Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

There was one person there who should not have been, but Bunting could do nothing except register his official complaint before tersely being told to carry on with his report.

Mason Quantrell sat next to Ellen Foster, his hands in his lap, and his whole focus on Bunting. The only time Bunting stumbled during his presentation was when Quantrell had smiled at a statement of his and then whispered something in Foster’s ear. She had smiled, too.

Bunting handled the ensuing questions, most of them penetrating and complex, with precision. He had become an expert at reading the poker faces of these men and women. They seemed, if not exactly pleased, then at least satisfied. Which meant he was relieved. He had been in meetings that had not gone nearly so well. Then Quantrell cleared his throat. All heads had turned to the Mercury CEO. Now Bunting suspected the entire meeting had been carefully choreographed.

“Yes, Mason?” asked Bunting, whose grip on his laser pointer tightened. He had a sudden impulse to aim it at Quantrell’s eyes.

“You’ve told us a lot today, Pete.”

“That’s usually the point of a presentation such as this,” Bunting replied, trying to keep his voice even and calm.

Quantrell didn’t appear to hear him. “But what you haven’t told us is how you can continue to expect a single analyst to keep up with all the data being generated. While it’s true you’ve had some success–”

“I would modify that to say we’ve had enormous success, but please, carry on, Mason.”

“Some success,” repeated Quantrell. “But the reality is that by relying solely on one analyst we’ve weakened our national security considerably, possibly irreversibly.”

“I disagree.”

“But I don’t disagree.”

All heads turned, but only slightly, for this comment had come from Ellen Foster.

Bunting studied the woman who had become his most potent adversary. Yet as she was also the head of the largest federal security agency, he had no choice but to be respectful to the woman.

“Madame Secretary?”

“How do you rate your performance today, Peter?” she asked.

She wore a black dress, black stockings, and black heels with minimal jewelry. Bunting noticed, and not for the first time, that she was a very attractive woman. Nice skin, slim figure, but with curves where men usually wanted them. Foster had an impressive résumé both in the field and the boardroom, and possessed even more impressive political connections. The divorced head of DHS was low-key by nature, but every once in a while her picture would appear at some society event, where she was on the arm of an acceptably high-ranked gentleman.

She had a home in the upper-brackets region of D.C. and a vacation place on Nantucket, where she would go to unwind with her security detail tagging along. Her ex-husband, a New York-based private equity fund manager, had amassed an enormous fortune using other people’s money while paying an income tax rate lower than that of his secretary. She had gotten half of his net worth in the divorce and could do what she pleased. And what she pleased was to run the nation’s security platform and apparently make Peter Bunting’s life a hell on earth.

“It seems as though everyone was satisfied with my report.” He eyed Quantrell and then his gaze flitted back to her. “Well, almost everyone.”

“You’re joking, right, Peter?” she said.

“If you have some definitive examples I can certainly discuss them with you.”

“What’s to discuss? The analysis you delivered today was total crap and everyone in the room knows it. Other than you, apparently.”

Bunting gazed once more at the people around the table. Not a sympathetic face in the bunch. “I answered every question and every follow-up question. I didn’t get a standing ovation, but I left nothing hanging, either.”

Foster leaned forward. “In your contract renewal you’ve asked for an increase of twenty-three percent based on a variety of factors.”

Bunting shot a glance at Quantrell, who was shaking his head and making clucking sounds.

“Madame Secretary, with all due respect, one of my main competitors is sitting in this room. That information was delivered in confidence to–”

“I’m sure we can rely on Mr. Quantrell’s professionalism.”

Bunting wanted to say, What professionalism? He’s a slimeball and you know it. But instead he said, “Every single cost increase is justifiable. My people spent months cranking the numbers. And they worked with the government side on all of it, so there’re no surprises in there.”

“While we in Washington have the reputation of being a blank check with a rubber stamp, some of us do like to get what we pay for.”

Though nearly a foot taller than the woman, Bunting now somehow felt much smaller than Foster. “I think we bring considerable value to the table.”

“Frankly, I gave you a chance, Peter. You blew it.”

“I spoke with the president,” Bunting said hastily and then instantly regretted it.

She compressed her lips. “Yes, I know. Neat little end-around. But all it bought you was a little time. Nothing more.”

Foster looked around the room. “I think that concludes the meeting. Mr. Quantrell, if you would join me in my office, I have some important matters I’d like to discuss.”

She left the room with Mason Quantrell following.

As the room cleared Bunting stood there for a few moments staring down at the useless briefing book in his hand. When he finally did leave no one looked at him as he passed little conversation groups in the hall. Foster had done her work well, it seemed.

He waited outside her office until she came out with Quantrell.

“May I have a word, Madame Secretary?” Bunting asked.

She gazed at him in mild surprise. “I have a full schedule.”

“Please, just a minute.”

Quantrell looked amused. “I’ll talk to you later, Ellen.” He slapped Bunting on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Pete. You can always come back to work for Mercury. I understand we need a geek in the IT Department.”

Quantrell walked off and Bunting turned to Foster.

“Well?” she said. “Make it quick.”

He drew closer. “Please don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“The preemptive action.”

“Good God, Bunting,” she hissed. “You’re talking about this out in the damn hallway? Have you lost your mind?”

“Just give me a little more time.”

She looked him up and down and then closed her office door in his face.

On the drive back to the airport, Bunting noted the inconspicuous building set at the end of a strip mall. And the brick structure that backed up to a suburban neighborhood. Then there was a building that looked like it was made of all glass but that in reality had not one window in the place. These were all footprints of intelligence gathering. They were stuck like splinters into pieces of the outside world and most of the people passing by them had not the remotest idea what went on inside of them.

Intelligence work was dirty and at times deadly. Whether your adversary was killed quick with a bullet or slow with an enhanced interrogation session, or was anonymously obliterated by a drone strike launched from thousands of feet up, he was still dead. Like Edgar Roy might be soon. Dead.

Bunting settled back in his seat and let out a long sigh. Right now the two-point-five-billion-dollar contract didn’t seem nearly worth it.

“DO WE SHADOW Carla Dukes? Do we go see Edgar Roy again? Do we try to bust Murdock’s chops somehow? Do we dig into Kelly Paul’s background and see what turns up? Do we investigate Bergin’s and Hilary’s murders? Do we keep going after the six bodies in Edgar Roy’s barn?”