Andrew Britton - The Operative

“Won’t that tell them someone is onto them?” the president asked, obviously wrestling with a little of what Kealey was thinking.

“I think, Mr. President, that’s kind of the idea,” Kealey said. He looked at Cluzot. “I’m sure, if he tried real hard, the director could find one trustworthy soul at the Bureau. Someone in accounting or data processing, someone with no connection to Xana.”

“Mr. Kealey, that option wasn’t presented to me-”

“No, I was presented to you,” Kealey said. “A red flag to wave at the bull.”

“Gentlemen, I’m a little tired and a little confused,” the president said. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“Sir, we’re not just investigators,” Kealey told him. “We’re bait.”

“That’s a little strong, Mr. Kealey,” Cluzot said.

“No, it’s exactly right,” Kealey said. “And it’s okay. I’ve been there before. It would just be nice if we were all up front about it.”

There was a point in any meeting with the president when it was over for one or more of the participants. Someone would upset the delicate balance by speaking his or her mind a little too frankly and way above his or her pay grade. For Kealey, that moment had arrived. He was a former mid-level agent who had effectively called a department head a liar. Before things could escalate, Andrews rose, saying he’d see Kealey out.

“Of course,” the president said. He looked at Kealey. “I’m not interested in whatever was behind this little flare-up. We have a situation, and we need results. You’re the man to bring us those results. Are you on board with that?”

“Very.” The former agent had gotten to his feet as Andrews was speaking.

“Then thank you again,” the President said, “and please keep Bob in the loop.”

“I will, and thank you, Mr. President,” Kealey said without looking at Cluzot.

“Let us know if there are any names or resources you need, Mr. Kealey,” the FBI director said to his back.

That was as good and sincere a send-off as Kealey was going to get. He left the Oval Office ahead of Andrews’s extended arm.

They walked down the hallway that took them past the outside wall of the study toward the reception area. Tired staff, fewer than in the daytime-but not by much-moved between doorways that ended with the office of the chief of staff. His own door was opened as aides came and went, helping him to coordinate the intelligence briefings that would be presented to the president prior to his meeting with Admiral Breen.

“Still can’t play along,” Andrews said quietly as they made their way along the narrow hallway.

“I hate that goddamn sandbox.”

“No. Really?”

“Anyway, Cluzot will survive,” Kealey said.

“Not the point,” Andrews said. “His organization is the one that got blindsided and humped. You could’ve cut him slack.”

Kealey stopped. “And I’m the guy going up there to be humped. He could have been up front about that. You already made the point that I was accepting the assignment-for which push, thank you very much, by the way.”

“Again, beside the point. You know the way the totem is stacked, and you know how the game is played.”

“Yeah,” Kealey said. “You done?”

“I think so.”

The men continued walking. Whether Kealey liked it or not, Andrews would apologize for his snippiness when he went back to the Oval Office. For his own self-respect, Kealey decided to make it “or not.”

“You need a ride?” Andrews asked.

“No thanks.”

“I’ll have Mei make the arrangements. She’ll e-mail the itinerary. Figure on a six a.m. flight.”

“Figuring away,” Kealey said. “Only book me on the Acela. The train is less hassle with more legroom. And it’ll give me time to prep.”

“Okay.”

They stopped at the exit. Andrews didn’t look happy, but he wasn’t angry, either. “It’s been a long day for everyone,” he said. “And all of the bullshit aside, what you did in Baltimore was exemplary.”

“I know you mean it,” Kealey said. “That’s a commendation-level word.”

Andrews showed a little smile. “Honestly, Ryan? I don’t know how you lasted as long as you did.”

“My exemplary deeds.” He grinned back. He sighed. “I’m tired, Bob. Not just of the work and the egos, but of the responsibility.”

“I hear you.”

“And the pain, always up close and too personal,” he added. “I went to see Jon.”

“Shit. I meant to call-”

“It’s okay. He’s pretty out of it. Julie’s facing a couple of surgeries. There was no word on any of them.”

“Thanks for doing that,” Andrews said. “And for going along with this. It’s a little seat of the pants for my taste.”

“That’s okay,” Kealey said, his smile broadening as he turned to go past the guard. “It’s what I do.”

NEW YORK, NEW YORK

The “Canyon of Heroes” is the short section of Broadway that runs from city hall to Bowling Green, located just a few blocks from the bottom of Manhattan. It is the traditional site of the city’s ticker-tape parades, which are staged to honor national and international heroes. Plaques set in the sidewalks commemorate the names and dates of each parade.

In the aftermath of the World Trade Center attacks, there was another kind of hero at the midpoint of the parade route. Stationed near historic Trinity Church, where the likes of inventor Robert Fulton and founding father Alexander Hamilton were interred, a unit of police officers stood beside steel barricades erected on the east side of Broadway. Their job was to pull over and examine any vehicles-typically vans and U-Hauls-which they deemed to be suspicious. Stopping a van or truck loaded with explosives, of course, would cause the driver to trigger the device prematurely, killing them. But the police stopped the vehicles just the same, as part of their oath to preserve and protect.

The Trask Industries van was pulled over as it rolled down Broadway. A name was easy enough to fake, so the Atlanta tags would have to be checked along with the contents.

Police sergeant Dario Russo approached the driver’s side. It was a warm morning, and the van’s window was already down. There were two men inside, both African American. They looked hot and tired.

“Good morning,” the fifteen-year veteran said to the driver. “May I have your registration and manifest please?”

“Sure thing, Officer.”

The driver, a powerfully built man in his late forties with short gray hair, pulled the documents from a folder in the glove compartment and handed them over. The other man, in his early forties, was in the passenger’s seat.

“You’re not running the air-conditioning,” the officer observed.

“We’re from Atlanta, sir,” the driver said with a smile. “This weather is what we call cool cucumbers.”

“I see. Would you open the rear of the vehicle please?” the officer asked humorlessly as he scanned the papers.

The driver got out and followed the sergeant. He was met by another officer in the rear, a young man whose name tag said HEMMINGS.

“Good morning,” the driver said.

“Good morning,” the young policeman said back.

The driver selected the key from a ring in his pocket and opened the back door. Sergeant Russo handed the bill of lading to his companion and took the registration to the squad car that was parked just outside the barricade.

“Most of these are going to our HQ,” the officer said, mildly surprised and slightly more alert.

“Two blocks down.”

“You’ve made the run before?”

“Just once,” the driver said. “Last winter. After a snowstorm. But the tech upgrades had to get through.”