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  “They could do that?” Randolph asked. “Butt in on an official operation?”

  “No, they have to be asked,” Vejar replied.

  “Well, who in our government asked them to infiltrate organizations we were already infiltrating?”

  “Richard Nixon,” Steedley said. “He didn’t trust the FBI to do its job, so he engaged The Directorate, but it backfired on him.”

  “Ya think?”

  “When The Directorate didn’t cooperate, he turned to the CIA, and, well, the rest is history. U Thant was so insulted by Nixon’s request he authorized the co-intel operation.”

  “And he could do that?”

  “Yes, the Secretary-General can authorize Directorate operatives to work within a signatory country.”

  “Signatory to what?”

  “The charter establishing The Directorate.”

  “A charter for a nonexistent organization.” Randolph shook his head. “I’ve always found this spook stuff to be unnerving. How do we know they’re not spying on us right now?”

  Vejar replied, “Generally, they operate only with the permission of the signatory country, at its specific request. Overall, their interventions in the U.S. have been benign.”

  “So, for example, the former Soviet Union or China or Iran can ask The Directorate to spy on us?” Randolph asked.

  “That’s a possibility, but those OSS guys who didn’t join the CIA and several British Intelligence officers formed the original structure of The Directorate. It has a decidedly western bias. The current chief of The Directorate is pretty fiercely independent. He’s been known to refuse a request from a signatory if he doesn’t think it’s appropriate.”

  “However, when it comes down to it, we might never know that this super-secret, nonexistent organization is spying on us.”

  “Well, uh, yes, sir,” Vejar said, “but I’m acquainted with that chief I mentioned. I have a good working relationship with him.”

  Randolph leaned back in his chair, a finger stroking his upper lip as he thought.

  “I assume, then, the two of you want to request The Directorate’s assistance in Killeen,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Vejar said.

  “What kind of assistance?”

  “A third-party perspective from an organization that has no dog in the fight,” Vejar replied. “They have an impressive number and scope of subject matter experts, meaning they can offer alternative courses of action, peaceable ones. We could use that kind of input.”

  “What if they come up with something I can’t live with?”

  “Can you live with the Hostage Rescue Team charging into a church, guns blazing?”

  “Oh, please,” Steedley sighed.

  “I heard your candidate for special agent in charge,” Vejar said.

  “No more pissing contests,” Randolph said. “Do you both agree this is a course of action we should take?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Randolph considered some more, his fingers now drumming on the conference table. “Do we have to notify Congress?” he asked.

  “No, sir. None of the Congressional intelligence committees are read in on The Directorate, and technically, they have no jurisdiction,” Vejar said.

  Randolph’s smile was sly. “They consider their reach pretty broad.”

  “The Directorate answers to the United Nations, a sovereign organization.”

  “All right, what if we use them, what if we do what they recommend, and it’s screwed worse than it already is? Does the U.N. come after us for violating human rights or something?”

  “No, sir, because The Directorate doesn’t—”

  “Exist. I’m getting that, Sherrie.” His fingers drummed again. He rose, the other two following. “All right, use them, but I’ll want reports, my eyes only.”

  “Of course, sir,” Steedley said. “By charter, The Directorate has to report to the head of state.”

  “Is that it? I just say so?”

  “A protocol exists, describing the nature of the, uh, work, which you have to approve. The Directorate provides the protocol, and no record is on any government computer. You sign it, and The Directorate maintains it.”

  “We don’t get a copy? No, wait. What’s it called? Plausible deniability?”

  “Exactly, Mr. President.”

  “More like having something to blackmail me with, like most spooks. All right, get it done. ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir,” they both said as the President left the cabinet room.

  When the door closed on them again, Steedley reached to disengage the anti-eavesdropping countermeasures.

  “Wait on that a minute,” Vejar said.

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Special Agent Fitzgerald.”

  “What about him?”

  “He has far less seniority than half the HRT. Why is he the Killeen SAC designate?”

  “He’s been on the HRT for several years and has a good track record.”

  “He’s a bit hard-nosed when it comes to cop-killers.”

  “He gets the job done.”

  Vejar’s lips pursed in frustration. She wasn’t getting straight answers. “He was also involved at Ruby Ridge.”

  “Well, yes, since the HRT was involved there. What’s your point?”

  “Don’t get defensive. I’m curious why someone who wasn’t on anyone’s radar at the HRT all of a sudden gets to be in charge of two major engagements, one of which was an utter PR disaster and the other which has the potential to be.”

  Steedley’s lips tightened, a circle of white surrounding them. “I decided he’s the best man for the job.”

  Vejar wasn’t going to let it go at that. “I read the Ruby Ridge after-action report. Agent Fitzgerald seems to have a pattern of being, as I said, hard-nosed when it comes to incidents when law enforcement officers have been wounded or killed.”

  “No more than any other cop.”

  Honestly, this was like questioning a hostile witness. “Allan, I know the history. Fitzgerald’s father was a policeman killed in the line of duty.”

  “Yes, and he’s not the only FBI agent with that background. I’d describe his performance as dedication to duty.”

  “And I was around enough cowboy cops in Miami-Dade County to know one when I see one. Sometimes it goes beyond dedication to duty. It’s revenge.”

  “Begging the Attorney General’s pardon, I think I know my agents better than someone only a couple of months in the job.” Steedley puffed his chest out. “I’m responsible for the day-to-day operations at the FBI, and the decision for selecting a SAC is mine. Are we done here?”

  Vejar remembered how she’d had to learn to control her temper in law school because, well, women couldn’t be aggressive. She gave the FBI man a cool stare. He was technically her subordinate, and she could pull rank here. Better, though, to let him have this one; she would have some say in his replacement; after all, Steedley was retiring.

  “Of course, Allan,” she said, knowing her sweetness would appear sincere even if it tasted bitter to her. “Thank you for hearing me out. Would you like to ride back in my car?”

  The elevator ride gave Allan Steedley time to check the numbers and coded messages on his pager, which he’d had to turn off while in the cabinet room. Randolph didn’t want people checking messages amid one of his endless pontifications. Several messages were from the same number, and he suspected who’d sent them. The last page, however, was from his executive assistant: “H.F. waiting. Impatient.”

  Let him wait, Steedley thought, he works for me.

  Steedley leaned against the back wall of the elevator and savored the final few moments of quiet. The damned ATF couldn’t have waited a few months before they screwed that pooch at Killeen, could they? If they had, it would be some other FBI director dealing with the shit storm and facing down the President and Attorney General.

  Damned Democrats. They didn’t get som
e things, like law enforcement. Oh, yeah, Vejar had been a tough prosecutor, but, damn, why did the ATF blow its wad? He could be fishing in sublime ignorance with no more pagers, no more command performances at the White House, and raking in consultant fees if the damned ATF had waited three fucking months.

  The elevator doors opened on his floor. His security guard exited first, looked around, and stepped aside for Steedley to exit. This was the director’s private elevator so what possible threat there could be, he didn’t know, but it was a perk. Old J. Edgar hadn’t liked for anyone to see his comings and goings.

  The outer office secretary greeted him with a handful of phone messages on little pink slips of paper.

  “Is Agent Fitzgerald still here?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Delores has been dealing with him.”

  If anyone could handle Fitzgerald, it would be Delores.

  Steedley sighed and rubbed weary eyes. “All right, hold my calls. I guess I’ll have to see him.”

  She gave him a conspiratorial smile and whispered, “Not if you go home early.”

  That was the first amusing thing he’d heard in days. “If only,” he replied.

  Hollis Fitzgerald had the presence of mind to stand when Steedley entered the reception area of his inner office. Delores’ expression showed both her relief at his arrival and her disdain for Fitzgerald.

  “Hollis,” Steedley said, “go on in my office.” He held up the phone messages. “I need to get Delores to make some return calls for me.”

  Fitzgerald glared at the executive assistant but went into the office.

  “Allan, that man is rude,” Delores murmured.

  “I know, and I’m sorry to put you through that. The outer office is holding my calls, but if he’s not out of there in fifteen minutes, make something up and ring me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Three more months, he thought, as he went into his office and closed the door behind him.

  “What can I do for you, Hollis?” he asked as he strode to stand behind his desk.

  Fitzgerald showed his discomfort with his business suit by tugging at his collar and coat sleeves. “I thought we were going to ride back together.”

  We have a shit pile down in Texas, and he’s pissed he didn’t get to ride with the boss. Three more months.

  “The President, the Attorney General, and I had some things to discuss,” Steedley replied. He put his briefcase on his desk and pulled off his jacket. “Sit down,” he said as he eased himself into his chair and let the plush leather soothe him.

  “I trust my appointment as Killeen SAC was one of the topics of discussion.”

  “Not with the President. That’s none of his business.”

  Fitzgerald’s smile was more smug than self-assured. “Good. Did you and Vejar discuss it?”

  “Yes.”

  When Steedley didn’t continue, Fitzgerald scowled at him. “And?”

  “She has concerns.”

  “About what?”

  “Hard to believe, but she did her homework. She read the Ruby Ridge after-action report, and she’s worried you’re a cowboy.”

  Steedley hadn’t admitted it to Vejar on principle, but he had the same concerns.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Hollis, you know very well most cop killer suspects have not been taken alive when you’re on the case.”

  “The operational review board decided the use of deadly force was justified in each of those incidents.”

  “I’m aware. She knows about your father.”

  “How did my father come up in the conversation?”

  Fitzgerald leaned so far forward, Steedley thought he might leap the desk.

  “As I said, she did her research. For a position of this consequence, she can and should look at your record. That, and some things you said at the briefing raised a flag for her.”

  “Considering, it was probably a rainbow one.”

  “Hollis…”

  “Since the two of you were psychoanalyzing me, did you also tell her my stupid cunt of a mother married my asshole stepfather six months after some junkie shot my father in the face?”

  “No. I wasn’t aware of that,” Steedley said, but he thought, that explains all the complaints from women you’ve worked with. “Hollis, this Killeen thing has the potential to be the biggest shit storm known to man.”

  “Exactly why we need to approach it strategically with the HRT.”

  “I agree, but perhaps it would be best if we hand this off to a more senior agent in the HRT.”

  “This is mine,” Fitzgerald said, stabbing his index finger at Steedley. “I earned it. I deserve it. Those dead ATF agents deserve to have someone in charge who’ll make certain they didn’t die in vain.”

  “Hollis, this has to end peacefully. It cannot be another Ruby Ridge.”

  Fitzgerald leaned back and laughed. “No one talks about that anymore, Director, and you know why? We did it the right way. One of those Weavers killed a U.S. Marshal, who had kids, by the way, and there was no chance in hell I…we could walk away from that. That marshal’s memory was not going to be dishonored, and I…we made sure of that.”

  And the U.S. Marshals might have shot a fourteen-year-old boy in the back and killed him, Steedley thought. “We cannot have another Ruby Ridge,” Steedley reiterated.

  “Put me in charge, give me free rein, and you won’t.”

  “Hollis, I think you should take a support role on this. I’ll make you special advisor to the SAC, instruct him you’re his top tactical and strategic planner. No reflection on your career progression. I promise.”

  Fitzgerald’s response was a smile that made Steedley squirm.

  “Uh, give this your, uh, professional consideration, Hollis. I think you’ll see how this should go.”

  The smile didn’t falter. Fitzgerald tapped the breast pocket of his jacket and said, “You want to see those pictures again? Or, rather, do you want some reporter to see them?”

  It had only happened once, and sixteen had looked a lot like eighteen. He knew Fitzgerald hadn’t had a hand in the set-up, but he didn’t know how Fitzgerald had gotten the pictures in his hands and the copies of the bank statements showing the payments Steedley had made. He’d announced his retirement to alleviate any further blackmail—or so he’d thought. Fitzgerald had sent an email proposing he be put in charge at Ruby Ridge, photos attached.

  The bastard. The fucking bastard.

  Steedley didn’t like being backed into a corner, but here he was, with four walls around him and no door. He had a gun in his desk drawer, but Hollis was unarmed. Even an FBI director might not get off for killing one of his agents in the office.

  But Steedley had one ace, one only. He wouldn’t tell Fitzgerald about The Directorate’s involvement. Let that come as a surprise.

  “I’ll have the paperwork cut in the morning,” Steedley said. “I want you down there ASAP, as in tonight.”

  Fitzgerald stood and had the good sense not to extend a hand to shake. “Thank you, Director Steedley. A pleasure working with you, as always. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Steedley’s smile was for the fact the bastard would be leaving. “I’m sure I won’t.”

  After Fitzgerald left him alone, he opened a desk drawer and took out his bottle of Scotch and a glass, the perfect cure for the headache throbbing at his temples. He leaned back in his chair and sipped.

  Three more months—two months and twenty-seven days. What could happen?

  5

  Commitment Issues

  Fisher-Bukharin Residence

  Mount Vernon, Virginia

  You see, Bernoulli theorized when you speed up a fluid, its pressure decreases,” Alexei said, pointing to the figures he’d drawn in Natalia’s science notebook.

  “And, like, the air moving over the top of the airplane wing, which is kinda shaped like that Venturi thing,” she said, “is, like, faster than the air below it. The press
ure is less on the top, and the wing lifts?”

  “Exactly, taking the rest of the airplane with it. Did the pictures help?”

  “Yes, and you totally draw better than the teacher, Popi.” She began to stack her books in her school backpack.

  “Do you like the advanced placement classes?” he asked. “Or are they too much stress?”

  “Oh, no, I like them a lot. The other classes are boring. Like, I have to work harder, but that’s okay.”

  He studied her a bit longer, noting her smile wasn’t as bright as usual.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  Natalia shrugged and wouldn’t look at him. “I’ve been thinking about Mom, kinda, but… It’s probably silly.”

  “Nothing that makes you sad is silly. Unless, of course, it’s about boys.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Boys are so limiting, Popi.”

  She sounded like Mai. “We don’t mean to be.”

  That got a genuine laugh from her.

  “Popi, it’s really hard to think of you as a boy.”

  “Granted, it was a long time ago, but tell me what’s bothering you.”

  She frowned, fiddling with the zipper pulls on her backpack. “I thought, you know, Dad would call,” she said.

  “When was the last time you talked?”

  “Two weeks ago for, like, five minutes.”

  Alexei tried to remember if some big astronomical event could be occupying his son’s time to the extent he couldn’t call his daughter on the anniversary of her mother’s death.

  As ineffectual as it had to sound, he said, “I’m sure he’s been busy.”

  “He always says that, too.”

  Of course he does, Alexei thought.

  “Do you think, you know, he still loves me?” she asked, her voice so soft and low he had to strain to hear.

  A master at masking his own emotions, he showed her none of his inner turmoil even as his stomach clenched at her words.

  “You’re his only child, Natalia. Of course, he loves you very much.”

  “Then, why doesn’t he call more often?”