Use of Force

CHAPTER 82

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Nicholas said over the secure uplink, “I never would have believed it. In addition to having their own covert servers, they’ve hidden an entire SCIF right inside Cedars-Sinai.”

“How the hell is that possible?” Ryan replied.

“They won a legitimate contract to encrypt patient medical records. As part of the agreement, they have office space at the hospital. Inside that office space is a raised-floor computer room. Except the floor wasn’t raised just so cables and a cooling system could run underneath. The entire room has been shielded to TEMPEST specifications.”

TEMPEST was the code name for the NSA’s data security guidelines. It set the standard for protecting highly sensitive information from being intercepted.

“You said ‘they’ won a legitimate contract. Who are they?”

“In putting out the contract for bid, priority was given to veterans, women, and minority-owned businesses. The winning bid came from a company called Blue Pine Technologies.”

“Never heard of them,” replied Ryan.

“Me neither. I had to work my ass off to track down their bid package. Apparently, they ticked all three boxes. Blue Pine is owned by two women, both IT whizzes. One of them is of Asian descent. The other is an Army veteran.”

“And?”

“The Army veteran worked in Army Intelligence. Then she went to work for the NSA.”

It just so happened that the CIA contracted a certain amount of off-the-books surveillance to a group run by a woman who had worked both in Army Intelligence and at the NSA. Ryan didn’t believe in coincidences.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Susan Viscovich.”

• • •

Doing jobs for the branch of the CIA responsible for clandestine intelligence collection meant taking meetings at interesting times in interesting places. A lockhouse in the C&O National Historical Park on a Friday night definitely ranked toward the top of Susan Viscovich’s “most interesting” list.

Upon arrival, she saw a lone Lexus sedan parked outside. It seemed a little bit odd, but then again, what had she expected? A column of blacked-out Suburbans? That probably wasn’t how the Director of the Clandestine Service rolled — especially not when he was meeting to discuss such a sensitive surveillance case.

She figured the meeting had to do with her surveillance of Lydia Ryan and Reed Carlton. Was she going to get her ass chewed for the fact that the cameras, microphones, and vehicle trackers had been discovered? Maybe.

She had reached out to Andy Jordan to get a heads-up on what was going on, but her calls went right to voicemail. He hadn’t responded to any of her texts either. Whatever.

Sometimes surveillance assignments got blown. It happened. She had, though, delivered on the emails, and maybe that was what she was being asked in to discuss.

Nevertheless, it was weird for her to be having a Director-level meeting. Perhaps they had discovered something highly sensitive and they wanted to dot all their i’s and cross their t’s before confronting Lydia Ryan. There was only one way to find out.

Parking her Volvo next to the Lexus, she got out, walked up the short flight of steps, and knocked on the blue door.

A moment later, it opened. But instead of seeing the Director of the Clandestine Service, she saw the Director of Central Intelligence.

“Thank you for coming,” said Bob McGee.

Shocked, she looked deeper into the room and saw the Deputy Director, Lydia Ryan, sitting at a table near the fireplace.

Opening the door the rest of the way, the Director motioned for her to come inside.

What the hell was going on? For a moment, Viscovich thought about turning around and leaving. In fact, a voice in the back of her mind told her not only to leave, but to leave as fast as she could.

The rational part of her, though, maintained control. She wanted to know what this was all about. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.

• • •

Two hours later, realizing she had been lied to by Andrew Jordan, and that he had even forged the finding from the Director authorizing her to surveil Lydia Ryan and Reed Carlton, Viscovich exited the lockhouse, climbed back into her Volvo, and headed home.

The Director of Central Intelligence had given her a new directive. Until she heard from him personally, she was to do nothing and to speak with no one, including Andrew Jordan.

Before she had even exited the park, McGee and Ryan were formalizing what their next step would be.

The only question was whether it should be run through the CIA or whether they should use the anonymity of the Carlton Group to carry it out.