The Sixth Man

CHAPTER 15

PETER BUNTING NERVOUSLY ADJUSTED his tie and nodded at the staffer who had come to escort him to his meeting. He’d been here on numerous occasions, but this time was different. This time he was prepared to have his ass handed to him.

He suddenly stopped and stared blankly at the man who was just now leaving the office he was about to enter.

Mason Quantrell was fifteen years older than Bunting and not quite as tall, with a bulldog chest and a jowly face. His hair was still thick and wavy, though the brown strands had turned mostly gray. His mind was far sharper than his features, his eyes roaming and intense. He was the CEO of the Mercury Group, one of the biggest players in the national security field. Revenue-wise, Mercury was well over twice the size of Bunting’s company, but the E-Program platform gave Bunting greater clout in the intelligence community. Quantrell was from the old school. Spread the intelligence around. Let the worker bees do their thing and feed the government paper mill, spewing out reports no one had time to read. He was the dinosaur making billions off Uncle Sam. Quantrell had hired Bunting to work for him right out of college. And then Bunting had left to build his own empire. Two decades ago Quantrell had been the wonder boy of the private-sector clandestine world before Bunting had replaced him.

They were not friends. In some ways they were even more than competitors. And in Washington there were really no winners or losers, only survivors. And Bunting knew that Quantrell would do everything in his power to knock him off his lofty perch.

“What a coincidence seeing you here,” said Quantrell.

I bet, thought Bunting.

“How’s business?” asked Quantrell.

“Never better.”

“Is that right? I heard otherwise.”

“I don’t really care what you heard, Mason.”

Quantrell laughed. “Well, don’t keep the lady waiting, Pete. I’m sure she has lots to tell you.”

He strode down the hall, and Bunting watched him every step of the way until the aide touched his shoulder, which made him jump.

“Secretary Foster will see you now, Mr. Bunting.”

He was ushered into the large corner office where the polycarbonate glass allowed in ample sunlight, but never a bullet. He sat across from the woman. She was dressed in pale blue – her favorite color, Bunting had observed. Ellen Foster was forty-five, divorced, childless, as ambitious as he was, and brilliant. That was just the way it was. The filter became incredibly picky at this level. She was also blond, slender, and attractive, and she could gallop the range from iron maiden to feminine flirt with ease. That didn’t hurt, either, in this city where honey and vinegar were often used as aphrodisiacs.

Foster, the secretary of Homeland Security – a recent innovation prompted by 9/11 – nodded at Bunting with an unreadable expression. She was an excellent tactician, he knew. She sat atop the largest security agency in the country. It had swallowed turf and budget dollars like a giant vacuum cleaner. This had caused a lot of envy from other agencies that resented the new kid on the block’s heft and reach. But it was the new world, and Foster was the newest member of the Cabinet. She had the president’s ear and confidence. When the person in the White House had your back, you were platinum. Foster knew this, of course. She could afford to appear cooperative and magnanimous to her competitors. For in the end, she knew she would come out on top.

Foster rose to greet him. “Peter, good to see you. Family well?”

“Yes, Secretary Foster, all well. Thank you.”

She motioned to the couch and chairs set against one wall. A pot of coffee and cups were on the table there. “Let’s relax a bit. This isn’t a formal meeting, after all.”

This gave Bunting no comfort at all. More professional executions occurred at informal meetings than did at the official ones.

They sat.

“I saw Mason Quantrell out in the hall.”

“Yes, I suppose you did.”

“Anything interesting going on with Mercury?”

She smiled and pushed the sugar bowl toward him. Obviously no answer to that was coming.

“He doesn’t know about…?” said Bunting.

“Let’s focus on you, Peter.”

“Okay.”

He had just placed the cup to his lips when she struck.

“The vaunted E-Program has obviously crashed off the tracks.”

He swallowed too large a mouthful of coffee and tried to keep his eyes from watering as the liquid burned his throat. He set the cup down, sponged his lips with his cloth napkin.

“We have issues, yes, but I wouldn’t say that we’ve crashed.”

“How would you describe it?” she asked pointedly.

“We’ve gone off course, but we are working hard to get back on. And I–”

She held up a finger, silencing him. Foster lifted a phone and spoke three words. “The reports, please.”

Moments later an efficient-looking aide delivered the folder to her. She leisurely turned the pages as Bunting stoically watched. He wanted to say, You still use paper files? How quaint. But he didn’t dare.

She said, “The report quality has degraded considerably. Usable intel from the E-Program has fallen thirty-six percent. The reports are a mess. The dots are not being connected like they were. You told me the operation would not be measurably impacted. It clearly has.”

“It’s true that the bar has been set very high. But I–”

She broke in again. “Now, you know you have no bigger supporter than me.”

He knew that was a blatant lie but automatically said, “I appreciate that very much. You’ve been a true asset and marvelous leader during very stressful times.” Cabinet secretaries’ butts were large indeed and required an inordinate amount of kissing.

She smiled for the requisite few seconds, then her expression turned dour. “There are those out there, however, who do not share my enthusiasm. Over the years the E-Program has ruffled some important feathers. Taken budget dollars and mission responsibility from other agencies. That is the Holy Grail in our world. The pie is what it is. Someone gets a bigger slice, others have to make do with a smaller one.”

And DHS, thought Bunting, had taken by far the biggest slice of all.

He said, “But it’s indisputable that the E-Program has been tremendously successful. It’s kept this country safer than if every agency was competing with each other. That model just doesn’t work anymore.”

She said slowly, “I wouldn’t necessarily agree with that assessment. But nevertheless it’s the old question: What have you done for me today? The barbarians are at the gate. And do you realize what might happen if this all becomes public?”

“That will not happen. I can assure you.”

She closed the file. “Well, I’m not assured, Peter, not at all. And neither are the other people who matter. When the CIA director learned of it I thought he was going to have a heart attack. He thinks it’s a colossal time bomb waiting to explode. How do you respond to that?”

Bunting took another swallow of coffee, giving him a few more precious seconds to think.

“I believe strongly that we can turn this around,” he said finally.

She looked at him with incredulity. “That’s your answer? Really?”

“That’s my answer,” he said firmly. He was too exhausted mentally to think of any clever response. And it wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. The lady’s mind was obviously made up.

“Perhaps I’m not getting across to you, Peter.” She paused, seeming to size up what she was about to say. “There are some who think preemptive action is necessitated by the circumstances.”

Bunting licked his dry lips. He knew exactly what that meant. “I think that would be a most unwise move.”

She hiked her eyebrows. “Really? So what’s your recommendation? Wait until the other shoe drops? Wait until the crisis engulfs us? Is that your strategy, Peter? Should I phone the president and let him know of this?”

“I don’t think we need to bother him at this stage.”

“For a smart man you are acting incredibly dense today. Let me make this as clear as possible. This will not blow back to us, do you understand? If it seems like it will, preemptive action will be taken.”

“I will do everything in my power to make sure that does not become necessary, Madame Secretary.”

The use of her formal title by him made the woman smile in amusement.

She rose, put out her hand. He shook it. Her nails were long, he noted. They could scratch his eyes out. Probably reach through his skin and dig out his heart, too.

“Don’t burn bridges, Peter. If you do, very soon you’ll have nothing left to stand on.”

Bunting turned and walked with as much dignity as he could muster from the office. He only had one thought in his head.

He had to go to Maine.

After he was gone Foster finished her coffee. A few moments later the man walked in, responding to the text message she’d just thumbed summoning him.

James Harkes stood at attention a few feet from Foster.

Six foot one, he was perhaps forty years of age, a bit of white in his short, dark hair. He wore a black two-piece suit, white shirt, and straight black tie. He looked ominously strong, his hands thick and fingers rough as barnacles. His shoulders had muscles on top of muscles, but he moved like a cat. Smooth, not an ounce of wasted energy. He was a veteran of many missions on behalf of America and her allies. He was a man who got the job done. Always.

He said nothing as she poured out another cup of coffee without offering him one.

She took a sip and finally looked up at him. “Did you hear all that?”

“Yes,” said Harkes.

“What’s your take on Bunting?”

“Smart, resourceful, but running out of options. The guy doesn’t chase windmills, so we can’t underestimate him.”

“He didn’t ask about Sohan Sharma’s ‘accident.’ ”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Such an unpredictably violent world we live in.”

“Yes it is. New orders?”

“You’ll get them. When the time is right. Just stay on top of it all.”

She gave an almost imperceptible nod and Harkes departed. Then she finished her coffee and went back to her important work protecting herself and her country. And strictly in that order.