down and took a moment to pat her lips dry. “My anonymity died the moment you two visited me, I’m afraid.”
“No one followed us to your place,” said Michelle.
“No one you could see,” said Paul, and she took another sip of tea.
“Meaning what exactly?” said Sean.
Paul looked around. “Not here. Let’s take this discussion somewhere else.”
They paid the bill and climbed into Michelle’s truck. Paul looked around the interior. “Have you swept this for bugs?”
Michelle, Sean, and Megan stared at her.
“Bugs?” said Michelle. “No, we haven’t.”
Paul slipped a device out of her bag and turned it on. She passed it around the interior of the vehicle and then studied the readout on the small electronic screen.
“Okay, we’re good to go.” She put the device away and sat back to find the others still staring at her.
“Care to start explaining?” said Sean.
Paul shrugged. “Self-evident, don’t you think?”
“What is?”
“What we’re up against here.”
“And what exactly is that?” asked Michelle.
“Everybody,” replied Paul.
“Can we start from page one?” said Sean. “I think we all need that right now.”
“My brother is not simply an IRS agent with six bodies in his barn.”
“Yeah, we’d gotten that far by ourselves,” said Michelle.
“So what exactly is your brother?” asked Sean.
“I’m not convinced you all are ready for the answer.”
“I think we’re ready for the answers,” said Sean. “In fact, we’re so ready that I don’t think I’m going to let you out of this vehicle until you tell us.”
Before any of them could react, Paul had placed a knife against Megan’s right carotid. “That would be an unfortunate action on your part, Mr. King, it really would be.”
“Put that away,” said Sean. “You don’t have to go there.”
Paul put the knife away and patted Megan on the arm. “Sorry I had to do that.”
The young woman looked like she might throw up her breakfast.
“Just take deep breaths and the shock nausea will pass right on by,” Paul added kindly.
“Why did you do that?” asked Sean.
“Ground rules have to be set. My loyalties do not lie with any of you, at least not completely.”
“Where do they lie?” asked Michelle.
“Mainly with my poor brother, who’s rotting at Cutter’s Rock.”
“Mainly?” said Sean. “Which means there’s something else. Or someone else?”
“In my business there is always something else, Mr. King.”
“And that business being what? Intelligence?”
She looked out the car window and said nothing.
“Okay,” said Sean. “I’m done trying to work with you. Get out. We’ll move on our own without you. But if we find something out that hurts your brother, so be it. The chips fall where they will.”
“In many significant ways my brother is American intelligence.”
Sean shook his head. “That’s impossible. The field is way too large.”
“Your intuition is endearing. But the fact is the American intelligence system was broken. Too many cooks in the kitchen such that no one really knew anything. With the E-Program that weakness was rectified.”
“E-Program?” said Michelle. “Does the E stand for eidetic?”
Paul smiled. “The E actually stands for Ecclesiastes.”
“As in the Bible?” said Sean.
“A book of the Hebrew Bible, yes.”
“What’s the connection?” asked Michelle.
“One underlying philosophy in Ecclesiastes is that the individual can find truth by using his powers of observation and reason instead of blindly following tradition. You acquire wisdom and focus that wisdom to figure out the world on your own. It was a radical concept back then, but it really fits the E-Program concept well.”
“So your brother is this guy?” asked Sean. “The analyst?”
“There are six people in the United States classified as ‘super-users.’ By federal law they’re supposed to know everything. But they had no special mental gifts. They’d stick a retired admiral in a room with nary a pen or piece of paper and then run past him all this intelligence for eight hours until he either passed out or wet himself. It met the letter of the law that super-users be kept up-to-date on things, but it hardly passed the spirit of that law.”
“Why is that so important?” asked Sean.
“We are in an information-overloaded society. Most people receive more information from just their smartphones in a week than their grandparents received in their entire lives. On the government and, most critically, the military end, it gets a lot trickier. From PFC cubicle warriors staring at hundreds of TV screens at top secret installations to four-stars muddling over their handhelds at the Pentagon. From a first-year clandestine analyst at Langley staring at a zillion satellite images to the national security advisor trying to make sense of reports stacked ceiling high on his desk, they’re all trying to take in more than is humanly possible. Do you know why air force pilots call their data screens ‘drool buckets’? There’s so much information on there they almost turn into zombies staring at it. You can train people to use technology better or focus more effectively, but you can’t upgrade someone’s neurological capacity. You have what you were born with.”
“And that’s where this E-Program came in?” asked Michelle.
“My brother is the latest in a short line of peculiar geniuses that have sought to fill that role. He is the ultimate multitasker who also has perfect attention to detail. His neurological pipe is immense. He can see it all and make sense of it.”
“And who exactly is behind the E-Program?” asked Sean. “The government?”
“Somewhat.”
“That’s all you can tell us?”
“For now.”
“And who do you work for?”
“I don’t work for anyone. I work with certain others. Of my choosing.”
Sean said, “Isn’t it a coincidence that your brother is working in intelligence too?”
“No coincidence about it. I encouraged Eddie to work in the field. I thought it would be a challenge for him, and I also thought he would be a terrific asset.”
She opened the car door.
“Wait,” exclaimed Sean. “You can’t leave now.”
“I’ll be in touch. For now, just do your best to stay alive. It will become harder as time goes by.”
“One last question,” said Sean.
Paul paused at the door.
Sean said, “Is your brother innocent like you said you believed? Or did he kill those people?”
At first Sean didn’t think she was going to answer the question.
“I stand by what I said, but at the end of the day only Eddie can definitively answer that.”
“If he did kill those people, his life is over. He won’t be going back to this E-Program.”
“In some ways my brother’s life was over a long time ago, Mr. King.”
CHAPTER
34
PETER BUNTING SAT DOWN at the head of the table and looked around at the faces staring back at him. He was surrounded not by policy wonks who lived in the world of the hypothetical but by people who were deadly serious about national threats. Bunting both admired and feared these folks. He admired them for their public service. He feared them because he knew they routinely ordered the killing of other humans without losing a minute’s sleep over it.
This particular briefing, while perfunctory, was being handled by Bunting because of the high level of people present and also because of the extenuating circumstances, chief of which was Edgar Roy’s current situation. He didn’t send in the lackeys when he had a Cabinet secretary, various directors of intelligence, and four-stars seated at a tab
le with china coffee cups in front of them. They expected him, and they were paying a lot of taxpayer money for the privilege.
There was one person there who should not have been, but Bunting could do nothing except register his official complaint before tersely being told to carry on with his report.
Mason Quantrell sat next to Ellen Foster, his hands in his lap, and his whole focus on Bunting. The only time Bunting stumbled during his presentation was when Quantrell had smiled at a statement of his and then whispered something in Foster’s ear. She had smiled, too.
Bunting handled the ensuing questions, most of them penetrating and complex, with precision. He had become an expert at reading the poker faces of these men and women. They seemed, if not exactly pleased, then at least satisfied. Which meant he was relieved. He had been in meetings that had not gone nearly so well. Then Quantrell cleared his throat. All heads had turned to the Mercury CEO. Now Bunting suspected the entire meeting had been carefully choreographed.
“Yes, Mason?” asked Bunting, whose grip on his laser pointer tightened. He had a sudden impulse to aim it at Quantrell’s eyes.
“You’ve told us a lot today, Pete.”
“That’s usually the point of a presentation such as this,” Bunting replied, trying to keep his voice even and calm.
Quantrell didn’t appear to hear him. “But what you haven’t told us is how you can continue to expect a single analyst to keep up with all the data being generated. While it’s true you’ve had some success—”
“I would modify that to say we’ve had enormous success, but please, carry on, Mason.”
“Some success,” repeated Quantrell. “But the reality is that by relying solely on one analyst we’ve weakened our national security considerably, possibly irreversibly.”
“I disagree.”
“But I don’t disagree.”
All heads turned, but only slightly, for this comment had come from Ellen Foster.
Bunting studied the woman who had become his most potent adversary. Yet as she was also the head of the largest federal security agency, he had no choice but to be respectful to the woman.
“Madame Secretary?”
“How do you rate your performance today, Peter?” she asked.
She wore a black dress, black stockings, and black heels with minimal jewelry. Bunting noticed, and not for the first time, that she was a very attractive woman. Nice skin, slim figure, but with curves where men usually wanted them. Foster had an impressive résumé both in the field and the boardroom, and possessed even more impressive political connections. The divorced head of DHS was low-key by nature, but every once in a while her picture would appear at some society event, where she was on the arm of an acceptably high-ranked gentleman.
She had a home in the upper-brackets region of D.C. and a vacation place on Nantucket, where she would go to unwind with her security detail tagging along. Her ex-husband, a New York–based private equity fund manager, had amassed an enormous fortune using other people’s money while paying an income tax rate lower than that of his secretary. She had gotten half of his net worth in the divorce and could do what she pleased. And what she pleased was to run the nation’s security platform and apparently make Peter Bunting’s life a hell on earth.
“It seems as though everyone was satisfied with my report.” He eyed Quantrell and then his gaze flitted back to her. “Well, almost everyone.”
“You’re joking, right, Peter?” she said.
“If you have some definitive examples I can certainly discuss them with you.”
“What’s to discuss? The analysis you delivered today was total crap and everyone in the room knows it. Other than you, apparently.”
Bunting gazed once more at the people around the table. Not a sympathetic face in the bunch. “I answered every question and every follow-up question. I didn’t get a standing ovation, but I left nothing hanging, either.”
Foster leaned forward. “In your contract renewal you’ve asked for an increase of twenty-three percent based on a variety of factors.”
Bunting shot a glance at Quantrell, who was shaking his head and making clucking sounds.
“Madame Secretary, with all due respect, one of my main competitors is sitting in this room. That information was delivered in confidence to—”
“I’m sure we can rely on Mr. Quantrell’s professionalism.”
Bunting wanted to say, What professionalism? He’s a slimeball and you know it. But instead he said, “Every single cost increase is justifiable. My people spent months cranking the numbers. And they worked with the government side on all of it, so there’re no surprises in there.”
“While we in Washington have the reputation of being a blank check with a rubber stamp, some of us do like to get what we pay for.”
Though nearly a foot taller than the woman, Bunting now somehow felt much smaller than Foster. “I think we bring considerable value to the table.”
“Frankly, I gave you a chance, Peter. You blew it.”
“I spoke with the president,” Bunting said hastily and then instantly regretted it.
She compressed her lips. “Yes, I know. Neat little end-around. But all it bought you was a little time. Nothing more.”
Foster looked around the room. “I think that concludes the meeting. Mr. Quantrell, if you would join me in my office, I have some important matters I’d like to discuss.”
She left the room with Mason Quantrell following.
As the room cleared Bunting stood there for a few moments staring down at the useless briefing book in his hand. When he finally did leave no one looked at him as he passed little conversation groups in the hall. Foster had done her work well, it seemed.
He waited outside her office until she came out with Quantrell.
“May I have a word, Madame Secretary?” Bunting asked.
She gazed at him in mild surprise. “I have a full schedule.”
“Please, just a minute.”
Quantrell looked amused. “I’ll talk to you later, Ellen.” He slapped Bunting on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Pete. You can always come back to work for Mercury. I understand we need a geek in the IT Department.”
Quantrell walked off and Bunting turned to Foster.
“Well?” she said. “Make it quick.”
He drew closer. “Please don’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“The preemptive action.”
“Good God, Bunting,” she hissed. “You’re talking about this out in the damn hallway? Have you lost your mind?”
“Just give me a little more time.”
She looked him up and down and then closed her office door in his face.
* * *
On the drive back to the airport, Bunting noted the inconspicuous building set at the end of a strip mall. And the brick structure that backed up to a suburban neighborhood. Then there was a building that looked like it was made of all glass but that in reality had not one window in the place. These were all footprints of intelligence gathering. They were stuck like splinters into pieces of the outside world and most of the people passing by them had not the remotest idea what went on inside of them.
Intelligence work was dirty and at times deadly. Whether your adversary was killed quick with a bullet or slow with an enhanced interrogation session, or was anonymously obliterated by a drone strike launched from thousands of feet up, he was still dead. Like Edgar Roy might be soon. Dead.
Bunting settled back in his seat and let out a long sigh. Right now the two-point-five-billion-dollar contract didn’t seem nearly worth it.
CHAPTER