Francine Mathews - The Cutout

It was unlike Cuddy to lash her so brutally; he was an analyst, too, he lived by his objectivity. But the anger in his voice was entirely personal. Eric's defection had rocked Cuddy's world.

“Isn't it just possible that once Eric discovered his plane was hit that he was officially dead he decided to stay that way? That he infiltrated 30 April in order to nail them for MedAir 901?”

“Caroline,” Scottie said quietly.

But she persisted.

“For all we know, he showed himself to us deliberately this morning. What if it was the clearest message he could send? You've got a guy on the inside.”

“Whom we wouldn't need if he'd done his job in the first place!” Cuddy again, brittle with exasperation. “We can't know what Eric is doing,” Scottie declared, “or what he might have done two years ago. Whether he thinks he's operating under deep cover or not, the truth is, he's gone completely A.W.O.L.. He's committed an act of terrorism against the U.S. government. Twenty-eight people died this morning. Seven more are in critical condition. Our Veep is missing. We can't cover him on this one, Carrie.”

“A guy on the inside,” Dare repeated thoughtfully.

“Have you considered what President Bigelow is going to say when he learns there was a CIA case officer on that chopper?”

Caroline looked at Scottie. The Terrorism chief did not immediately reply. He merely studied his Director with a frank expression of bemusement, the one he reserved for particularly boring dinner partners. It was obvious that the President would have all their asses in a sling.

“We'll be stripped to our shorts and whipped out of town,” Dare informed them succinctly.

“We'll be hauled before a Congressional investigation to explain something none of us understands. We'll be—”

“Ridiculed and pissed on by every son of a bitch inside the Beltway,” Scottie concluded.

“And we'll be shut out of the Payne investigation.” Caroline's voice was tight.

“When, at the moment, we're the only ones with a lead.”

“We've got no choice,” Cuddy Wilmot protested.

“Haven't we?” Dare shot back.

“Think what you're saying, Wilmot. None of us will be immune when the press gets their knives out. Everything will be distorted: Eric's history, our investigation of MedAir 901, all your work for the past two and a half bloody years. All our efforts to save lives and put these psychos behind bars. Crucified before a television audience of two hundred million.”

“And meanwhile,” Caroline said, “Sophie Payne is still out there. Trying to get home.”

“That German footage?” Dare asked.

“Is it being shown on CNN?”

“Yes.” Scottie reached into his breast pocket for cigarettes, although he had quit smoking months ago.

“And probably the other networks as well.” Dare's dark blue eyes locked on to Caroline's.

“How recognizable is your Eric?”

As a fox in a den, as a shroud among the living. The scent of lemons in the unquiet dark... She did not quite answer the question.

“When the FBI realizes that Payne has been kidnapped, they'll shove that tape under a microscope.”

“They won't be looking for a dead man.” The DCI spoke with decision; she had weighed the options and jumped.

“We have no choice but to stand behind Eric Carmichael. He's our curse and our gift. We blow his cover and we blow our own. But if we let him run for a bit — and follow where he leads — maybe we can salvage something from this travesty.”

“You're suggesting … a cover-up.” The lack of emotion in Scottie's voice betrayed his shock.

“I'm suggesting we admit the truth,” Dare replied.

“With the quality of the videotape and the chaos in the square, which of us can be certain what we saw? Eric Carmichael — or a man who simply looks like him? It would be foolhardy in the extreme to say anything to anyone — much less the President — without more proof.”

“And foolhardy not to follow every lead,” Caroline added.

Dare nodded once.

“Right.”

Cuddy Wilmot shifted uneasily in his chair and studied his hands. Caroline kept her face expressionless and her hope tamped down. Hope for what, exactly? Eric's redemption? He wouldn't thank me.

Scottie steepled his graceful fingers and affected an air of candor.

“Forgive me. Director, but I must object. Anything short of Eric Carmichael's immediate disavowal is far too dangerous, for ourselves and the Intelligence community.”

“We live in a dangerous world, friend.”

“Do you realize what you're asking?” Scottie straightened in his chair and assumed the look of wounded dignity he usually reserved for Congressional Oversight.

“You're asking us to lie”

“I am asking you to do exactly what you pledge to do every day of your lives,” Dare told him crisply.

“Disclose information on a need-to-know basis. Right now, Scottie, nobody needs to know about Eric Carmichael.”

He opened his mouth; she raised one hand, as if under oath. “I may think entirely differently in a few days. Events may so order themselves that a rapid disclosure is inevitable. But I see no reason to rush to judgment now. In fact, I think such a course would prove injurious to the kidnapping investigation and, ultimately, to the survival of the Vice President.”

“You're serious.”

“Never more so.” She held his gaze.

“But I need your commitment, Scottie.”

“Or my resignation. Jesus!”

“You won't resign. You wouldn't throw that woman to the dogs and walk away.”

“But neither do I intend to go to prison. Not for you, Director Atwood, and certainly not for Eric Carmichael!”

“I wouldn't expect you to.” There was a trace of amusement in Dare's voice.

“Give me three days, Scottie. No more. Seventy-two hours of effort behind the scenes. State and FBI will head up the investigation, of course and we'll be expected to scour the world for information. We'll try our damnedest to figure out where the Veep is and how to reach her. And we'll support the President in every possible way short of full disclosure. Full disclosure gets us all screwed. And Payne dead.”

Dare had deliberately raised the ante. No one wanted to be responsible for the Vice President's death. Caroline felt a spark of admiration for the DCI; Scottie was silenced, Cuddy Wilmot overwhelmed. Dare had the guts to manipulate them all. But Caroline clung to her line like a drowning woman.

“For the moment,” the DCI concluded, “we keep all knowledge of Eric Carmichael's survival completely to ourselves. Not one word of what has passed here is to leave this office. End of discussion.”

When the three of them had left her, Dare sat still for a moment and stared at her hands. The fingers had once been beautiful; now they were crabbed with age and misuse. She touched her cabochon topaz and remembered the man who had given it to her. Then she put her head down on her desk and closed her eyes. She was fifty-three years old-young to command such power, too old to conceive of doing anything else. If the Agency's peril in the present situation was great, so was her own. Never mind that Eric Carmichael had walked on her predecessor's watch.If he was found and exposed, Dare would have to resign.

She was the first woman ever to command the comfortable suite apportioned to the Director of Central Intelligence. They were all behind her, the shadow men, their portraits ranked on the headquarters walls: pipe-smoking Alien Dulles, jaunty unto death; slick-haired Richard Helms, with all the self-possession of an undertaker; gentleman Bill Colby, the perfect dinner partner; and ruthless Bill Casey, whom she'd battled and served. A preponderance of Bills, now that she thought of it — and these men had other things in common. All were entrenched in the old-boy net, the cozy club of prep schools and Ivy League, of wartime service in the OSS, of an age when espionage was sanctified by David Niven in a blue blazer. All would have looked on Danen Joan Atwood as an outrage — a competent secretary, perhaps, but not to be trusted with a table in the executive dining room.