Diablo Mesa(21)
“Tomorrow,” Corrie said, “we’ll lift those bodies. In the meantime, let’s put that device into an evidence box. We’ll get all this back to the FBI lab and I promise you, we’ll have answers soon.”
Morwood felt an inner glow of satisfaction at Corrie’s authoritative tone. That was more like it. But when she threw him a glance to check for his approval, he frowned and looked away.
12
LIME, DRIVING HIS Subaru west on Dolley Madison Boulevard, took the back exit into CIA headquarters, then drove slowly through one parking lot after another until he found a spot he liked near the Memorial Garden. He’d spent much of his free time after work giving his vehicle some TLC, and it was once again paying him back the love.
Exiting the car, he followed the sidewalk that looped around to the main entrance. It was a longer walk than necessary, but the weather in Langley was fine and—since he’d spent many recent working hours in a cubicle—he wanted to enjoy it. He entered the chilly lobby with its long rows of tall, narrow columns; went through the usual ID checks; then headed for the elevators. People were walking, as usual, back and forth over the large CIA seal set into the floor, engrossed in their business and paying it no mind. Lime, as always, was careful to step around the image of the eagle, shield, and compass rose.
He made the familiar trip up to the third floor, down a maze of narrow corridors, and past another ID checkpoint before he reached his destination: a closed door of dark wood, with a nameplate beside it that read RUSH, J. He smoothed his shirt front, then knocked on the door.
“Enter,” came the voice from inside.
Lime opened the door and stepped in, shutting it behind him. The office looked straight out of a Hollywood set dresser’s manual: large desk, laptop, three phones, drawn shades, photo of the president on the wall, bookshelves holding shadow boxes full of military medals. Colonel Jack Rush fit the image, too, with his carefully clipped hair, wiry frame, high, gaunt cheekbones, and immaculate uniform.
“Lime,” he said. “At ease. Take a seat.” And he indicated the lone chair directly in front of the desk.
“Thank you, sir.”
“How are things at the Pentagon these days?” Rush asked.
“About the same, sir.”
“I’m sorry you had to pull that duty. I know you prefer spending more time in the field. But as they say, eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.”
The full-bird colonel had an impressive fund of aphorisms, maxims, and clichés that he drew on frequently. Lime answered in kind. “In our business, sir, a quiet day is a good day.”
“Amen. Well, as you might have guessed, I wouldn’t have asked you to report if today were a quiet day.” Other than the phones, his desktop held only one folder, liberally stamped and sealed. Now he opened it. “It appears,” he said, turning pages, “that we might have a breach in the levee.”
These words were spoken almost casually, but upon hearing them, Lime instinctually stiffened.
“Intel is still being assembled,” Rush said, “but as you know, with this kind of situation we can’t wait. We have to mobilize.”
“Of course, sir.”
Rush closed the folder and pushed it across the desk. “You’ll get further orders via normal channels. But this should give you the background you need to begin an initial reconnaissance.”
As Lime reached for the folder, the colonel placed his own palm on it. “Looks like you’ll be getting a break from desk duty.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Rush lifted his palm and allowed Lime to take the folder from the desk and place it in his own lap.
“The missile operations officers in old nuclear silos liked to say their job was ninety-nine-point-nine percent boredom, and point-one percent panic,” Rush said. “What we do here for our country is never quite that boring, and with vigilance we’re able to keep it panic-free. But the principle is the same. We maintain watch against those who would do us harm. The worst kind of harm: the kind that comes, intentionally or not, from inside. And when necessary, we act. The only difference is those missile officers were given credit for their loyalty. The sacrifices we make for our country—the purpose we’ve dedicated, and sometimes lost, our lives to—must remain secret.”
“It’s the most difficult kind of patriotism—and the most important.”
This statement came not from Rush, but from someone behind Lime. Immediately, the colonel stood, and Lime followed his example, turning as he did. To his immense surprise, standing just within the office was Major General Zephyr, in overall command of their unit. Zephyr—his actual name was unknown—was a figure of legend, and Lime had seen him in person only twice before: on his squad’s induction day, following advanced training school, and again two years ago, at the end of a particularly puzzling and frustrating hunt.
Lime had not heard him come in or close the door. He realized his presence here could only be to underscore the importance of this mission.
“We’re guardians of a sacred trust, Mr. Lime,” he said. “Always remember that.”
“Yes, sir,” Lime replied.
“And there is no more dangerous enemy than the one who appears to be an ally and friend—but whose actions threaten our safety and, indeed, undermine our very existence.”