The Sixth Man

CHAPTER 73

ELLEN FOSTER WAS SEATED in a chair in an underground bunker she reserved for the most private of meetings. No notes, no recordings, no surveillance of any kind.

She sat there looking at the man who stared back at her.

“Can you even comprehend how furious I am about all this?” she said.

Mason Quantrell said nothing. He nervously tapped his fingers on the wooden tabletop and simply eyed her with caution.

She continued. “It was the neatest package I could possibly provide. It was perfect. All you had to do was your job. And now?” She slapped her hand against the table. “And now?”

Quantrell’s face darkened and caution was thrown aside. “We were set up, Ellen. You have a spy in your operation, obviously. It wasn’t my fault. We hit all of our cues right on the mark.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. They just played you. They outsmarted you.”

“They outsmarted us,” he corrected in a high tone. “You and me. In this together.”

Foster’s angry look was slowly replaced with something far subtler: apprehension.

“I don’t like your tone, or your words,” she said.

“This is not the time to fight with each other,” Quantrell said in a calmer tone. “They took one round from us, that’s all. We’ve been victorious in every other one.”

“They have Roy. That’s a pretty big round to lose. That may be the knockout, in fact.”

The other man in the room cleared his throat.

James Harkes said, “I believe Mr. Quantrell is right, Secretary Foster.”

She turned to him and her face hardened even more. His rejection of her from the other night was still stark in her features. He would not have even been here except that with the recent disaster she needed him.

“And how do you figure that?” asked Foster icily.

“The plan was always to extract Roy and then blame it on Bunting and his allies. Well, now they actually have him. We don’t have to fabricate the blame. It’s a fact.”

Quantrell said, “That’s right.”

Foster was already shaking her head. “You’ve forgotten one significant detail. The FBI convoy that took Roy from Cutter’s was fake. It was Quantrell’s people. His idiot people.”

“That doesn’t really matter,” said Harkes. “Fake or not, Mr. Quantrell’s backup team was on the scene fifteen minutes after the attack on the convoy. They weren’t in time to stop them from taking Roy, obviously, but the scene was sterilized before anyone else arrived there. So as far as the world is concerned a fake FBI team lifted Edgar Roy from Cutter’s. And Roy is now in the hands of Peter Bunting. Ergo he must have been behind it.”

“And Kelly Paul,” snapped Foster. “She has to be in the middle of all this. It’s her brother, after all.”

“And now we know Bunting was never at the hospital with his wife,” added Quantrell. “It was all a charade to draw us off.”

“And his family has gone into hiding,” said Harkes. “It was neatly done.”

Foster’s features hardened even more at this remark. “Neatly done? Why don’t you start applauding, Harkes, if you think so much of them?”

“Underestimating the opponent is the single most important error one can make, Secretary Foster. They are good. We have to acknowledge that. We simply have to be better.”

“So they have Roy,” said Quantrell. “What will they do with him? He knows nothing that can connect us to anything.”

“And since he’s an escaped prisoner,” added Harkes, “I’m not sure how Bunting intends to use him. He can’t exactly put him back into the E-Program.”

“And if we can find him, and them…,” said Foster, her anger fading as she refocused on the problem.

“And tie it all together,” added Quantrell, “then we can still accomplish every goal we had. Roy will be dead, Bunting blamed for it all. The E-Program over and never to return.”

Foster rose and paced the room. “And with this latest development I received something this morning that might make our job easier.”

“What’s that?” asked Quantrell.

“Explicit approval from the president to take whatever means necessary to rectify this situation.”

“Any means?” asked Harkes sharply. “From the president?”

She looked at him. “Any. So I think you have your work cut out for you, Harkes.”

He looked at Quantrell and then returned his gaze to Foster. “Then I’m to be given the lead on this?”

“Are you not up to the task?” she snapped.

“I just want verification that we will do things my way.”

Quantrell said, “I have no problem with that. My men screwed up, obviously. But your reputation precedes you, Harkes.”

Harkes said, “Are you okay with that, Madame Secretary?”

“I want you to take care of it, Harkes, that’s all. Using whatever means you choose.”

“And who do you want standing at the end?” he asked.

Foster looked surprised. “I’m not sure I want any of them standing at the end. Why would I?”

“Again, I just like to be as explicit as possible in situations like this.”

She drew closer to him and leaned in. “Then here are your explicit instructions, Harkes. Edgar Roy, dead. Peter Bunting, dead. Kelly Paul, dead. Michelle Maxwell, dead. Sean King, dead. Is that precise enough for you?”

“Yes.”

She straightened and looked at Quantrell. “If that’s all, Mason, I’d like a private moment with Harkes. We have some unfinished business on an unrelated matter.”

After Quantrell left, Foster perched on the edge of the table next to Harkes.

“The other night did not please me. Your behavior was beyond ridiculous.”

“I can tell you believe that,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I could say that your behavior was actually the ridiculous one, but I doubt it would make an impression on you.”

“I’m not used to rejection at any level.”

“I can tell that too.”

“I can make your life a living hell.”

“Yes you can.”

“And on the other hand I can make it the exact opposite of a living hell.”

“I’m not a whore, Madame Secretary.”

“You are what I want you to be,” she corrected him. “So how do you want this to play out?”

“I have a mission. I will carry it out.”

“And after that?”

“After what?”

She slid one long nail across his hand. “I want you, Harkes. And I get what I want. It’s just that simple.”

He looked up at her. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“You could have an ambassador. A senator. A rich Wall Street asshole. Anybody, really. So why me? What am I to you?”

“I’ve had all those types. It’s like ice cream. Now I crave something different.”

She leaned in closer. “So when this is over you will continue to work for me in any way I choose. Is that understood?”

“Understood.”

She ran a hand along his cheek. “Wonderful. Now go do what needs to be done.”

“I will,” he said.