William Tyree - Line of Succession

His career in the CIA had not helped family relations. There had been long stretches of service overseas where he had been prevented from contacting any family members for fear of compromising his identity or whereabouts. Not that he was resentful. It came with the job.

He picked up the phone and dialed the area code. He stopped himself. It was only 1:05 a.m. in Arizona. It was typical. He always seemed to be in an inconvenient time zone, calling at the worst possible time, or dropping home unannounced when his parents themselves were headed out of town.

Shut off the mind chatter, Carver told himself. Just run. He began a fast clip around the quarter-mile track. A military transport plane flew low overhead as it came in for a landing on the airstrip a half-mile to the east. Its thunderous screech passed slowly, but completely, until the only noise was the sound of Carver’s bare feet against the track.

As he ran, he replayed a single conversation with Julian Speers in his head. Several weeks ago, Speers had just drafted Carver and O’Keefe into the covert investigation of the apparent DOD arms smuggling. They were at the Chief’s house, where he had cooked some garlic-heavy spaghetti and meatballs. Speers and O’Keefe had downed three bottles of wine between them, leaving the very sober Carver to listen to their drunken ramblings.

“Thailand has had seventeen military coups since World War Two,” Speers ranted. “Seventeen!” Thailand’s Prime Minister had been out of the country on vacation as tanks rolled through the streets of Bangkok. Those loyal to the PM had been quietly notified of the impending changes in their offices. Meanwhile the King, who had apparently given tacit approval for the takeover in advance, made no public statements. As Speers described it, the public had grown quite used to occasional military takeovers. “Why not here?” Speers raved.

“Americans transfer power peacefully,” Carver had told him. “That’s what sets us apart from the developing world.”

“Oh, grow up,” Speers slurred. “Twenty-five flag-draped coffins come home every week. President’s never fired a gun in his life. Military types didn’t vote for him in the first place, now they blame him for the quicksand. The SECDEF’s berating him publicly. He’s got a twenty-two percent approval rating. The market’s in the toilet. Dollar’s at half the Euro. Thirty-eight percent of the population thinks he should be impeached. Nine percent will actually admit to hoping he gets assassinated. Need I say more?”

Insight into the extent of Speers’ political awareness wasn’t the only interesting thing that happened that night. He recalled walking O’Keefe back to the subway stop that night. He commented that the Chief of Staff had a dangerously free-ranging, undisciplined mind for someone in such a powerful position. O’Keefe, herself quite drunk, came to Speers’ defense, saying that he was only stating what everyone already knew — that the President was losing his grip on power, and if he didn’t step gracefully aside, Congress was going to do something about it. They began to argue. O’Keefe called him a narrow-minded puritan. He called her unpatriotic. She shouted something back. But by now he wasn’t listening. He was too consumed with how beautiful she was. He couldn’t stop watching her mouth.

He kissed her. She kissed him back. Regret instantly washed over him. He broke their embrace as O’Keefe gazed up at him with a mischievous spunk that only her ex-boyfriends had known.

“Look, Meagan…” It was the first and only time he had ever used her first name.

“No,” she scolded him. “No first names. That’s rule number one.”

“Rules?” he said, laughing. “You’re making up rules now?”

“We have to maintain professional distance,” she teased. Then she kissed him again.

“Last subway’s coming. You should get home.”

“You should come with me.”

He grinned. “We should be good.”

“I’ll be good. I swear.”

“That’s not what I mean. If we’re going to slip, let it be when you’re sober. And trapped in a government car on a stakeout somewhere.”

“Surveillance sex?” she said, bursting into hysterics. “You want surveillance sex?”

“No. I’ve just got a thing for cars. Government cars. That’s how patriotic I am.”

She kissed him and backed away, slowly, giving him one last wave before heading down the escalator at Foggy Bottom Station. Carver’s soul felt a little lighter that night. He actually felt giddy.

But by morning the feeling had given way to regret. He had cheated himself out of a rare chance to feel intimate with someone. Something he had needed for far too long.

Now he finished his run, slowing to a walk for the last lap around the track. He didn’t bother to stretch. He put his suit back on and walked across the grass to the makeshift barracks to see if O’Keefe was awake yet.

The memory of the night at the subway station filled him with a kind of music. All these weeks later, he could still taste her mouth on his. I could slip, he told himself. I could slip right now. The sky is falling, the world is coming undone, and I could slip.

But back at the barracks, he found her sitting upright on her cot, holding her phone to her ear. O’Keefe’s mind was on business. She signed off brusquely and hung up.

“That was the Bureau,” she said gruffly. “They found evidence in Faruq Ahmed’s home linking him to six other Allied Jihad cells in four cities. They’re making arrests right now.”

Carver’s pulse quickened. This was unexpected. Nico’s assertion about the tape rang true with him. He didn’t believe Ahmed was who he said he was. And all those assassinations weren’t just the work of some crafty terrorist cells. There had to be an insider. “I need to see the evidence.”

“That’s what I said. They’re saying our security clearance isn’t high enough.”

“What? The wolf is at the door, and they’re going to quibble about security clearances?”

She nodded. “They found another body. Some cop at a drag strip outside Monroe. They’re saying Ahmed was practicing there. They figure the cop was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He sat down on his cot and thought for a moment. “They want us to back off, don’t they?”

“Those weren’t his exact words.”

“We’re resuming our end of this investigation. Screw the Bureau. We only answer to Julian now.”

Rooftop, Baltimore, Maryland

5:45 A.M.

Elvir sat atop a five-story brownstone office building, watching McAlister Park through the scope of a sniper rifle. There were thunderheads on the horizon. He was sweating. It was too damn early to be this damn hot.

He spotted Ali. His partner wore a white cap and came across the street to enter the park’s green space. Elvir switched his phone on and talked into the receiver fixed in Ali’s ear. “Twenty meters at two o’clock. See the van?”

“Got it,” Ali replied.

“Just get the money. If they invite you to go with them, walk away. Don’t say anything. I’ve got you covered.”

Ali went to the van and knocked on the door. It opened. A man in a black jump suit and sunglasses sat inside. Elvir could hear the man’s voice through Ali’s Bluetooth. He sounded white.

“This won’t do,” he said. “We hand the money off to Elvir directly. Take us to him.”

“No,” Ali said. “I get the money here and now. That is the deal.”

Elvir found the man’s face in the scope of his rifle. He wasn’t in uniform, but he had a jarhead haircut. He had big horse’s teeth. “Why don’t we go get some breakfast?” the man asked Ali. “Somewhere we can negotiate.”