Andrew Britton - The Assassin

Crane was trying to figure out how to explain this without causing offense, but the other woman saved her the trouble, turning instead to summon the bartender. She returned a moment later with a second glass of Chardonnay, which she handed to Crane.

“Is it always like this?” the younger woman asked. “I mean, it’s still pretty early for a Saturday night.”

Ford pointed up at the ceiling. “Somebody’s hosting an event for Hillary upstairs,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“Hillary who? Not Clinton.”

“Of course, darling.” Ford was mystified. “Who else?”

“Hillary Clinton? Here? You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. She can’t exactly skip out on her own fund-raiser, can she?” Ford raised an eyebrow, taking in her niece’s amazed expression. “Try not to look so impressed, Sam. People are watching, and half the Senate will have stopped in before the night is out. You’re bound to see somebody more important than her.”

Crane nodded and tried some of the wine. Something about the other woman seemed off, and then it became clear; she was getting tipsy. It should have been obvious from the start, but it was so out of character that Crane didn’t catch it right off the bat.

Samantha Crane smiled to herself, feeling a weight lift; this was going to be easier than she’d thought. After days of gentle prodding over the phone, she was finally going to get the answers she needed.

Rachel Ford was on a first-name basis with the maitre d’, which made all the difference. He found them a table in short order, and although it was far from the best in the house, it was a vast improvement over the cramped, standing-room-only space at the bar. Better yet, the small table was set apart from the others, so they could talk freely. They ordered crab cakes and grilled zucchini, and the wine continued to flow. It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to work, and Ford brought up the laptop. “You got it back today, didn’t you?”

“We did. Our techs are working on rotating shifts for the next twenty-four hours, but I have the feeling you could save them a lot of trouble.”

The other woman seemed to hesitate. “I only got the whole story today. The people in Operations were doing their best to keep me out of the loop, and they nearly succeeded.” Her voice turned hard. “I swear those people are all the same. You can take them out of the field and stick them in headquarters, but it doesn’t make a bit of difference-”

“I agree,” Crane said quickly, not wanting to hear another lengthy exposition on the politics of Langley. “But you said you found out what was on the laptop?”

“I did, but I can’t tell you a thing, sweetie. You’ll have to wait for the Bureau results. I’m already on thin ice with the director. He knows I told you we had it in the first place.”

“What? How did he find out?”

“It had to be Harper,” Ford said without thinking, her face tightening in anger. “That bastard has been doing his best to-”

“Harper?” Crane pounced on it immediately. “That’s the same guy who showed up with Kealey in Alexandria. I called and told you about that after the raid, and you changed the subject, remember?” There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. “Aunt Rachel, who is he?”

The other woman seemed to waver, but not for long. “He’s the DDO, Sam. He’s the man in charge of the operations directorate, and you can forget I told you that. It’s highly classified.”

Crane nodded slowly, a satisfied smile spreading over her face. “I knew there was something about him. It didn’t make sense from the start. For one thing, Agency lawyers don’t show up at Bureau raids.”

Ford nodded, her face twisting into a scowl. “He’s been trying to undermine my position for months. After a while it became too much, so I did a little digging of my own, just to see if I could get some leverage.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing.” Ford drained her glass and shook her head, barely suppressing an incredulous laugh. “The man is an asshole, but he’s amazingly clean.”

“You just said he’s the head of the DO,” Crane protested. “That means years and years of fieldwork, right? Those guys are used to working outside the lines. He can’t be totally clean. There has to be something there. A marital infidelity, for example, or a questionable bank deposit…”

“ Nothing,” Ford repeated. “I looked at the money angle, of course. He owns a brownstone on General’s Row, and when I found out, I thought that must be it. I mean, a government employee can hardly afford a place like that, right? But as it turns out, the answer is simple: he did well in the stock market back in the eighties, then bought at the right time. He’s actually quite wealthy, though most of his money is tied up in the house.”

“Interesting,” Crane murmured. “If he’s that rich, I wonder why he still shows up for the daily grind.”

Her aunt was pouring the last of the wine. Setting the bottle back on the table, she said, “I don’t know, but he may need the equity sooner than he thought.” A little smile crossed her face. “As it stands, he’s on borrowed time at the Agency.”

Crane perked up, sensing important information. “What do you mean?”

In a self-satisfied tone, the other woman started to go over the day’s events, including the suspensions of Ryan Kealey and Naomi Kharmai, the latter of whom she described as a mid-level analyst in the CTC. She also explained Harper’s tenuous position as the head of the DO, but the story was missing one thing: the cause for the shake-up. Crane was listening absently, trying to figure it out. Then it hit her.

“All of this wouldn’t have anything to do with the break-in at the German Embassy, would it?”

Ford suddenly looked uncomfortable. She toyed with the stem of her wineglass for a moment, then looked up and said, “I heard you were trying to get assigned to the case. Is that true?”

“It’s important, and there’s a lot of pressure to solve it quickly. Whoever gets it will-”

“You don’t want it,” Ford said, cutting her off. The alcohol seemed to have temporarily lost its effect, as her tone was completely serious, and she looked worried. “Trust me, darling, it’s career suicide. That one will never be solved, and once you get your name on the paperwork, I won’t be able to get you out of it. When the case is still open a few months from now, the Bureau is going to start looking for a sacrificial lamb. Someone’s neck will be on the chopping block, and I don’t want it to be yours.”

“You know something, don’t you?” Crane’s eyes opened wide, and she leaned forward in her seat, her voice taking on a demanding edge. “Come on, tell me the truth. Did the Agency have something to do with the break-in?”

“Don’t ask me that, Sam.” Ford shot her a pleading look, then glanced around hurriedly, as if realizing for the first time that they weren’t alone. “Just stay out of it, okay? And you can keep that hurt look to yourself. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“Aunt Rachel, I just-”

“Samantha, stay out of it.”

“Okay! God, I was only asking…”

“Promise me.”

“Fine.” Crane slumped back in her seat and looked away, folding her arms in frustration. “I promise.”

Ford’s expression softened immediately. Reaching over, she placed a hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Darling, you have to trust me.” She hesitated, then went on. “I know I never told you this, but before your mother died, she made me promise that I would look out for you if anything happened to her. Believe me, that’s all I’m trying to do.”

Crane lowered her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was brittle and barely audible. “She didn’t die, Aunt Rachel. Nothing happened to her. She killed herself. There’s a difference.”