The president didn’t immediately respond. Instead, his eyes canvassed each person at the table. This was the second meeting in the White House Situation Room in only a few days, with the attempted assassination coming on the heels of Stethem’s sinking. It had not been a good week for the administration.

Finally, the president spoke. “I want a full-court press on this. Find Mixell before he does any more damage, and figure out who’s pulling the strings.”

13

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

The setting sun, hovering just above the treetops, cast long shadows through the bomb-resistant and soundproof windows as Christine O’Connor entered her spacious seventh-floor office. The reddish-orange sunset was a pleasant scene, but one that didn’t match her mood. She had left the White House only thirty minutes earlier and was still contemplating the best way to track Mixell down. The CIA’s error — misclassifying him as deceased — accompanied by the president’s subtle admonishment, had stung. Next time, they had better get it right.

Regarding next time, Christine wanted to get to Mixell first, before any of the domestic law enforcement or intelligence agencies did. The situation had turned personal, starting with Mixell’s attempt to kill Harrison. As kids, they had been best friends, often invoking the Three Musketeers’ motto — All for one, and one for all — throughout their childhood. But after Harrison helped send Mixell to prison and Christine’s recent effort to thwart Mixell’s plans, it was now two against one.

Upon reaching her desk, she directed her secretary, “Have the DD, DDO, and DDA meet me in my office.”

Monroe Bryant and PJ Rolow arrived shortly thereafter, joining Christine at her conference table. While they waited for Tracey McFarland to arrive, Christine evaluated the two men seated beside her. In the several months she had been CIA director, her initial assessments hadn’t changed.

In his late fifties, Deputy Director Monroe Bryant was the quintessential government bureaucrat, one Christine found easy to read. In Bryant’s mind, Christine and the other CIA directors who rolled through Langley learned just enough to be dangerous, making well-intentioned but often damaging decisions. His self-ordained job was to manage the issues that captured her attention, ensuring she did no harm. Christine was also convinced that Bryant ensured that certain sensitive issues never rose to her level.

On the other hand, Deputy Director for Operations Patrick Rolow, who went by PJ, was unreadable. He was a man of average height and weight, blending into the background of almost any setting. That anonymity was due primarily to his experience as a field officer, spending fifteen years in the Middle East before a rapid rise through the management layers in the Directorate of Operations. In his late forties, he was one of the youngest DDOs in the history of the agency.

Even their offices reflected the men. Bryant had filled his office with mahogany furniture and Italian leather chairs, while Rolow’s office was Spartan; standard CIA furniture sprinkled with several photos from his time as a field agent.

Tracey McFarland arrived and joined them at the conference table. The deputy director for analysis was as competent as they came, someone Christine had learned she could depend on for quick and accurate analysis. Aside from the Mixell issue, that is, but that wasn’t entirely McFarland’s fault. She had relied heavily on Jake Harrison’s eyewitness account of what happened that night in Alexandria.

“How’d it go?” she asked Christine after she took her seat.

“As expected,” Christine replied. “The president wasn’t pleased that Mixell is still alive.”

“Does the FBI have any leads?”

“Nothing we didn’t already know — Mixell was spotted departing National Harbor after the assassination attempt. Due to Mixell’s previous ties to al-Qaeda, we’ll be assisting the FBI again.” She turned to Rolow. “Same arrangement as before?”

The DDO nodded. “I’ll establish a team from the National Resources Division,” he said, referring to the CIA’s domestic division, which handled issues the CIA pursued in tandem with the FBI or other domestic agencies. “I’ll also put Khalila on it, in case there are any leads to al-Qaeda again.”

“She’s fully recovered?” Christine asked, referring to the wounds Khalila had received while engaging Mixell that night with Harrison.

“She was cleared last week,” Rolow replied.

“What about Harrison?”

“He’s no longer an employee.”

“Rehire him,” Christine said firmly. “Or do I have to do it myself again?”