Death Echo

33

DAY FOUR

LANGLEY

MORNING

Timothy Harrow hadn’t personally met the FBI agent in front of him until two minutes ago. That didn’t keep the man from chewing out Harrow’s ass.

“-bad enough, don’t you think?” the agent demanded.

Harrow didn’t have a chance to answer, because the agent kept on speaking with hard, clipped words.

“No, you had to go and keep Temuri’s presence on U.S. soil from us, when you bloody well knew we’ve been chasing him for seven years!”

Harrow told himself that he wouldn’t show his impatience by fiddling with his pen, his notebook, or anything else on his desk.

The ranting FBI agent was wearing a sports jacket, open-necked shirt, jeans, loafers, and an expression of acute irritation. He looked like he’d been hauled in from the relaxed West Coast through a wormhole and then plugged into a live electrical socket.

Harrow felt the same way, but hid it better. Old School versus New Wave.

“We’ve been chasing Temuri ever since we busted a shipment of vials headed for Afghanistan,” Harrow said evenly.

“Vials? Biological stuff? Not nukes or chemicals?”

“He’s an equal opportunity vendor,” Harrow said. “You need it, Temuri will deliver it. For a price.”

“What he is or isn’t selling overseas is no excuse for not telling the FBI that Temuri was in the U.S. where he could be detained and questioned!”

Harrow looked at the younger man. Still eager. Still a believer. Every agency and bureau needed them, but Harrow just didn’t have time or patience for the dance right now.

The interoffice phone buzzed, reminding Harrow of his next appointment-a senator fishing for a headline to shove up the present administration’s ass. Harrow’s boss hadn’t decided whether to play or pass, so effusive stalling was in order. Harrow could do that half-asleep. In fact, he often did.

After the interview he was packing for a fast trip to western British Columbia, Canada. At least, he hoped it would be fast.

Slow would mean the end of careers and lives.

“Your department will have a formal apology as soon as I find the proper security clearance for it,” Harrow said.

“That’s not-”

“The op,” Harrow cut in, “has moved out of the U.S, as your boss already knows. It has been turned over to us. If we discover anything we can share, you’ll be right behind Congress on our show-and-tell list.”

In other words, you’ve been cut out of the game.

The agent got the message. It was one he had passed out a lot on his own turf. That didn’t mean he liked getting it.

Vibrating with anger, he stalked out of the office.

When the senior senator from Minnesota walked into Harrow’s office, passing by a tight-lipped FBI agent, Harrow was mentally plotting various approaches to former CIA officer Emma Cross.

It would help if he knew what the soured op had been about, but all Duke had told him was to be prepared to fly out on a moment’s notice.

Harrow rose to his feet, smiled, and greeted the senator.