True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(26)
He was a man on the run, though careful not to exceed the fifty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Capitol Hill, Washington, DC. July 19. 11:00 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.
It had been a rough forty or so hours since the seven senators last sat in this chamber and first heard about the catastrophic crash of TransAmerican 976. Now they were back again, weary and anxious, to listen to a classified briefing on the situation from acting CIA director Michael Healy, who sat alone at the witness table.
Healy was a career CIA employee, recruited while he was a student at Harvard, studying foreign relations, who rose over the course of nearly two decades from analyst to deputy director. He was a Mormon and so clean-cut in appearance and lifestyle that he could have risen to the top at Disneyland, though the two jobs did have some things in common: Both were Mickey Mouse operations that took place in a world of their own.
Five weeks ago, the president had appointed Healy as the agency’s acting director after his boss was forced to resign in scandal when the Washington Post had revealed that the decorated former general, married father of four, and grandfather of two had been having a long-term affair with a field agent’s young wife. The airplane crash in Hawaii was the first major crisis Healy had to face as the man in charge, and at that moment, he would have preferred to be seating people in a bobsled for the Matterhorn ride.
Senator Ramsey Holbrook, the chairman of the committee, got right to the point. “Is this an accident or another 9/11?”
“It’s still too early to tell, Mr. Chairman,” Healy said. “We didn’t hear any uptick in chatter about a pending terrorist attack prior to the crash nor are we hearing anything now that points to a particular party being responsible.”
“What actions are you taking?”
“We’re doing ‘molecular-level’ deep-background checks on all of the passengers and crew for ties to overseas terrorist groups or foreign actors. We’re also exerting intense pressure on our intelligence sources worldwide.”
Senator Sam Tolan sighed, releasing more indignation than air. “So you were taken completely off guard and you’re still in the dark, playing catch-up.”
“These things happen,” Healy said.
“Not if our intelligence agencies are doing their jobs,” Tolan snapped back.
Holbrook spoke up quickly in an effort to keep Tolan, who’d made his name as a showboating prosecutor in Houston, from hijacking the briefing. “What are the NTSB, Homeland Security, and the FBI telling you about what they’ve learned?”
Healy grimaced. “They’ve shut us out. They like to remind us that we’re legally barred from conducting domestic intelligence activities.”
“You’re the director of the goddamned C-I-fucking-A,” Tolan said. “You should know what they know before they know it.”
Senator Kelly Stowe, the liberal Californian, looked down the rostrum at Tolan. “Are you suggesting that the CIA spy on government agencies?”
“This is an attack on America, Senator,” Tolan said. “It should be all hands on deck, interagency rivalries and petty legalities be damned.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Healy said.
“Then why the hell don’t you do something about it?” Tolan said.
An aide came into the chamber, approached Senator Holbrook, and whispered something in his ear. Holbrook nodded and addressed the witness.
“Director Healy. I’ve been informed that Wilton Cross is here. He says he has urgent information for the committee and you. Do you mind if he joins us?”
Yes, he most certainly did mind. Healy knew who Cross was, of course. They’d worked together when Cross was at the agency. They’d had frequent, heated disagreements over procedure. Healy thought procedure should be followed, while Cross had a more flexible interpretation, as well as more pliable ethics. Healy was glad when Cross left the agency for the private sector.
So Healy dreaded what was about to come. He knew that the only reason Cross would intrude on this meeting was if he intended to stab Healy in the back, slit his throat, and shit on his corpse as he bled out.
What Healy didn’t know was that his imminent humiliation had actually been set in motion months before when Blackthorn anonymously revealed his predecessor’s affair to a reporter at the Washington Post. Cross didn’t want the former director, a far more experienced intelligence professional, at the helm of the CIA when TransAmerican 976 went down.
“It’s your hearing, Mr. Chairman,” Healy said, graciously bowing to the inevitable. “Mr. Cross still has top secret security clearance.”
The senator whispered some words to his aide, who nodded and stepped out. A moment later, Cross entered from the back of the room with Seth Barclay, who was holding a stack of files. Healy was familiar with Seth, too, since Cross had poached him from the CIA shortly after he left to run covert ops at Blackthorn. Cross joined Healy at the witness table while Seth handed out the files to the senators.
Healy shook Cross’ hand and smiled with false warmth. “Good morning, Will.”
“Sorry for barging in on you, Mike. But I thought you should hear this, too.”
“Dramatic entrances aren’t usually your style.”
“These are unusual times,” Cross said and handed Healy a file. Both men sat down. Cross waited until Seth left the room before speaking. “I’ll get right to it, gentlemen. We know who crashed the plane and how it was done.”