Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(21)
“Senator, our intelligence is a composite, and can’t be sourced to a single asset.”
That was a lie, but one that he’d been selling to Congress convincingly for the last eight years to everyone but Senator Washburn, who was becoming increasingly disenchanted with it. However, it would be a cold, wintery day in hell before Ambrose even suggested the existence of Echo in the presence of these vultures. An asset of this quality, placed inside the Chinese Politburo itself, was irreplaceable and could not be jeopardized to satisfy Senator Washburn’s intellectual vanity.
“Over the last several years,” Washburn continued, “you’ve been out of step with the majority of our Chinese intelligence.”
“And have we been correct?”
“Remarkably so, but how? That is my question. How is it that you know so much better than your colleagues? What do you say to that?”
“You’re welcome?” Ambrose suggested.
Senator Washburn sat back and crossed her arms, and Ambrose looked for a conciliatory gesture he could make that did not involve Echo.
“Sir,” a voice whispered in Ambrose’s ear. It was his assistant, Kiara Hines—a smart, humorless woman. “There’s something you’re going to want to see.”
That was good enough for Ambrose. He apologized to the chairman and asked for a brief recess. Not waiting for an answer, he gathered up his leather, gold-trimmed, monogrammed portfolio and gave a curt nod to the committee and another to Krista Washburn, whose expression assured him this conversation was far from over. So be it. He followed Kiara out into the hallway of the Hart Office Building. She handed him the April issue of Finance magazine. Charles Merrick stared defiantly out from the cover. Ambrose felt a jagged fingernail drag across his ulcer.
“What the hell is this?”
“Page seventy-three.”
He flipped to the page and read the highlighted passage. When he was finished, not believing what he’d just read, he went back and read the interview in its entirety. Just to be sure he hadn’t imagined it. For anyone who knew to read between the lines, Merrick had just drawn a straight line between himself and Echo. A line that the CIA had spent years erasing. Ambrose closed the magazine and studied the man on the cover. Eight years in federal prison had been good to him. Charles Merrick was still a handsome son of a bitch—a little grayer perhaps, but if anything he looked fitter. There was no justice in the world. Certainly prison had done nothing to dim the arrogance in the man’s eyes. The caption beneath the photo read, “Unrepentant.” That was an understatement. Merrick had ruined thousands of lives and, based on a quick look at the article, had the audacity to blame them for it.
If only he had stopped there.
“Where is Damon Ogden? I mean, right this minute.”
“Langley, sir. In a meeting with Krieger.” Kiara checked her watch. “The car is ready. If we leave now, we can be back at Langley in forty.”
Ambrose thought about the Tuesday-afternoon traffic. He had Lily this evening, and there was still the matter of his testimony. If he left now, the committee would reschedule around him, but they hated doing it and would hold it against him. They might be the Committee on Intelligence, but they found the actual business of gathering intelligence mightily inconvenient.
“No, he comes to me. Get his ass down here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Kiara?”
She turned to face him.
“He’d better be here when I’m done in there.”
Bistro Bis was an upscale French restaurant attached to the Hotel George near Union Station. Its proximity to the Capitol had long made it convenient and popular for discreet meetings. Now in its second decade, however, it was no longer considered a hot spot. Exactly how Ambrose preferred it—busy but not too busy and with a staff that understood how to make themselves scarce while business was conducted. It was remarkable how much got decided over a meal in this town. One of the waiters, whom Ambrose remembered from the opulent Le Lion d’Or back in the eighties, knew more political lore than three-quarters of the members of the House. There was DC, and then there was old DC. It amused Ambrose when colleagues who had lived in Washington for a mere ten years talked about how much the city had changed—they had no idea what they were talking about. If you couldn’t remember when Tysons Corner was largely farmland, then as far as Ambrose was concerned, you were still a tourist.
The ma?tre d’ led Ambrose past the bar and down the stairs to the main dining area. Even though the restaurant was in the lull between the lunch rush and the start of dinner, there was only a handful of empty tables. At the far end, through an opaque glass wall, he could see the kitchen staff hard at work. He’d requested one of the top corner booths that offered a view of the restaurant, and it irritated him to see Damon Ogden had had the presumption to take the banquette that afforded the best vantage. On the plus side, Ogden looked nervous. The young African American case officer had gotten too big for his britches the last few years, and it pleased Ambrose to see him teetering on his perch. Not that Ambrose had a problem with black people. Far from it. But there was the old CIA and the new, and Damon Ogden was the face of the new century. Many in the next generation didn’t respect that the Agency had a way of doing things. That advancement took time. That there was a pecking order. Few were willing to pay their dues anymore—that was the truth of the new CIA. Ambrose knew Ogden had an eye on his job even though he was ten years from reasonably being considered a candidate. Hell, if Ogden had his way, he would appoint himself director tomorrow.