Krause looked up and smiled half-heatedly. “You know there is always more to every story,” he answered.
“Mm-hm. What about this new development with O’Brien?” she asked. “I assume you told Edmond. Did he have any clue who might be listening?”
“No. He did seem moderately concerned. Which, for Edmond, is rare. This spilt between the Russian contingent in The Collaborative and the rest; it’s not good, Alex. They are seeking to compete now with our interests.”
“He thinks the Russians…”
“Maybe. Claire is in Dimitri’s pocket. And, Alex…there is money missing from O’Brien’s campaign.”
Alex bristled. “What are you talking about?”
“Right before he died,” Krause paused and sighed. “O’Brien went to your father.”
“I already knew that.”
“No, not about you. The Broker set up the funnels for PAC donations. Masterson Marketing, CBC Consultants are CIA fronts; just like Carecom. A payment schedule with a list of services to purchase was outlined for the campaign. The campaign director was chosen.”
“Okay. So, just like with Carecom services were purchased on paper that need not be rendered and the money filtered through…”
“Exactly. Except it hasn’t been. O’Brien fired the campaign director we placed. Those funds have never been transferred. Without our person inside, well….Edmond can’t be certain where the funds are being diverted.”
“What does that have to do with bugging my house?” Alex asked. “You think they are hoping I will give up the ghost? Give up something there about Carecom’s accounts? Somehow get access to our pipeline?”
Krause nodded. “Exactly.”
“I don’t know. That doesn’t make sense to me. I would never…”
“I know, but they still don’t know. They know I have been there, Alex. We have no reason to hide those conversations from the CIA. It makes some sense.”
“Maybe. I have a feeling there is more than that,” Alex said. “So, you think O’Brien is skimming for himself?” Krause shrugged. “Nah,” Alex said. “I agree. He is too much of a coward for that. Someone else is syphoning that money. The question is where. What if we had that conversation?” she asked with a gleam in her eye.
Krause laughed. “Dummy accounts?” he offered. Alex raised her brow. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he smiled. “Follow the funds,” he said. Alex’s jaw tightened slightly, and she sighed. “What is it?” Krause asked.
“Pip,” she began.
“Oh, this is not good,” he said. “You only call me Pip when you want to give me a hard time or something is wrong.”
She let out another audible breath. “My father, in his letter to Cassidy,” she stopped and retrieved it from her pocket and handed it to him. “Maybe you should just read it for yourself.”
Alex watched as Krause read over the paper in his hands slowly. His expression remained remarkably calm. It was a trait that all great agents possessed. She noticed that he stared at the paper for a few seconds longer after finishing before very carefully folding it and handing it back to her. She was surprised when a gradual smile appeared on his face. “So? When do we leave for Stockholm?” he asked.
“Pip…I…”
“It’s all right, Alex,” he assured her. Alex started to protest, and he held up his hand. “I’m not surprised by the letter,” he said as he noted the questions in Alex’s eyes. “Edmond told me many things, Alex. I blamed him. I blamed him for John, for his death. I blamed myself.”
“I know,” Alex said softly.
“The thing is; John knew. He knew even before I did. Before I even called him, before I called and set up the chatter for NSA. He already knew it was coming. Days before, actually.”
“What?” Alex asked.
“He had time to think things through, Alex. More time than I did,” Krause said, his voice tinged with a mixture of sadness and anger.
“Look, I can’t ask you…”
“You didn’t ask,” Krause said flatly when the sound of Alex’s phone startled them both.
“Hello? Cass?” Alex looked at Krause, and he smiled. “Everything okay?” she returned to the phone call. “What? When?” Alex shook her head silently. “No, I heard you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Okay. See you soon.”
“Everything okay?” Krause asked.
“Mm. Barb just went into labor,” she explained. “Look. I know this is…”
“Alex. You need to go be with your family now,” he said. “I will do whatever you need for Dylan. Besides, I suspect you are as curious as I am about what is in Stockholm.”
“You could ask Edmond,” she suggested.
“I could. That’s not as much fun though,” he smirked. Alex nodded her understanding. “I don’t think we should both go. Brackett is still on her way to London,” Krause continued. “Edmond got the word while I was there that she’s set to meet with Daniels on Wednesday. Let me go to Sweden.”
Alex nodded. “I’ll book a flight when I get home.”
“Ian is tailing her there. Just…”
“I have it,” Alex said. “I already laid the groundwork with Daniels. Just….whatever you find in Stockholm….it’s your decision,” she said.
Krause nodded. He knew that both Alex and Cassidy would be reluctant to make an official claim that Dylan was his son and he both understood and respected that. The truth was that he loved Dylan. He remained silent for a long moment, looking intently at Alex; an understanding he had been reluctant to allow until this moment overtaking him. “Let’s worry about that when I get back. Go on,” he said.
“Pip?” Alex turned back and looked at him compassionately.
“Go,” he said. “Wish Nick and Barb the best for me.”
Alex nodded. “I will,” she answered, turning to leave.
Krause watched her as she exited and closed his eyes. He shook his head and attempted to process a truth he knew he could not deny. Alex was, without any doubt in his mind, his sister. He wondered how he could tell her. He wondered if she would believe it. He rubbed his face vigorously and jumped at the sound of his cell phone. “Krause,” he answered. “Are you sure? Where?” Krause licked his lips and shook his head. “I’m leaving the country shortly. It needs to be soon. I’ll let you know,” he hung up and chuckled sarcastically. “No one can hide forever,” he mumbled as he made his way out of the train station.
Joshua Tate walked calmly and deliberately through the large oak doors. He had been here many times at the direct request of the president. He had never before taken it upon himself to seek the man who held the Oval Office. His efforts over the last few days to uncover what the young Claire Brackett was truly involved with had led him down a path he was reluctant to believe could exist. His suspicions had led him here. It was the perfect opportunity. President Lawrence Strickland had recently made contact with the Assistant FBI Director; inquiring about an investigation that his division was spearheading. It was a convoluted case that centered on the possible bribery of several federal judges. Tate was positive that the president’s true interest revolved more around the potential parties that might be implicated if, in fact, an indictment was made. The fact was that informants had named several high-level advisers at the White House. It surprised Tate that the trail had not gone cold abruptly. He was no stranger to the inner workings of government. Few decisions were ever made on the bench that were not influenced by politics, and politics meant money. What was unusual was the lack of caution, almost hubris, in the trail that had been left so clearly marked. He suspected that someone within the new president’s administration might be attempting to compromise or even implicate the president himself. Often, those initiatives were created within the agency Tate had served now for many years. He had found no evidence of a CIA plot to dethrone the newly crowned American king. Tate was all too aware that Lawrence Strickland regarded himself as exactly that; a king.
“Sir,” a voice greeted Joshua Tate and directed h
im to follow.
Tate nodded and followed silently. He accepted a seat in the waiting area and closed his eyes. Anyone who passed by would have assumed that the assistant director was resting. In fact, he was concentrating on the voices that surrounded him, pulling pieces of conversations that to most would seem benign into his consciousness, and sorting the trivial from the potentially revealing silently.
“Director Taylor was here earlier,” a man’s voice said softly. Tate mentally pulled the voice into his focus and listened. “One thing, Strickland sure can piss him off. I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure I heard Taylor call him a naïve fool,” the voice finished. Tate smiled inwardly. It confirmed a closeness between the NSA Domestic Affairs Director and the new president, a familiarity that Tate suspected had deeper roots. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him, and he smiled at the man who now directed him to follow the path to the president’s location.
“Joshua,” President Strickland greeted the assistant director. “I was pleasantly surprised to hear you would be visiting.”
“Mr. President,” Tate returned the greeting, accepting what he regarded as a weak handshake from the president.
“So, I take it you might have some news for me,” Strickland began. He nodded to his aide to close the door and leave them in privacy.
“Well, I have to tell you that I am somewhat surprised at the carelessness of some of those implicated,” Tate answered.
“My staff members, you mean?” Strickland questioned cautiously.
“Yes.”
“Do you think that it was a ploy of some kind? A directive from elsewhere?” Strickland asked. The president was keenly aware that most who had been loyal to President John Merrow regarded his administration as little more than a nuisance. He did not have a military background; he was not tied to intelligence; he was, in short, a politician through and through. Some saw that as weakness. Strickland was aware that meant there would be initiatives to remove his authority and relevance.
“It’s possible,” Tate answered. “I’m wondering if we should involve NSA. Perhaps it would be wise to seek Director Taylor’s…”
“No,” Strickland answered. Tate felt a familiar tingle travel through his body. It was the sensation he remembered from his days as a detective in New York City interrogating suspects. The president had responded much too quickly. Tate lifted his eyebrow in question as the president rose from his seat and paced across the floor. “I don’t think it is wise to involve any intelligence service,” the president explained.
“I see,” Tate said. “Sir, the FBI is limited in ways that…”
“I understand, Joshua. Look, John turned to you more than once. I need this handled.”
Tate nodded. His suspicions were confirmed by the president’s reaction. “Mr. President, I will handle the investigation to the best of my ability. If this is someone attempting to compromise your administration, the best course will be to get closer.” The president’s expression tightened dramatically. “Sir, the NSA is far better equipped to handle this piece of the investigation. Domestic Affairs is…”
“Director Taylor is not an option,” the president responded harshly.
Tate remained expressionless and stared stoically at the man across from him. He studied the older man’s demeanor and posture. “Very well. I would advise you to keep an eye on Mr. Stearns.” The president flinched slightly at the name. Gregory Stearns was a trusted adviser on domestic economic policy. He also has been one of Strickland and Merrow’s most successful fundraisers during the last campaign. He was savvy and smart and able to penetrate and motivate the largest corporations into falling into line with the previous administration. He had hoped that the man’s unique talents would serve his own as well.
“Understood,” the president answered. “Stearns has served many senators and congressmen over the years,” Strickland observed. “I can’t see what he would gain by compromising this administration.”
“Perhaps nothing,” Tate answered. “I would have brought this to Director Taylor; that would have been my preference. It seems that you think that is inadvisable. It is best that you know where to keep your eyes focused,” he explained. Strickland nodded, but Tate could see the pensive crease taking shape in the president’s forehead. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have more for you,” Tate continued. “I did not want to call in other resources without your approval,” he finished.
“I appreciate that,” Strickland acknowledged. The president had read many notes from his predecessor regarding his trust in the Assistant FBI Director. One thing that Lawrence Strickland knew about John Merrow was that his trust was carefully and cautiously placed in very few people. He hoped that Joshua Tate would prove an ally.
Tate rose as the president led him to the door. “I’ll be in touch,” he assured the president.
“Thank you, Joshua,” Strickland replied. “I hope you understand…”
“You are the Commander in Chief,” Tate said. “You owe me no explanation.”
Tate watched as the president’s eyes took on a slight gleam, and his lips turned upward into a notable smile that barely masked its underlying arrogance. “Good to see you,” Strickland said. Feeling emboldened by the assistant director’s statement, he patted Tate condescendingly on the shoulder.
Tate made his way down the narrow corridor fighting the urge to physically brush off the feel of the president’s hand on his shoulder. Lawrence Strickland was no John Merrow. The mere presence of the man caused bile to rise into Tate’s throat. He stopped outside the large white doors as he waited for his car and took note of the younger man in the suit that stood, apparently waiting as well. “Need a ride?” the assistant director asked.
“Oh,” the younger man turned abruptly. “I apparently missed my ride earlier” he answered.
Tate smiled. He recognized the younger man immediately. “So,” Tate began. “How do you like working at the NSA?” The man looked at Tate in surprise. “It’s all right son,” Tate said. “Joshua Tate, FBI.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man extended his hand. “Agent Marcus Anderson.”
“Your boss left you behind?” Tate asked with the raise of an eyebrow. Marcus Anderson was known to the assistant director. His traveling companion over the last few months was another young agent Tate followed closely and with great interest. It was imperative that he play this coolly. Anderson was no rookie. While young, any agent assigned to work with Claire Brackett was hardly a novice. What piqued Tate’s curiosity more was the other company the agent apparently had been keeping. Traveling with Michael Taylor was normally an honor that was reserved for more senior agents; particularly travels to The White House. “I’m happy to give you a lift.”
“I don’t want to impose. I’m certain they will send someone,” Anderson said.
“Well,” Tate shrugged. “If you haven’t called yet; there is no sense in causing anyone that inconvenience. After all we are all on the same team,” he winked. Anderson nodded his assent. “Excellent,” Tate offered. He looked at his driver as the man came to open the door. “I’m afraid we will have to make one extra stop,” he joked. “Seems we have picked up another stray.” Tate laughed at the incredulous expression on Anderson’s face and got into the car. “Relax, agent. That’s what we do at the FBI mostly, but don’t tell anyone.”
Seeing the NSA Agent relax again slightly, Tate directed the driver to drop Anderson wherever he needed to go. He didn’t expect much meaningful conversation, and he didn’t need it. They rode in silence until they reached Anderson’s destination; the younger agent thanked Assistant Director Tate and Tate offering the typical response. Tate watched as Agent Anderson made his way toward the Lincoln Memorial and smiled. He leaned over the seat to the driver. “Drive up to C Street and let me out,” he directed. A few minutes later he exited the vehicle and positioned himself to wait patiently. Tate had greeted Anderson’s story that he was already running late for a meeting with his partner at the Linco
ln Memorial with a sympathetic smile; telling Anderson he remembered ‘those days’ well. He was relieved that Anderson clearly had no idea who he truly was. To Anderson, Tate was an FBI Assistant Director, in some ways a dime a dozen in these circles. Knowing that Anderson’s recent company was Claire Brackett, and all too aware that Agent Brackett was currently on her way to London; Tate surmised quickly that the agent’s intended destination was likely elsewhere. His suspicions were confirmed when the agent casually passed him walking up 23rd Street. “Visiting State, are we?” Tate smiled. “Well, let’s see who you are really meeting,” the assistant director mused.
lex walked into the waiting room and saw Cassidy sitting beside her mother talking quietly. Cassidy looked up and caught sight of her wife approaching and smiled. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” Alex answered softly. “How’s she doing?”
“Nick came out about half an hour ago,” Cassidy said. “It will be a while.”
Alex nodded and took a seat beside her wife. “Where are Dylan and Cat?”
“With Mom at Nick’s,” Cassidy answered. “She’ll make the trek when things are closer,” she explained. Alex nodded again quietly. “You all right?” Cassidy asked.
“Yeah,” Alex answered softly.
“I’m going to go get some coffee,” Helen interrupted as she reached her feet. “Anything you need?”
Cassidy shook her head. “Coffee would be great,” Alex answered. “Don’t you want some?” Alex asked Cassidy.
“No, not right now,” she said. Helen smiled at her daughter-in-law and took her leave.
“Cass? Are you okay?” Alex asked, momentarily forgetting the unsettling feelings hospitals always brought on for her.
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know. Just surprised. No coffee? You look like you could use some.”
Cassidy laughed. “Is that a polite way of saying I look like crap?”
“No!” Alex chimed. “Just tired.”
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