Brendan DuBois - Final Winter

Now she had made it clear. Bad things were coming. The war was a hell of a long way from being over.

Adrianna looked over at the team again, nodded to her NSA man, and said, ‘Darren?’

Darren’s slightly bug eyes widened some more as he looked up from the screen. ‘Yes?’

‘Your report, please.’

Darren cleared his throat. ‘Latest we have from our Level One intercepts show increased chatter from suspected cells in Pakistan, Bali, and Great Britain. All have referenced the upcoming May 29 date, and the fall of Constantinople. At first we thought that what we were seeing was idle chatter, talking up the past glories of Islam and the Caliphate, but it’s clear that the talk is referring to the actual upcoming date.’

Monty spoke up. ‘How do we know it’s going to be big? Maybe it’s just another spoof, something to scare us, get the threat color notched up another level, piss off the flying and traveling public.’

Darren said, ‘There’s a foundation to the increased chatter, a rhythm. After months of recording, you can determine pretty much the usual level of traffic. It’s when you see a spike, especially within a certain range, that we feel we’re onto something. Plus…there’s a tone to the voices we’re hearing. They’re excited, they’re thrilled that something’s coming.’

Brian yawned and said, ‘Could be bullshit that’s coming, that’s all.’

Darren was still looking in Adrianna’s direction but his words were directed to his seatmate. ‘And how’s that, detective?’

Brian smiled now and said, ‘Have to agree with my man Monty — maybe it is just a spoof, something to keep us all on edge. Their way of saying, “Hey, we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it.” They want to pretend that they’re still bad asses out there, ready to kill us all, get us all worked up.’

Adrianna nodded, keeping her gaze on Brian, and recalled the first time they had met.

The lobby of the Hilton hotel on Tysons Corner in McLean, Virginia. Adrianna Scott strode in and spotted Brian Doyle right away. He was sitting stiffly in a chair, watching everybody go past him without hardly moving his eyes. He was fit, with close-cropped black hair that was streaked with gray along the sides, and a clean-shaven face that looked hard indeed. She knew his age, knew his educational and professional background, knew of his recent divorce and monetary problems and what kind of car he drove and what his favorite drink was. But even with the NYPD-supplied photographs of him she noticed something right away that wasn’t apparent from the briefing and the photos. Even sitting down he had this nervous, restless energy about him, like a herd animal out on the African savannah, tasked with protecting the group but desperately afraid of not doing the job well enough to save everyone.

He spotted her, stood up. She held out her hand and they shook briefly and then she sat down across from him, watching again how his eyes worked, knowing that he was using his own private male checklist to determine whether she was beddable material or not. She was surprised at how she wondered how she’d just rated.

Adrianna spoke first. ‘Detective Doyle.’

‘Miss Scott. Or should it be Mizz Scott?’

She laughed. ‘Adrianna will be fine. How are you doing?’

Brian shrugged. ‘All right, I guess. Still trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here.’

‘That should have been explained in your orientation.’

His hard eyes were still staring at her. ‘The orientation was the usual crap of filling out forms, fifteen-minute coffee breaks in the morning and afternoon, and lots of Powerpoint presentations. How about you tell me, no bullshit, why the CIA wants a New York City detective to tag along.’

‘It’s not just the Central Intelligence Agency,’ she said carefully. ‘It’s a number of—’

‘Yeah, I know all that,’ he said. ‘Liaison teams, set up with representatives from Fed agencies, including the military and intelligence groups. Fine, that makes sense, as far as it goes. Still doesn’t tell me why you’ve pulled me out of my precinct to spend time out here in the boonies.’

Adrianna folded her hands over a knee. ‘It’s simple, Brian. We need you.’

‘Why?’ he shot back.

She looked around at the lobby, knowing the type of people who were streaming in and out of here, day after day, setting up shop for the inevitable visits to departments and agencies sprawling out from DC, all within easy driving distance. Lobbyists. Software salesmen. Retired intelligence officers. All still filled with righteous indignation, even years later, for what had happened to their country on 9/11. All filled with a desire to wreak revenge. All filled with another desire, of course, to make some money while doing it.

And all doomed to failure.

Adrianna said, ‘There are numerous reasons why we got hit on 9/11. I’m sure you can come up with a few yourself. But let me give you an important one, one that might have been overlooked.’

For the first time since she had met him, Brian smiled, just a bit. It was a nice sight. ‘Go on. Sure you’re not revealing any secrets?’ he asked.

‘You’ve already signed the necessary paperwork.’

‘There might be eavesdroppers.’

‘They can eavesdrop away. The real secrets can wait. Here’s the deal, Brian. We got hit because we’ve lost our edge.’

‘That’s nothing new. Listen to those mad mullahs out there — all they preach about is the decadent West.’

Adrianna shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think you understand. I’m not talking about the West or our society losing our edge. I’m talking about my agency, other agencies. With very, very few exceptions, Brian, we’ve gotten fat, lazy, and complacent. Oh, we do a magnificent job intercepting and interpreting electronic intelligence, and our surveillance satellites do amazing things from orbit. There’s no nation or organization on earth that can match our technical prowess in recording or intercepting electronic intelligence. But that’s been our problem. Most everything’s been done from here in the USA itself or in orbit. For example, let’s say you’re an intelligence officer, newly assigned to Langley. What kind of career path are you going to choose? One that puts you in a comfortable cubicle during the day and home by six p.m. every night with wifey and the kids, and Little League games and ballet recitals on the weekend? Or a career path that sends you to some Third World country with little electricity, no hot water, food that gives you the runs every other day, and unfriendly types who might walk up to you in a crowded marketplace and put a nine-millimeter round through the back of your head. What choice would you make?’

‘I see your point,’ Brian said. ‘But I’m not one to choose living in a Third World hellhole, either. Just so you know.’

‘And we don’t intend to send you anywhere like that.’ She leaned closer toward him, wondered briefly why she found that pleasant, and said, ‘What we need from you are your skills, detective. Your street smarts, as they say. For the most part, our little group will be made up of people who are quite skilled in examining and interpreting intelligence, and presenting recommendations. What we’re weak on are people with the smarts to ask the tough and embarrassing questions, not to put up with any bullshit, and to go with their hunches. Your service record is admirable, Brian.’

He looked uncomfortable with the praise. ‘There are others who’ve done better. I’ve been lucky a couple of times.’

‘Perhaps. But you have the combination we need. And luck is always a wonderful commodity. Which is why you’re here.’

Brian stayed silent.