Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(21)
Now, at the threshold, she paused not only to slow her heart rate down but to give equal consideration to rational thought. “Collect your thoughts,” her father used to tell her when she was a kid and would get flummoxed at school. “Put ’em all in a basket, then rummage around in there until you pick out the best one.” Damn, if it didn’t always work. But then everything her father taught her was of use to her later on as an adult. He was a twice-decorated former Navy SEAL. Everything he knew about guns, about knives, about hand-to-hand combat he taught her as furiously, as completely as if she were a boy. “I love that you take to your training like a fledgling to the air,” he said to her one balmy spring evening. And so did she. What would he think of her now? she wondered. Would he be proud of her or disappointed that she hadn’t taken the steps necessary to become a field agent? She’d never know; he’d died ten years ago in a fiery multiple-vehicle accident on the New Jersey Turnpike. Her mother lasted six weeks without him before something inside her—possibly her will to live—failed. Morgana was an orphan; nothing between her and the grave.
With the image of her father as teacher vivid in her mind’s eye, she collected her thoughts and drew out the best one, knowing that striding into Dreadnaught half-cocked—or, the way she had been feeling, fully cocked—was definitely not the way to get what she wanted.
And then another voice entered her consciousness: Events will be moving quickly now.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she turned the knob, pushed the door open, and found herself inside Dreadnaught.
Not that it looked much different than what she imagined any other office inside NSA would be like: there were programmers, analysts, many, many computer terminals, the massed whirr of small fans, like moths fluttering against a windowpane, and the hot, metallic smell of electronics firing away at full throttle.
No one spoke—all communication in this place was made through emails, IMs, texts—even in this day and age when, as Morgana knew better than most, all electronic communication was among the most insecure. NSA personnel maintained absolute faith in the imperviousness of their firewalls and anti-malware software. It was na?ve, even childish, in Morgana’s view, but that was what came of investing yourself in quasi-religious beliefs. It was their hubris; she had no doubt it would be their downfall.
Heads popped up when she appeared. Nerds these guys might be, but they weren’t neutered—not yet, anyway. A young man rose from his workstation to intercept her. He was blond, blue-eyed, square-jawed, and as magnetic as a movie star of the fifties, a time of pink flesh and innocence. She imagined the smell of the corn husks he must have been born into. He didn’t disappoint her.
“Lieutenant Francis Goode. How may I help you, ma’am?” he inquired in that flat Midwestern accent she knew well.
Flashing him her creds, she said, “I have an appointment with Mac.”
“Who?”
“Ah.” That’s right; he wouldn’t know. “Your boss, Arthur MacQuerrie.” The blank face remained, affording her a moment of amusement before she pitched herself into the fray. “The general.”
His eyes narrowed, which made him look like a kid. “And what would your business be with General MacQuerrie?”
“I’m afraid that’s above your pay grade, Lieutenant. What are you, a GS seven?” She saw that she had struck pay dirt. “Far, far above.”
He scowled, which made him seem more handsome. But she could see that he was also intimidated. “Above your pay grade” was a trigger phrase that never failed to strike fear into the hearts of GS eights and below.
And then she thought, Why am I pissing on this guy? He’s been nothing but polite to me. So she smiled until his scowl melted like ice in sunlight. “My apologies, Lieutenant Goode, but need-to-know is need-to-know. I should have phrased it another way.”
He grinned hugely. “No problem, ma’am.”
She matched the wattage of his smile, making it more than a veneer. “Call me Morgana.”
“I don’t think I can, ma’am.”
She ducked her head. She could be coquettish as well as the next doll—probably a whole lot better. She regarded Goode from under sooty lashes; men liked that. “Not even between us?”
“Well, I suppose…” He gave her a goofy grin, as if it were a present.
“What is it, Lieutenant?”
“May I ask you a question?” And he hastily added, “It’s not about your appointment with General MacQuerrie.”
“Of course.” She nodded. “Fire away.”
“Do you really call the general ‘Mac’?”
She caused her laugh to be high and fluty, like a teenager’s. “Yes, Lieutenant, I do.” She raised a finger in mock warning. “But that’s only between you and me. If I go before a Senate subcommittee I deny all knowledge of the nickname.”
They chuckled together. He was on her side now.
“Hold on a moment,” he said. “The general has been in communications all day. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Morgana nodded as he turned away. Luck was with her. Mac could have been at the Pentagon or Capitol Hill or anywhere else, but he was right here where she needed him to be. And now she knew why he hadn’t answered any of her three calls.