Back Blast

78

Catherine King stepped off the elevator on the seventh floor of the CIA’s Old Headquarters Building. Her assigned control officer escorted her into a conference room — the same room she’d visited a week earlier to interview Denny Carmichael — then offered her a cup of coffee. When she declined, the young woman disappeared, and soon the door opened again.

Catherine had never met Matthew Hanley, the Acting Director of the National Clandestine Service, and she knew very little about him. All she knew of his CV was that he’d been a Green Beret, an SAD officer, and then had worked as station chief in Haiti. He’d been back here running SAD until yesterday, when he was tapped to take over NCS for the late Denny Carmichael.

She assumed Hanley knew the man she called Six, but she had no idea if Hanley still had any association with him, or even if Hanley had been involved in the manhunt for the ex — SAD operator.

But that didn’t really matter, because Catherine knew this morning’s meeting would not be about Six. It would be about Catherine. Or, more specifically, it would be about what Catherine planned on publishing. There was no other earthly reason why first thing in the morning on his first day in his new position, the new top spook in the United States would want to speak with an investigative reporter for the Washington Post.

When Hanley stepped through the door she found herself surprised. Where Denny had been lean and stately, Director Hanley looked like an old linebacker. She could tell from his eyes and his nose that he liked to drink, and she could tell by his frame that he liked to eat, but his ruddy complexion made her think he could handle both without ill effects.

He shook her hand gently and sat down. Smiling while he talked, he seemed night and day different from his predecessor.

There was significant chitchat at first — Hanley seemed to enjoy talking — but when he got down to business she realized he had a definite objective.

“Ms. King, I want to offer you a great opportunity.”

“An opportunity to do what, exactly?”

“An opportunity to help your country.”

She rolled her eyes. “By not talking about what happened at the safe house, you mean?”

“You can talk about it. I hope you will. But I hope you are… fair. Deliberate about what you say.”

“Have you read anything I’ve written?”

“Every week.”

“Then you know I am both fair and deliberate.”

Hanley seemed to consider a moment. Like he was playing chess and thinking over his next move. “I’m ready to make a deal. A really nice deal.”

“And I’m listening, Director Hanley.”

And then, for the next several minutes, Acting Director Matthew Hanley offered Catherine King unprecedented access to the inner workings of the CIA. Exclusives, tips, personal tours, and visits to places she could not have dreamed of getting into. Introductions to players, background intelligence on world figures, and data that she had never thought she would obtain from anyone in government, least of all from the top spy in U.S. intelligence.

Hanley finished his spiel by saying, “Denny Carmichael was not an evil man. I didn’t like him, never did. But that was because his methods were too top-down. He thought he was a puppet master and a king, and that’s not what this place needs at all. Everything bad that has happened, everything classified you’ve learned about in the past week… it was all Denny Carmichael. When he died… I’d like to hope that could all die with him.” He spoke in a pleading voice now. “Don’t destroy this Agency by reporting the crimes of a man who no longer needs to be stopped. Instead, watch this Agency closer than anyone in the Fourth Estate has ever watched us. Make sure I don’t become Denny. You can have a real positive impact on this organization, on this nation.” Hanley winked. “And you can probably write some damn fine stories in the process.”

Catherine kept her poker face, but she had already decided to be extremely sparing in her reporting. She knew the power of the media to destroy, and she knew that despite all the nuance in the world, a thorough piece on the front page of the Washington Post about rogue bands of assassins killing their way across the nation’s capital under orders from the number two man at the CIA would cause politicians to gut the Agency down to nothing.

She wouldn’t do that.

That the new guy running NCS just offered her unparalleled access almost caused her to jump out of her chair.

Instead, she forced him into specifics, hammered out dates for meetings and general ground rules for sharing information, and then she kept her poker face as long as she could. Finally she reached out a hand. “I look forward to following your tenure here very closely, Director Hanley.”

Hanley shook her hand, and she could see on his face that he recognized he’d just paid dollars to someone ready to accept dimes.

“I bet you do, Ms. King.”

Arthur Mayberry opened the wooden door to his home, but he left the storm door locked. Through the Plexiglas and bars he saw a white male in his thirties standing in the morning sunshine. He wore a suit and tie, and a serious expression.

The media had moved from his sidewalk a week or so after Jeff Duncan nearly blew up all of Columbia Heights, but these damn cops just kept coming.

Bernice appeared at Mayberry’s side just as he said, “I’ve told you boys everything I know.”

“I’m not here to ask questions.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

The young man held out an envelope. “You can take this, and not ask me any questions. To be honest, I don’t care for them any more than you.”

Mayberry looked at the envelope. “Well, what is it?”

“That’s a question, Mr. Mayberry. Please pay attention.”

Mayberry unlocked the door, took the envelope. He opened it. It was a fat stack of one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Lord have mercy,” he said softly.

The young man smiled a little. “Someone wishes to apologize for any inconvenience you might have endured in the past week or two. He asks that you accept this as repayment for the damages.”

Bernice looked at the money. She whispered, “Drugs.”

The man in the suit took no offense. “Not at all, ma’am. This is something else. Are you familiar with the FBI’s Witness Protection Program?”

Bernice said, “I… I believe I saw it on Law and Order.”

“Yes… well… things aren’t always how they appear.”

Arthur gasped. “You mean to tell me Jeff Duncan was in the Witness Protection Program?”

The young man raised an eyebrow and, with it, he gave a little smile.

Arthur Mayberry said, “No questions?”

“Exactly right, sir. Have a nice day.”

The man returned to his car, the car rolled off, and Mayberry locked the door. Only when this was complete did he pull the cash out of the envelope.

“How much is it?” Bernice asked.

Arthur Mayberry took a moment to thumb through it, making sure all the bills were hundreds. They were. He said, “It’s enough to where we won’t ever have to rent out the basement to another crazy man.”

The Mayberrys looked at each other and shared a smile.