by Brad Thor
“I’m looking at you, so I’ve got a pretty good picture in my head.”
“Yeah, I’m the first guy in all of history to have too much to drink at an office Christmas party and make a pass at a coworker. I’m the devil.”
“First of all, we weren’t coworkers, you were my supervisor. And secondly, what you did wasn’t some booze-fueled pass,” she said, remembering how he had pulled her into an empty office, forced his hand under her dress, and tried to pull her panties off. “It bordered on charges being filed and you know it.”
“It’s not healthy to live in the past, Lydia. You’ve got to let it go.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you. In fact, I bet you’d like it if I left the Agency altogether.”
“What I’d like, is if you didn’t run your mouth so much. It’s not like I skated. I got suspended without pay and my wife left me.”
“Brenda left you because you’re an asshole and drinking only made you worse. The Agency should have cut you loose, but you manipulated the crap out of them and blamed all of your bad behavior on being an alcoholic so they sent you to rehab instead. Speaking of which, do you even bother going to AA meetings anymore?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
“Fair enough,” Ryan replied with a shrug. “I can only imagine how much they get in the way of drinking.”
“Can we get to the point? I’ve got a lot of other work to do.”
“Get to the point? What do I have to do? Draw you a picture? The Jordanians aren’t going to share until we give them something.”
Durkin shrugged and looked at her. “None of the guys they’re asking about work here anymore. The Eclipse program was disassembled. What do you want me to do?”
“Let me see,” she replied. “This is the Central Intelligence Agency. We have assets and liaison relationships around the world. Hmmmmm. Maybe try to find them?”
“You seem to have forgotten that the Eclipse program technically didn’t exist. I can’t now just unilaterally launch an operation to hunt down a group of American citizens who were photographed having lunch on Cyprus.”
“Who were also placed in Egypt and Libya before the turmoil there.”
“I hate to break it to you, Lydia, but visiting any of those countries isn’t a crime.”
Ryan couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How about lunching with two high-ranking Jordanian Muslim Brotherhood officials?”
“Also not a crime.”
“This is serious, Phil. This isn’t the kind of thing the Agency should be playing chicken over.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t serious.”
Ryan locked eyes with her former boss. “Maybe you don’t know Nafi Nasiri very well, but I do. Trust me, he doesn’t bluff.”
“I know Nafi Nasiri better than you think.”
“If you did, then you’d know that he doesn’t walk out on limbs without knowing exactly how strong they are and what he can grab if necessary on the way down.”
“Things are changing,” Durkin pontificated. “And if there’s one thing the Arabs don’t like, besides the Jews and the rest of us, it’s change.”
“I’m telling you, Phil, this is a survival issue for the Jordanians. They think they could be the next country to collapse and that we might be behind it. They’re an ally. We shouldn’t mess with them. Let’s help them.”
Again, the man shrugged. “What else do you want me to do? I told you that I’ll personally hand the terrorism plot allegation over to our Jordanian and Syrian desks. We’ll see what they come up with.”
Despite their relationship, Ryan had expected more buy-in from him. “Why not horse-trade with Nafi a little? Aren’t you even the slightest bit interested in what our old team might be up to? Let’s at least open a file on them.”
“The only jobs they’d ever be able to find are in the private contracting world. That whole team was made up of cowboys and more than a couple of bullshit artists, which means they’re probably selling some hybrid package of intel gathering and personal security services. They never liked discipline and they didn’t like rules, which means no reputable American company would ever hire them. They’ve either bamboozled some loosey-goosey foreign outfit to take them on, or they’ve hung their own shingle. Either way, they are persona non grata at this agency and I don’t give a rat’s ass what they’re up to. They’re simply not even worth thinking about.”
While she hated to admit it, there was a lot of logic to what Durkin was saying. “Let’s assume that you’re right; that they’re out there selling their services as private contractors. What’s the harm in quietly looking around, compiling a case file, and passing it off to the Jordanians?”
Durkin adopted a more sympathetic tone, but it was still patronizing. “Lydia, I want to help. Believe me. But you’re talking about private U.S. citizens. You know how the director feels about this kind of thing. We can’t investigate them without some sort of a justification.”
“So you’re saying no.”
The man nodded. “That’s what I’m saying. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Ryan as she stood up from the couch and walked to the door.
“Tell Nasiri you’re trying. In the meantime, let’s see if our people can run down this ‘plot’ he’s uncovered.”
“And if we can’t run it down?”
“Then hopefully, he’ll do the right thing and come clean with you.”
“I’m not going to hold my breath.”
“You never know,” Durkin said. “He may surprise you.”
Ryan was halfway out the door when she turned around and asked, “Why wasn’t I let go with the rest of the team when they were fired?”
“Why do you think?”
She shrugged. “I certainly broke my fair share of rules, just like the rest of them.”
“That’s the way the team was set up. You were expected to color outside the lines in order to get results.”
“But why keep me and not the others?”
“Because unlike the others, you didn’t ask for that assignment. You got put there as a babysitter. We knew you’d have to break a few rules, but we also knew where your loyalties were.”
“We?” she asked, “Or you?”
“What are you saying?”
“Did I get some sort of special treatment that the others didn’t get? Is that why you thought you could come on to me the way you did?”
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “That was me being stupid. You’re still here because both the CIA and I value your talent. Nothing more. Now stop letting Nafi Nasiri mess with your head. You’re too smart to be manipulated like that.”
Coming from anyone else, it would have been a nice compliment. Nevertheless, she remained professional. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now go.”
* * *
Once Ryan had left his office and the door had fully closed behind her, Durkin picked up his secure telephone and dialed. When a man’s voice answered on the other end the CIA man said, “We’ve got a problem. A big one.”
CHAPTER 9
WASHINGTON
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
The security at the headquarters of the Federal Reserve was similar to security at government buildings throughout the nation’s capital. Uniformed men with sidearms were posted at the entrances, as well as at the checkpoints inside.
Harvath and Carlton were required to pass through a full-body imaging machine before being allowed to proceed to a reception desk near a plush waiting area. “I should have warned you, but I’m glad you didn’t bring any weapons,” said the Old Man.
“Who said I didn’t bring any?” replied Harvath.
For a moment, Carlton couldn’t tell if he was pulling his leg or not. He decided to let it go and walked over to the reception desk.
Harvath admired the building’s interior. Even by Washington standards, it was impressive. With its polished marble and modernist interpretation of
Beaux Arts style, if this was supposed to be an awe-inspiring temple to money, its architects had succeeded.
After giving their names to the receptionist, Carlton rejoined Harvath. “Ever been here before?” the Old Man asked.
Harvath shook his head. “No. I’ve been to the Treasury and about every other federal building in town, but not this one.”
“This one isn’t federal.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Federal Reserve is a private organization. They gave themselves the title Federal Reserve to sound more official, but they’re not part of the government by any stretch of the imagination.”
“But, I always thought—”
The Old Man cut him off as someone approached from the other side of the lobby. “Here’s the gentleman we’re meeting with.”
The man was in his late forties, with short hair graying at the temples and a pronounced beak of a nose. He wore a well-tailored gray suit with an understated tie and a plain white pocket square. His shoes shone like mirrors.
“Good morning,” the man said as he walked up and extended his hand. “I’m Monroe Lewis.” His fingers were long and slim like a pianist’s and he spoke with the muted patrician accent of an old New England family.
Harvath and Carlton both shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. Looking at Harvath he added, “Especially you. I hope you found the plane comfortable.”
“It was more than comfortable. Thank you,” Harvath replied. Closer now, he noticed that the man had undergone some sort of modest cosmetic surgery; either Botox or a lift of some sort, which had tightened the skin across his face. Harvath wasn’t a fan of cosmetic surgery for men. While some guys might be able to get away with a little, there were others who didn’t know when to stop and whose faces ended up looking like they’d seen more knives than a grill at a Benihana.
Lewis was accompanied by a protective detail made up of three solidly built men in dark suits. Scanning the lobby, Harvath could make out at least two more, their heads on swivels, as they took in every person and every movement in the cavernous space.
“I have our conference room available,” Lewis offered. “Shall we go upstairs?”
Carlton nodded and the Federal Reserve man led the way. As they walked, he pointed out different pieces of the Fed’s history adorning the walls, and made polite small talk. He was quite knowledgeable about the organization, having worked there for more than two decades. His path to the Fed had begun with a quote from Karl Marx he discovered in high school—Money plays the largest role in determining the course of history.
Monroe Lewis had been a shy, frail boy of modest upbringing and lofty ambitions. He would never captain a football team or lead men into battle. He didn’t possess those skills. His strength lay neither in his muscles nor his character, but in his mind.
He was a voracious reader whose escape had always been books. And while outsiders saw him as perfectly suited for a career in academia, he knew academia was far too small a stage. One did not impact the course of history from some university campus. To impact history, one needed to be at the epicenter of where history was made. For him, that epicenter was the Federal Reserve.
Arriving at the conference room, he showed his guests in and asked his security detail to remain outside.
It was an enormous rectangular room with an almost thirty-foot mahogany table running down the center. Along one wall was a large marble fireplace and suspended above the table was an ornate chandelier that looked to be at least a thousand pounds.
“I suppose, given the situation, the security is a necessary precaution,” he said, closing the door and crossing to Harvath and Carlton, “but it does take some getting used to.”
“Always better to have it and not need it,” said Harvath.
“Indeed,” Lewis replied. “Indeed. Can I offer you gentlemen some coffee?”
The old spy and his number two accepted china cups with saucers and joined Lewis at the long inlaid conference table. As they pulled out their chairs, there was a knock followed by the door opening.
“Ah, William,” Lewis said as a man walked in with a folder tucked beneath his arm. “Thank you for joining us.” Turning to Harvath and Carlton he introduced the new arrival, “This is Will Jacobson, our director of security.”
Jacobson was a large man in his late fifties. He was fit, with thick arms outlined by the sleeves of his almost too tight navy blue suit. He had silver hair that was neatly combed, and dark, almost slitlike eyes. He carried himself with an air of self-importance.
After shaking hands, they all sat back down and Lewis handed control of the meeting to Jacobson.
“Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” he said, staring across the table and sizing up his two outsiders. “As you’ve probably heard, one week ago Federal Reserve Chairman Wallace Sawyer passed away.”
“How did he die?” asked Harvath.
Jacobson, who didn’t enjoy being interrupted, shot him a look. “Heart attack.”
“Has the cause of death been confirmed?”
“Yes, by the coroner. Though it wasn’t released to the press, Chairman Sawyer, who was sixty-six years old at the time of his death, had an underlying heart condition.”
“Where was he when it happened?”
“You realize you weren’t brought here to talk about Chairman Sawyer,” Jacobson said curtly, irritation evident in his tone.
Lewis raised his hand to calm the security director. “It’s okay, Will. Please answer their questions.”
Jacobson took a deep breath and let it out. “He was leaving a restaurant in Bethesda with his wife.”
“Did he travel with a security detail?”
“Yes. They were with him that night,” he replied and then waited for any follow-up questions. When none were asked, he continued. “After the chairman’s passing, the vice chairman was made temporary chair.”
“And that would be Mr. Lewis?”
Monroe Lewis shook his head. “No, I’m not the vice chair. I report to the Board of Governors and help oversee day-to-day operations. Essentially, I function as a chief operating officer.”
Harvath looked at Carlton and then back at Lewis. “I apologize. The structure is a little confusing.”
Lewis smiled. “That’s quite all right. It’s actually not that difficult. The Board of Governors has seven members, all appointed by the President of the United States and confirmed by the Senate. They serve a fourteen-year term. From these seven members, the President selects a chairman and a vice chairman.”
“Has the President ever appointed a chairman from outside the Board of Governors?”
“Yes, there is a precedent for that.”
“So he could select you for instance?”
Lewis laughed. “I suppose anything is possible, but that’s not how it happens. The chairman usually is selected from the Board of Governors.”
“And what exactly do they do?” Harvath asked.
“They oversee the twelve district Federal Reserve banks.”
“Which do what?”
“They represent the twelve districts the Federal Reserve has divided the nation into. Their job is to help implement monetary policy as established by the Federal Reserve’s Federal Open Market Committee.” He could see Harvath’s eyes glazing over. “The Open Market Committee focuses on establishing interest rates and dealing with the nation’s money supply. They also oversee the Federal Reserve’s purchase and sale of U.S. Treasury securities. And to keep it simple, the district Federal Reserve banks help regulate the banks in their area. Does that make sense?”
Not really, thought Harvath, but he didn’t want to look any dumber than he already felt. “Got it,” he lied, figuring they’d get to his own area of expertise soon enough. “Please continue.”
“As a thirty-thousand-foot view, that’s pretty much it.”
“And shortly after Chairman Sawyer died, your top five candidates to replace him disappeared, and one of them turned up m
urdered this morning.”
Lewis nodded.
“It looks like someone is trying to send you a message.”
“You can say that again,” replied Jacobson, as he removed a hideous photograph from his file and slid it across the table.
CHAPTER 10
The terrible image was a police evidence photo of a woman who had been mutilated and apparently beaten to death. She was lying atop a bed of logs, her ears missing, with some sort of sign hung around her neck.
“This is Claire Marcourt?” the Old Man asked, his voice filled with pity for the woman.
The security chief nodded solemnly. “Her body was found early this morning on Jekyll Island, about forty-five minutes from her vacation home on Sea Island down in Georgia.”
“How’d you get a copy of the photo?” Harvath asked, examining it.
“We have some influence down there.”
“Any idea why they cut off her ears?” Carlton inquired. “Could she have heard something she wasn’t supposed to?”
The security chief shrugged. “For all we know, the symbolism is the exact opposite. Maybe someone felt she wasn’t listening as she should.”
“Do you have a better picture of whatever this sign is around her neck?”
Jacobson pulled another photo from his folder and slid it across the table. Harvath picked it up while the Old Man pulled a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. Before he’d even slipped them on, he heard a quiet gust of air blown from Harvath’s mouth.
“What is it?”
Harvath handed the tight shot of the sign around the dead woman’s neck to his boss. Upon it had been painted a skull and crossbones with a crown floating above. The sign was streaked in blood, as if the victim’s bloody fingers had slid down it. Carlton read aloud the words painted beneath: “The Tree of Liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” Looking up from the photo, he stated, “I’ve heard that before. Who said it?”
“Thomas Jefferson,” Harvath replied.
“Exactly,” the security chief confirmed. “We think we’re dealing with some sort of anti — Federal Reserve extremist group.”