The Chimera Secret

15

Nobody knew much about agents working for the Central Intelligence Agency. They thought that they did, their supposed knowledge provided by a wealth of television dramas depicting elaborate underground facilities with satellite links and hotlines to the White House and beyond.

Mr. Wilson knew better.

The nondescript dark-blue Cadillac Catera in which he drove ensured that he drew absolutely no attention to himself whatsoever. The windows were lightly tinted, just enough to shield his face from traffic cameras and casual observers. Virginia plates, a child-seat in the back and a Virginia Cavaliers sticker in the rear window completed the illusion that it was a family car. He pulled into the sidewalk near the corner of 4th and Independence, opposite a Presbyterian church. His close proximity to the building allowed him to exit and be inside in the shortest amount of time. Mr. Wilson liked to observe the world around him without himself being observed. Where possible he traveled at night, a shadow flitting like a dangerous thought from one pool of darkness to the next. Today, however, was a special day.

Mr. Wilson climbed out of the car and strode across to the church. A handful of anonymous pedestrians on the sidewalk parted either side of him like chaffs of wheat gusted by a passing tornado. Whether by instinct or knowledge, people had avoided Mr. Wilson for as long as he could remember, as though somehow they sensed the undiluted violence veiled behind his unassuming exterior.

He reached the church, where on the north side a narrow iron gate led to a concealed path hidden between the church walls and rows of trees and bushes lining the sidewalk. Wilson vaulted lithely over the gate, into the shade of the trees and out of sight from the road.

Wilson walked only a few paces along the path before a man emerged ahead from where he had been leaning unobtrusively behind the church’s ornate brickwork. Wilson stood in front of him and, unlike the pedestrians before, he saw no signs of intimidation in the man’s eyes as he removed a pair of expensive Ray-Bans.

‘You were able to get out without alerting suspicion?’ Wilson asked.

‘It’s not a problem,’ came the reply. ‘They work flexible hours in there. It’s like a holiday.’

Wilson did not smile. The agent before him was extremely capable and used to operating in far harsher and more dangerous climes than the center of the district.

‘Our program has been stepped up,’ he announced. ‘Collateral is no longer an obstacle.’ Wilson hesitated, and then added: ‘Within reason.’

‘None of the staff is a problem,’ the agent replied. ‘Only one is doing any real digging, Natalie Warner. I’m not sure what she’s after but it’s beyond her remit.’

‘Keep a sharp eye on her,’ Wilson ordered him. ‘If she becomes an issue, ensure that she is removed from play.’

‘Time-scale?’

‘The problem at hand will be resolved entirely within twenty-four hours, probably less. All you are required to do is ensure that the GAO does not collate enough evidence to warrant Congressional intervention in CIA programs. If they should do so, then you are to prevent that information from reaching either the committee or the inspector general.’

The man nodded. ‘Where will you be?’

‘Here in the district. I’ll maintain a watch on the key figures personally. If any should show signs of making a case against the agency, then we will make every effort to prevent them from doing so.’

The man raised an eyebrow.

‘That might be easy out here on the street, but taking down a Congressional aide in the accountability office is another matter entirely. It will be difficult to maintain cover.’

‘Use your imagination,’ Wilson replied. ‘As soon as our task is complete you will be extracted and placed far from any inconvenient inquiries or investigations.’

‘Fine,’ the agent replied. ‘I’ll keep the office covered. If anyone leaves, I’ll inform you immediately.’