Max Collins - Executive Order

Right now he sat at an old-fashioned oak desk with a window to his back; to his left was a wall of manuals and studies with trophies and awards serving as bookends. The wall opposite was engulfed by a video monitor, and to his right the remaining wall was given to a couch under a surprisingly small but nonetheless client-pleasing display of his national magazine covers and the famous photo of him taking a bullet for a president (who he just as famously hadn’t liked).

He was leaning back in his oversize black-leather ergonomic office chair, one of his few indulgences, his gaze fixed on his desk’s video monitor. After a third time through the thumb drive, he still had not found one damn thing of real interest.

Included were individual files for each of the missing-presumed-dead CIA operatives, a copy of the President’s directive that no one be sent to Azbekistan, and incident reports that detailed prior actions of lead agent Jacob McMann and his longtime partner, William Meeks. The two analysts, Vitor Gorianov and Elizabeth Gillis, were not regulars in McMann and Meeks’ circle, but had occasionally worked with them.

McMann and Meeks were good, very good, and none of their previous missions cast any light on why they might have been deemed expendable. But in being ordered to Azbekistan, four top operatives — including Gillis, an exceptional young talent (judging by her file) — appeared to have been knowingly sacrificed.

What other explanation was there, for some unknown party in government intentionally disobeying the orders of the President of the United States? If pawns were needed, why not send less competent agents, to accomplish the same goal?

The answer was obvious: using more clearly expendable people — a mix of inexperienced rookies and burned-out operatives — might have raised troubling red-flag questions. On the other hand, top-flight agents, lost on a mission, would only fan the flames more.

And somebody wanted a conflagration.

After letting his secretary know that he’d be mostly out of pocket for an unspecified period, Reeder left to take a meeting scheduled at Langley. The stone wall at the Agency had gone up fast and high, but thanks to the direct intervention of the President himself, CIA Director Richard Shaley had made himself available this afternoon for a one-on-one meeting. Imagine that.

The Director was seated behind his desk when a male secretary ushered Reeder in. The large office was a study in cherrywood, its rich walls sparsely decorated, almost surprisingly so, although a large framed American flag under glass rode one of the walls, as did the CIA emblem. Reeder was shown to one of two oversize rust-colored, well-padded visitor chairs.

Behind the Director and on the right side wall were floor-to-ceiling windows whose blinds were semi-shut, providing a surreal view of the Langley campus. The massive, carved mahogany desk — its glass top free of anything but a banker’s lamp and two fancy pens in holders — was of another era; but then of course so was Shaley.

An angled ceiling light shone down on the CIA chief, bathing him in an almost divine glow but not reflecting off his mostly bald dome. Meanwhile, the lighting on the guest side of the desk was about the wattage of your average garage door opener. The arrangement was rather obviously meant to intimidate, and Reeder supposed it worked a good deal of the time, particularly with subordinates.

But Reeder didn’t work here, and in any case didn’t intimidate easily.

The Director was on the phone. His side of the conversation was “yes,” “no,” and finally, “See that you do.” No state secrets were shared.

When Shaley had hung up, he said, “What is it you want, Mr. Reeder? The President asked me to squeeze you in, and I’ve done so. But I encourage you not to waste my time — as you may have heard, I’m not one to suffer fools.”

“Then you’ll be relieved to hear I’m no fool,” Reeder said. “For example, when I sink down into a well-stuffed chair like this, I know it’s not for my comfort but about putting you at a higher level.”

The Director sat back and folded his arms. “I have you scheduled for fifteen minutes, Mr. Reeder, and then I have important things to get to.”

Reeder crossed his legs but left his arms unfolded. “Fine. Let’s start with whether you’ve accomplished what the President requested of you this morning — do we know who sent your people... our people... to their deaths?”

“If I knew, Mr. Reeder, I’d have reported as much to the President, and you wouldn’t be here.” His eyes were hooded behind the wire-frame glasses, his mouth an expressionless line. “So what’s the function of this visit? Are you running point for the White House? My understanding is that you are out of government.”

“I’m here, Director Shaley, because — like you — I serve at the pleasure of the President.”

The Director’s gaze was cool, but Reeder could tell the man was boiling. “Mr. Reeder, I don’t care to be hounded. I have a duty to perform and I’m doing it. It would seem to me your presence here is a sort of... veiled threat from the President. Meaning neither him nor you any disrespect, I assure you I know how to do my job.”

Reeder didn’t let any irritation come to the surface. All those years standing post with the President paid off at times like this.

He said, “Meaning you no disrespect, Director Shaley, I have a job to do, too — again, at the bidding of the President. Call it running point if you like. I see it more as fact-finding, and passing along whatever information you may find... or have found.”

Tiny eyes flared large behind the lenses. “It sounds as if the President is asking me to report to you — a civilian.”

“If it helps, think of me as a consultant to the FBI — a liaison between two great government agencies.”

Shaley shifted in his black tufted-leather chair; maybe it was ergonomic, too. “I’ve personally checked all the deployment orders for McMann’s team.”

“And you’ve found...?”

“Just that those orders were routed through the encrypted in-house e-mail of every single senior agent, including myself.”

“But who sent it?”

Shaley looked suddenly very small behind the big desk — one of the most powerful men in government, facing a situation that seemed almost certain to end his career.

“According to our top computer techs,” he said, “all of us did.”

Reeder mulled it a few moments. Then: “Was somebody just covering his trail? Or is this a statement someone is making? A message that makes you out to be the very kind of fool you don’t suffer?”

If the grandfatherly figure was offended by that, it didn’t show. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he admitted.

“Let’s come at this from another angle. Who working in the Company might see a benefit from starting a war with Russia? Motivation, monetary or political.”

Shaley shrugged, sighed deep. “Again, I have no idea. You say you’re on a fact-finding mission. Well, that’s all we do here. Apolitically. Our job is to try to know what our potential adversaries in this precarious world are up to. When we’re at war, our job shifts, in a way gets easier. Whoever is shooting at our people, that’s the adversary.”

“Does narrow it down,” Reeder said.

“No one here I know of stands to benefit directly,” Shaley said. “Not unless they’ve been bought.”

“There’s another possibility.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I said ‘monetary or political .’ This could be somebody with a political agenda who has infiltrated your agency — acting either for himself or as someone’s agent.”

The Director’s eyes narrowed to slits, and there was nothing grandfatherly in his tone now. “Whichever is the case,” he said, “we will find that traitor, and I intend to deal with him in my own way.”