Direct Action

41

18 NOVEMBER 2003

3:04P.M.

14528-C FLINT LEE ROAD, BUILDING 42, CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA

THEY WERE EARLYfor the 4P.M. appointment with representatives from CTC because Tony Wyman always liked to be early, and besides, like all good case officers, he preferred never to go anywhere he hadn’t scoped out in advance.

They’d driven out from the 4627 corporate offices in Rosslyn in Wyman’s big, gray Suburban. Tom found the venue bothersome. A proposed meeting at CIA headquarters had been summarily rejected by the CTC chief, who hinted that Wyman and Tom were unwelcome presences at Langley. Wyman had suggested as an alternative one of CIA’s Rosslyn satellite offices because of their proximity to 4627. That, too, had been rejected. Instead, CTC had dictated the Chantilly site, just short of an hour’s commute west of Rosslyn through the crowded Dulles corridor and along the perpetually gridlocked Route 28.

14528-C Flint Lee Road turned out to be an anonymous shoe box of a one-story building set among scores of identical one-story shoe-box buildings that lined both sides of a potholed, four-lane road that ran on an east-west axis half a mile south of Route 50 and six-tenths of a mile due south of Dulles Airport’s barbed-wire-topped outer perimeter fence.

As they turned onto Flint Lee Road, Tom, who was riding shotgun, said, “I don’t like it, Tony.”

“Why?” Wyman flicked a glance in the rearview mirror then turned toward Tom.

“Just gives me bad vibes. And why the hell did they make us drive an hour? You know as well as I do they have plenty of suitable sites in McLean or Vienna.” He stared through the windshield. “Plus, there’s only one way in and out.”

“Amen.” Wyman drove past the turnoff to 14528, turned left into a cul-de-sac warren of warehouses, and pulled over. He turned to MJ, who was riding behind him. “What about you?”

She shrugged. “You guys are the operators. You tell me.”

Tom said, “I think we position ourselves in a standoff position and see who arrives.”

Wyman nodded. “I agree.”

“What are you concerned about, an ambush of some sort?”

Tom thought about Jim McGee riding in the front seat of the armored State Department FAV and said, “Nothing’s out of the question these days.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” MJ said. “Aren’t you two being just a little bit too much cloak-and-dagger?”

Tom turned to face her. “Didn’t you see the T-shirt I put on this morning?”

“T-shirt?”

“It’s the one that reads PARANOIA: IT’S MORE THAN A FEELING, IT’SA WAY OF LIFE.” “Very funny.”

“A little paranoia every now and then,” Wyman said, “can be a good thing.”

MJ gave him a skeptical look. “Are we talking about now-now, or then-now, Tony?”

“Both.” He swiveled toward her and deflected. “So, when’s the wedding?”

MJ’s hand dropped onto Tom’s shoulder. “Day after Christmas.” She saw the crestfallen look flash across Wyman’s face. “It’s just us and my family, Tony-the ceremony at the local parish and a reception at my parents’ house in Great Neck.”

“I understand.” He nodded. “Not to worry.”

At 3:17P.M., Wyman’s cell phone rang. He turned the radio down and plucked it out of the utility tray.“Pronto?”

He listened for a quarter of a minute, his expression darkening by the second. “You told them they could shove it up their asses, right?” he growled. “Good. We’re on our way back.”

Wyman slapped the clamshell phone shut, put the Chevy in gear, and wheeled roughly out of the cul-de-sac.

“What’s up?”

“This appointment was a ruse to get us out of the office. At three sharp, two Agency security types showed up in Rosslyn demanding all our files on Ben Said, as well as the transcript of your conversation with young Adam Margolis. Said we were in possession of illegally obtained classified materials and were obliged to turn everything over to them immediately.” He looked at Tom. “Oh, and by the way, your security clearance has been revoked.”

“Oh?”

“The reason given was that you compromised an Agency operation.”

“What?”

“Liam McWhirter’s setup in Cormeilles-en-Parisis.”

“When he was trying to compromiseme.” Tom rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Dead serious.” He looked at Tom. “Don’t worry-we’ll deal with it.”

Tom bit his lower lip. “What about the office?”

“And Bronco asked them for their warrant. They told him they didn’t have one-this was just a friendly call. Bronco told them to get stuffed and they backed off.” He looked at MJ. “It was a bluff-for now.”

“For now?”

“Look,” Wyman said. “The seventh floor has a staff of lawyers and security investigators who just love to make things tough for certain people.”

“They dress like the guys inMen in Black, ” Tom said. “We used to call them the DCI’s gestapo.”

“We still do,” Wyman snorted.

Tom looked at his boss. “So, what’s the plan, Tony?”

“It’s time to put a stop to all this crap.” Wyman flipped the cell phone open, punched up his phone book, scrolled down until he found the number he wanted, hit the transmit button, and waited for the connection.

Then he said, “Porter? It’s Tony Wyman. I’d like to bring two of my colleagues for a meeting with you in the committee’s bubble room.” He paused. “I’m talking CRITICOM.” There was another pause. “Uh-huh. An hour and three-quarters.” Wyman checked the dashboard clock. “We can do that. I don’t want to talk on an open line, but let me say we have information relating to certain operations that would have resulted positively in the CT area, but which were blocked by the seventh floor. And we can document the fact that DO is so dysfunctional that private companies like mine have to perform CIA’s core missions and thus affect the national security of the nation with no oversight over our operations whatsoever.”

Wyman listened. “Yes, I know there are no recruitments anymore. No risk taking. I know he said five years. But it’s been more than eight already-and there’s been no improvement since I pulled the plug. The DO is dead, Porter. A shell. Remember the nimble, flexible, core-mission-oriented enterprise where we used to work? Well, it’s a fleeting memory.” He listened some more, then nodded. “Yes, I’m convinced they have to go, Porter. It’s time to muck out the stables.” There was another pause. “We’ll be there. Thanks.”

As Wyman snapped the phone shut, Tom said, “I thought you told me 4627 wasn’t in the business of staging coups at the CIA.”

Wyman looked at his young protégé long and hard. “You were the one who told me we should be. You were right. This country’s been deaf, dumb, and blind for more than a decade now, and that’s too goddamn long. Porter may not be the perfect choice-but he’s our guy. He’s all we’ve got these days. It’s time for them to go. All of them. Every last piece of deadwood.” He looked at Tom. “We owe that much to Jim McGee.” He paused. “And to Shahram.”

MJ’s eyes filled up. “When Tom and I marry, I expect you to fly in and stand up for him, Tony.”

“Fly?Moi? Not on the twenty-sixth of December, m’dear.” Wyman caught her worried look in the rearview mirror and laughed. “It’s not so far to Great Neck. I’ll drive, if you don’t mind.”