Iron Orchid

NINETEEN

SHORTLY AFTER DAWN the following morning, Lance Cabot stood on a New York City rooftop with Hugh English, the deputy director for operations, and Robert Kinney, the brand new director of the FBI. They were looking down at all that was left of a townhouse. Lance had choppered up from Langley with the Deputy Director of Intelligence in the middle of the night, and he missed the sleep. He must be getting old, he thought.

The DDIO and the director were grim-faced, and Lance wasn’t sure if it was because of what they knew or what they didn’t know.

A young agent stepped up to Kinney and whispered something in his ear.

“Excuse me a minute, Hugh, Lance,” Kinney said and walked a few steps away with the agent. Lance could see his face as the agent delivered his news, and Kinney looked both astonished and outraged. “That’s impossible,” Lance heard him say. “I never did that.” Kinney came back to English and Lance. “This is Special Agent Kerry Smith,” he said, and introduced the two men. “He’s brought me some news, and it puts this incident in a whole new light.”

“What is it, Bob?” English asked.

“It looks as though the explosive used here was C-4, and that it came from the evidence room in our New York field station downtown.”

“How can that be possible?” English asked. “Do you suspect one of your own people?”

Kinney shook his head. “Here’s how it went: a man in a suit walked into the evidence room, presented credentials that identified him as an FBI agent and presented a letter, ostensibly signed by me and endorsed by the AIC, authorizing him to remove four pounds of C-4 from the evidence room to transport to D.C. as evidence in a trial. The man’s I.D. said his name was Curry. There is no agent by that name, but by God, the name was in the database that confirmed his I.D.”

“How could an outsider get hold of a verifiable I.D. card for an agent who doesn’t exist?” Lance asked.

“Hugh,” Kinney said, “has Kate spoken with you about the Teddy Fay problem?”

“Oh, God,” English said, nodding.

Lance was baffled. “Teddy Fay is dead, isn’t he?”

“Not anymore,” Kinney replied.

HOLLY AND HER FOUR TEAM MEMBERS were in the conference room on time. A man they didn’t know came in and put a cardboard box on the table.

“Good morning,” he said. “Mr. Cabot couldn’t be with you this morning; he’s in New York with the DDL.” He reached into the box and removed five heavy brown envelopes and distributed them among the group, calling each by name. It was the first time Holly had heard any of their names.

“First, please pass me the I.D. cards you were issued when you arrived at the Farm.”

The group turned in their I.D.'s.

“Now open your envelopes,” the man said. “Inside you’ll find a leather wallet with your permanent I.D. card, which bears your photograph, your right index fingerprint and your signature. It also contains, on a magnetic strip, much other information from your service record, including a copy of your DNA profile. The card identifies you as an officer of the CIA and explicitly authorizes you to carry concealed weapons, not just firearms, in the fifty states and the territories of the United States. Should you be sent abroad on duty, you’ll be provided with other weapons authorizations.

“Also in the envelope is a copy of your commission, and you will return that to me to be placed in your service record. Also in the envelope is a box of five hundred business cards. Generally speaking, you are not to identify yourself as a CIA officer unless circumstances demand it, but if you must, you’ll have these two means of identification. The phone number on your business card is a Washington number, but any calls you receive will be routed to an electronic mailbox or to your local number, upon your instructions.

“Also in the envelope is a card with a New York City address and a street map showing its location. You will present yourselves at that address by three p.m. today. Your car, if you own one, will be garaged in the basement of the building, and you will be temporarily housed there until other arrangements are made. Memorize the address and phone number and the directions, then return the card and map to me.

“Sally Liu,” he said to Harry Three, “you will ride with Holly Barker and her dog in her car. William Knox, you will take Harvey Kite and Jennifer Fox in your car.

“We’re done here, so now you are to go to the armory, where you will be issued appropriate weapons. Within certain limits, you’ll be allowed to choose them. Thank you, good luck and goodbye. Make us proud of you.” The man gathered up the envelopes and left the room.

“Sally Liu,” Holly said, “I’m Holly Barker.” She introduced herself to the other three and memorized their names.

“What kind of piece are you going to ask for?” Sally asked as they left the main house and walked toward the armory.

“I don’t know, really; I brought a handgun with me.”

They walked into the armory to find Sarge, their firearms instructor, waiting for them.

“I hear you folks are headed for some active duty,” he said.

“If you say so, Sarge,” Holly said.

“What do you want to pack, Holly?”

“I’ve already got my nine-millimeter; how about something smaller for backup?”

Sarge went to a drawer and came back with a tiny, black pistol and a metal tube. “Seen one of these?”

“At a gun show once.”

“It’s a Keltech.380 that has been reworked by Technical Services and fitted with a silencer, which they made for us.” He reached into another drawer. “Take an ankle holster and a pocket holster for it. You happy with your gun leather?”

“Yes,” Holly said.

“How about a knife?”

Holly grimaced. They had had training with knives, but Holly found them distasteful.

Sarge chucked and handed her a black switchblade. “Take this,” he said. “You never know.”

Holly dropped the knife into a pocket and signed for her weapons.

“Good luck, kiddo,” Sarge said. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Sarge.”

“If you ever get tired of field work, we can always use you on the Farm.”

“Thanks.” She took her weapons and walked slowly toward the car, where Daisy waited for her.

Sally Liu caught up with her in the parking lot. “I can’t believe we’re out of here,” she said, hoisting her bags into the back of the Cayenne, next to Holly’s.

“Neither can I,” Holly said. “I had been expecting at least a few more weeks of training. I hope we know enough.”

She got into the car and started it, and Sally climbed in.

“My pulse is up,” Sally said, holding three fingers to her neck.

“So is mine,” Holly said. She put the car in gear and headed for the gate.