“Sorry, lips are sealed,” said Michelle. “Secret Service drills that into you.”
“And how about if I see whether a grand jury subpoena drills it out of you?”
Sean said, “We can do the macho dance or we can work together on this.”
Littlefield said incredulously, “Work together? You out of your fricking mind? Does it sound like I want to partner with you?”
Michelle stood and fixed her gaze on him. “We’ve been lied to, almost shot, nearly blown to hell, and pushed around by dickheads from the Army, DHS, and now the FBI. So I can tell you flat-out that whether you want to ‘partner’ with us or not, we’re working this case. So stick that up your ass and see how it fits”—she glanced at his ID on a lanyard around his neck—“Dwayne.”
Sean muttered, “Holy Mother of God,” and put his hand over his eyes.
Littlefield looked ready to pull his gun and open fire. Then he did something that made Sean glance up in amazement. The FBI agent started laughing.
“You are something. I heard you were hell on wheels, but seeing it for myself, you are really something.”
He sat down and grew serious as he studied them both. “This shit goes so far up the food chain that it’s like surfing the Net and reaching the end of it. There is no higher-up to go to.”
“We heard on the TV that the White House has refused to comment,” said Sean. “Is that how high?”
Littlefield gave a barely perceptible nod.
Michelle was still standing. Littlefield looked up at her and said, “You gonna join the party or what?”
Michelle sat down. “Why send one soldier out with all that money? Who couldn’t see only bad things happening with that?”
“Apparently everybody except the stars and bars over at the Pentagon,” replied Littlefield. He opened a file in front of him. “You two figured out what Wingo is or was?”
“He’s not an Army reservist,” said Sean. “Nobody exits the uniform one year before a full pension to take a sales job at a translator firm with DoD secretly footing the bill.”
“You have done your homework,” said Littlefield, looking impressed. He glanced down at the file in front of him. “You two familiar with DIA?”
“Defense Intelligence,” replied Michelle. “Like CIA but in uniform.”
“DIA has a bigger budget than CIA and they actually do more in certain parts of the world. But post-nine-eleven the two agencies have learned to play nice.” He paused. “You two don’t have security clearances anymore.”
“So just leave out the juicy parts,” said Sean. “And be clever enough to work them in some other way.”
Littlefield chuckled. “It’s not a secret. It was in the papers not that long ago. DIA has bulked up its clandestine field units big-time. They’re working closely with Langley overseas in certain hot spots. We can all guess where those might be.”
Sean said, “But I didn’t think DIA was authorized to conduct covert operations that went much beyond your basic intelligence gathering, drone strikes, or getting guns into the hands of our enemy’s enemy.”
“That’s true. But that’s also where CIA comes in, because they are authorized to do that and a lot more. However, they’ve also had their budget slashed and committed some very public missteps lately. And even with defense cuts and sequestration the DoD has the funds to do more stuff.”
Michelle said, “Are you saying that CIA provides the cover of their station platforms overseas—”
Littlefield broke in, “And training at the Farm in Virginia.”
Michelle continued, “And DIA provides the field operatives?”
“DIA has even copied Langley on their Persia House initiative, creating a body to merge resources on problem countries around the planet. The difficulty has been how to leave soldiers behind after their units have been called back home. One way was to take the uniform off but not for real—train the solider up and deploy him directly into the field of concern with an appropriate backstory that CIA would support.”
“So Wingo is recruited for a mission for DIA and CIA. He sets off with a billion in euros and disappears,” said Sean.
Michelle added, “Any idea where he is now?”
Littlefield shook his head. “Still in the Middle East? India? Back in the States? Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Who was he supposed to meet?” asked Sean. “And deliver the money to?”