it personally, but were nonetheless impatient for the meeting to start, so that they could find out what was on the President’s mind.
This was not usually an issue.
Normally, before sitting down with any members of the intelligence community, the President would indicate, sometimes days in advance, what he wanted to discuss. Hell, it was standard operating procedure with anyone in government or the military who was scheduled to meet with the Chief Executive. This only made sense—it gave those attending a chance to prepare and to choose which material to being along with them—and if need be, to work out in advance the best way to cover their asses.
But not this time. The Appointments Secretary had specified who was expected to attend, along with when and where—and nothing more. And she had politely declined to answer questions.
Burnett and Stewart, the two Deputy Directors, had been invited to share the DCI’s car for the ride over from Langley. As the armored Lincoln Town car left the underground parking garage reserved for senior staff, the first words out of the Gus Hinton’s mouth had been, “Either of you got the faintest notion what the fuck this is about?”
His subordinates had responded negatively, and both were telling the truth. Stewart, the Deputy Director for Intelligence, certainly had no idea. Ted Burnett didn’t know what the meeting was about, either. But from the moment he’d received the summons, a worm of unease had slowly been burrowing its way through his guts. There was no way that Leffingwell could know about Project H. Burnett had made sure the security was airtight. Airtight.
But something was in the wind, and Ted Burnett didn’t like the smell, faint though it was. Paranoia is endemic in intelligence work, and Burnett knew it. However, he was also well aware that being paranoid didn’t mean that someone wasn’t getting ready to yank your pants down, bend you over, and fuck you in the ass.
But nothing of this concern showed in Burnett’s face, voice, or body language. He had first learned to conceal his true feelings as a boy enduring the terrors of Catholic school. His professional life over the last thirty-two years had raised the schoolboy’s rudimentary deception skills to something approaching a high art.
At last a Secret Service agent opened the conference room door, said, “Gentlemen—the President,” and stood aside for Leffingwell to stride in. The warm, fake political smile that seemed to be his face’s default setting was absent this time. Leffingwell looked as grim as adeath row chaplain.
Well, that not a surprise, Burnett thought, as he and the others stood up. Nobody calls a meeting like this to show slides of his vacation in Bermuda. So it’s nut-cutting time, with the only question remaining whose testicles will be under the blade today.
PRESIDENT ROBERT LEFFINGWELL stopped a few yards short of the polished conference table and waited while the Secret Service man closed the door behind him. He took the opportunity to make a quick study of the three top men in what is still America’s premier intelligence agency, despite the massive organizational reshuffle that had followed the disaster of 9/11. In the middle of the trio stood Hinton, whose bright blue eyes and bushy white eyebrows made him look like somebody’s benevolent grandfather. To Hinton’s left was Leon Stewart, whose slim build and bookish manner reminded Leffingwell of the kind of kid who is always picked on in the Darwinian jungle that is high school. On the DCI’s other side stood Ted Burnett, with the heavy jaw and close-set eyes that Leffingwell associated with those bullies who used to pick on a kid like Stewart, back in the day.
“Take your seats, gentlemen,
” Leffingwell said. He walked briskly over to the chair opposite them and sat down.
Even after committing himself to this meeting, Leffingwell had spent a number of sleepless hours dealing with what he saw as his central dilemma. One part involved what he thought of the sanity issue: How do I talk to men like this about some plan to weaponize demons without them deciding that I’m ready for the loony bin?
The other component was the clarity issue: How do I talk about this in enough detail so that any of them who does know about this demon business—assuming it really exists—will understand what the hell I’m talking about?
After a lot of time spent pacing around the residence in the small hours, he thought he’d discovered the answer. Now to see if he was right.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The three CIA men had effectively been given no choice, but on such polite fictions are Washington relationships built. “I should tell you in advance that you’re likely to finds this meeting frustrating, because there’s a limit on the amount of information I’m going to share with you. And I can’t even tell you why there’s a limit.”
Gus Hinton’s eyebrows lowered as a frown slowly spread across his face, but his voice was carefully deferential as he said, “Mister President, at the risk of stating the obvious, all three of us here have received the highest security clearance. If there was a level above Top Secret, we’d have it.”
“I’m aware of that, Gus,” Leffingwell said, “and let me stress that my concern doesn’t stem from any issues of trust. As you point out, you and your two colleagues have been entrusted with some of the nation’s most closely guarded secrets, and I have not once since taking office had reason to regret the faith that’s been placed in you. I don’t regret it now. But the situation I find myself in... well, it’s complicated. It constrains how much I can tell you.”
“Within the executive branch, the President can talk about pretty much whatever he wants,” Burnett said. “Or so I would have thought.”
Leffingwell produced a pained smile. “And you’d be right, Ted—most of the time. But this instance is unique, in my experience. I’ve received information from a source I trust, a source outside the executive branch. And as a condition for being made privy to this information, I had to promise not only to keep the source a secret but to avoid revealing details that would make guessing his identity possible.”
“In describing something like that, I’d say ‘unique’ was an understatement, sir,” Hinton said. “But perhaps you could share with us as much of this as you can, and we’ll proceed from there.”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind.” Leffingwell leaned forward. “Here’s what it comes down to: I have reason to believe that somewhere in the Agency is a group—or team or taskforce, I don’t know the proper nomenclature—that is working on the development of a... forbidden weapon.”
The three CIA men waited, as if expecting more to follow. When nothing did, Hinton said, “Mister President, are you talking about something in the CBRN category?”
‘CBRN’ means weapons of a chemical, bacteriological, radiological, or nuclear nature. Such items were once referred to as ‘weapons of mass destruction’, but the term has fallen into disuse after a president started a war over said weapons, then failed to find any once the war was over.
“Possibly.” Leffingwell was pleased with himself for coming up with ‘forbidden weapons.’ It was broad enough to give him wiggle room but specific enough that somebody who was messing around with demons would probably get the idea.
Leon Stewart, Deputy Director for Intelligence, expressed the confusion all three of them were feeling.
“Mister President,” he said, “I don’t understand. If we’re not talking about CBRNs, then what’s left?”
“That’s a damned good question, sir,” Ted Burnett said. “If you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
“I understand your frustration,” Leffingwell said, “and I sympathize. I’m not trying to make you crazy. “But ‘forbidden weapons’ is the term that was used in describing the situation to me, and I was unable to obtain clarification from the source.”
“‘Forbidden’ can mean a number of things, depending on context,” Hinton said. “Frankly, it’s not a word that’s used much in the intelligence trade, Mister President. It’s reminiscent of the way the Chinese used to refer to the Imperial Palace in Bejing—they called it ‘the Forbidden City.’”
“Or something out of H. P. Lovecraft,” Stewart said.
Leffingwell looked at him. “Who?”
“A pulp writer in the 1920s or 30s. People still read him today—some people. Lovecraft was always going on about ‘forbidden books,’ or ‘forbidden knowledge’—that sort of thing.”
“Never heard of him,” Leffingwell said. “But whatever my source was referring to, I doubt it was the work of some pulp writer from the days of yore.”
“It would be easier to get a handle on this,” Burnett said, if we knew who or what was doing the ‘forbidding.’ Are we talking about some kind of weapon that’s forbidden by international law, or by US law, or by the Agency’s charter, or what?”
Leffingwell shook his head slowly. “I wish I could help you, Ted. But I’ve told you everything I know—which, I admit, isn’t a hell of a lot.” He had deliberately put a slight emphasis on the word ‘hell’ when he spoke, but if any of the others noticed, they gave no sign.
Stewart scratched his chin. “Ted’s reference to the agency’s charter just now got me thinking, Mister President. Although I’m pretty sure the word ‘forbidden’ doesn’t appear anywhere in there, I’ve heard it used by some people when discussing one of the charter’s provisions.”
“Which one?” Leffingwell asked him.
“The one dealing with domestic activities by the agency—which are of course, prohibited. So one could say that CIA is forbidden from engaging in operations within the borders of the United States.”
“I can recall hearing about some instances when that provision was honored more in the breach than in the observation,” Leffingwell said.
“Some earlier administrations were apparently less scrupulous in following the agency’s charter,” Hinton said. “But I can assure you, Mister President, CIA does not conduct operations within the United States, nor will it—not on my watch.”
“But an operation isn’t the same thing as creating a weapon,” Burnett said. “Is it?”
“I suppose it would depend on how broadly you define the term,” Stewart said. “Or how narrowly.”
“With respect, Mister President,” Hinton said, “this conversation is starting to resemble a dog chasing its tail. Maybe it would help clarify matters if you told us this much—just what is it you want us to do?”
“I want you to conduct a discrete inquiry,” Leffingwell said. “Find out if someone or some group within the agency is engaging in activity that is illegal, unethical, unauthorized or inappropriate. And if they are, I want it stopped.”
“In other words,” Hinton said carefully, “you want us to engage in a witch hunt?”
He’s just given me an opening to drop another hint, Leffingwell thought. “It’s only a witch hunt, Mister Director,” he said somberly, “if, at the end, you turn up a real witch.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Leffingwell was alone in the Oval Office. As usual, he had appointments scheduled through the rest of the day, but Joyce wouldn’t send in the next one—a couple of Assistant Secretaries from Commerce—until he buzzed her.
He thought about the meeting just ended and remembered the way the three men from the CIA had looked at him as he’d ushered them out of the room. They were restrained—of course, polite—of course. But there was a definite ‘what the fuck?’ vibe in the room that had followed Leffingwell’s guests as they’d left.
That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped—maybe my ‘forbidden weapons’ idea wasn’t quite as brilliant as it looked at 3:30 this morning. Those CIA g
uys aren’t quite sure what to make of it—that much is clear. They either think I’ve lost my mind, or that I’m playing some sort of subtle game that they can’t figure out yet. They’ll be watching me closely at future meetings for further evidence that I’ve gone completely off the rails.
Of course, if this ‘demon weapon’ business is the real deal, and one of them knows it, then maybe I’ve lit a fire under him. If I have, we’ll have to wait and see just how bright it burns.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE LINCOLN TOWN Car allocated for use by the Director of Central Intelligence had a glass divider between the passenger compartment and the driver. The thick glass could be raised and lowered at the touch of a switch, just like the tinted windows. Although the driver, Jock Mahoney, was himself an agent with a Top Secret security clearance, Gus Hinton nonetheless raised the soundproof barrier before saying, “What the fuck was that all about?”
“I imagine that’s something all of us have been thinking for the last half hour, sir,” Burnett said.
“Is the President…” Leon Stewart hesitated before completing the sentence. “… mentally ill?” It was the closest that Stewart, a devout Baptist, had ever come to uttering blasphemy.
“I...” Hinton shook his big head slowly two or three times. “I give him an intelligence briefing three or four times a week—been doing it ever since my confirmation. The last one was just two days ago. He sometimes asks questions or makes comments along the way, but they’re always intelligent, to the point, and... rational.”
“Well, ‘rational,’” Burnett said, “is not a word I’d apply to what just went on in there.”
“Nor would I,” Stewart said.
“Still…” Hinton said thoughtfully. I’m no mental health expert, but it seems pretty unlikely to me that someone—anyone, really, but especially the President of the United States—would go from zero to sixty on the Totally Wacked-Out Crazy scale within forty-eight hours.”
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