Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“How’s Fred doing?” Bud asked. Fred Stennis had replaced Drummond as deputy director, intelligence.

“Good,” Drummond answered. “Pete and Mike are bringing him along fast.” Pete Miner, deputy director, central intelligence, was the number-two man at the Agency. Mike Healy was Drummond’s former counterpart in the Operations Directorate and ran the spooks in the field. The combination of the two career intelligence officers had helped get the new DDI up to speed after an appointment that had created much controversy at the CIA’s Langley, Virginia, headquarters. Stennis was young, too young some thought, but the thirty-four-year-old had caught Drummond’s eye while working for him as chief analyst, Mideast desk, in Intelligence, making calls that some considered reckless, but that the then-DDI had recognized as bold and based on superior reasoning. One needed to do no less than that to impress Greg Drummond, and Stennis had done much more.

“Pete’s off where right now?”

“Is this on or off the record?” Drummond joked.

“I’ve never worn a body mic,” Bud countered with a smile. “Unlike some people I know.”

“It worked,” the DCI pointed out, a glint of satisfaction sparking in his eyes.

“That it did,” Bud said. Where was the former DCI now? Some university in the Rockies somewhere, chairing the history department. And you could have been head of some major-league think tank, Anthony . But he had played the game like an amateur, the NSA knew, and now the once esteemed Anthony Merriweather, caught and secretly hung out to dry by his own words, was suffering a fate worse than prison. His sentence was political and professional oblivion.

“This isn’t for broadcast to anyone,” Drummond said. “He’s in India. Should be there for a week, maybe two.”

“An open-ended visit?” Bud questioned. That was almost unheard of in a town where itineraries and schedules were planned out months in advance. But then Langley wasn’t actually in D.C., in many respects.

“It could pay off,” Drummond explained. “A new relationship with Indian Intelligence would go a long way in keeping tabs on the Chinese.”

“Agreed,” Bud said.

Drummond poured himself a cup of tea from the warming pot on the credenza. “You want one?”

“Half a cup.”

The DCI poured a second and slid it easily across his desk. “So, that’s what we can do for you regarding this chemical thing.”

“I know it’s Bureau territory, but you never know where things start.”

“Gordy and I have a liaison group already set up,” Drummond said, testing the steaming liquid with a quick taste. “We’ll feed them whatever they need.”

“Good.” Bud took a generous sip of the warm brew and checked the time. “Where is Gordy? He was supposed to be here by now.”

As if on cue the door to the DCI’s seventh-floor office was opened by a security officer for the just-arrived FBI director.

“Sorry,” Jones apologized. “I hate doing the committee spiel for a bunch of voteheads I never deal with.”

“Which voteheads are those, Gordy?” Bud asked, amused by Jones’s term for anyone on the Hill who had to submit to voter approval every two years. Senators, with six years between their electoral challenges, were exempt from his disdain.

“House Armed Services,” Jones explained.

“Vorhees’s bunch,” Bud said knowingly. “Limp Dick can be a bastard when he wants to.” The Honorable Richard Vorhees, a former Army captain who had lost a leg in the Grenada invasion, chaired the House Armed Services Committee, one of the most powerful groups of legislators on the Hill. And Limp Dick, a term of no endearment bestowed upon him because of the stilted gait an artificial limb caused, ran it like his own personal military command staff. That Cuban-made mine had cut more than the congressman’s leg short, Bud knew all too well. It also ended what promised to be at least a trip to bird status, and maybe even a star or two in the distant future, leaving Limp Dick without the challenge, or the prestige, of command. His life was simply politics now.

“He’s one of your blood brothers, Bud,” the conservative Republican DCI commented with a devilishly superior wink.

“Not from the same cloth,” Bud protested mildly. “I’m a Kennedy man. Vorhees is one of those Johnson Democrats. You never can keep those folks in line.” An understatement, the NSA knew. Vorhees, despite his party allegiance, rarely stuck with the party line. He was as much a White House foe as a friend.

“Actually Vorhees was off at some breakfast thing,” Jones said, sliding a chair over next to the NSA. “Real concerned, eh? It was the rest of the bunch playing CYA. ‘Is there any evidence that the military…’ ” The director shook his head. “A waste of time, my friends.”

“It’s the same game we all play, Gordy,” Bud reminded him.

The FBI director grunted and opened the folder he had brought with him. “Well, I know I’m supposed to share any new info I have, but I really don’t have any. Zero.”

“Nothing on who actually made the agent?” Drummond asked.

Jones shook his head. “Still the mystery man…Nick King. L.A. believes it’s an alias of some sort. He’s possibly a foreigner or an immigrant.”

“Wait,” Bud said. “I haven’t heard that yet.”

“Me either,” Drummond added.

“Well, I guess I do have something for you. L.A. has good information that King spoke with a pretty heavy accent.”

“From?” Bud asked.

“European,” Jones answered. “That’s as close as they can narrow it down for now.”

Drummond looked down at the list Intelligence and S&T had put together. Half of those groups and individuals listed were based or affiliated with those located on the European continent. “Some of these people share similar philosophies with Allen. Neo-Nazis. Some ultra-nationalists.”

“All possibilities are being looked at, Greg,” Jones assured the DCI. “But King made himself an island. Finding out who and what he was before he was that is a tough job.”

“It’s a damn important one, too,” Bud observed.

“Everyone knows that,” Jones said. He was on a mild hot seat, responsible for one of the more important investigations during his tenure as head of the Bureau.

The door to the DCI’s office opened after two quick taps. Deputy Director Operations Mike Healy rushed in behind the abbreviated warning. “Turn the TV on.”

“What’s up?” Drummond asked, taking the remote in hand. Healy swiveled the cart-mounted set so that all could see it. “CNN, quick. Vorhees is making one whopper of a statement.”

Vorhees? Bud turned his chair, as did Jones.

“About?”

Healy looked to his boss as the picture exploded from a single point of light at the screen’s center, becoming an image of the Massachusetts Democrat against the requisite backdrop of filled bookshelves. “You’ll see.”

“…when the situation of Nikolai Kostin was brought to my attention by Monte Royce, chairman and chief executive officer of Royce Pharmaceuticals in California. Mr. Royce, who has a facility located in my home district, had traveled to the former Soviet Union in 1993 to tour several of their pharmaceuticals plants. While there, he was contacted by Nikolai Kostin, a Russian citizen who had worked in defense-related industries during the Cold War. Unemployed after massive defense cutbacks, Mr. Kostin was desperate for a job, and wished not to follow the path that many of his comrades had chosen. Those paths led to countries unfriendly to the interests of the United States, countries such as Iran, Iraq, Libya, and others.”

“Kostin was King,” Healy said.