49
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
CIA HEADQUARTERS
FRIDAY MORNING
Savich had tried his hand once at solving the fourth clue on the Kryptos sculpture in front of the CIA’s New Headquarters Building—the NHB—at Langley. The first three had been solved, but not the fourth. Every once in a while the fourth would hit the news, and cryptanalysts, both amateur and professional, would try yet again to decipher it. So far, the brain behind the codes, Jim Sanborn, had given out two intriguing clues. Still, no one had managed to make sense of the seemingly random jumble of letters.
Maitland waved toward it. “When you have a spare minute, figure that out, Savich.”
He sounded perfectly serious. Ah, what faith. Savich only smiled.
Sherlock said, “That sounds like an order to me, Dillon. Maybe when this is all over you can amaze the world.”
That drew him up. Savich looked down at her. “You really think I could solve the clue, do you?”
“Mr. Maitland seems to have no doubts and he is your boss, he ought to know what you’re capable of, right, sir?”
“That’s right,” Maitland said. He still didn’t know how to treat her, what to say, what to do. How did the two of them handle it?
There was nothing he could do about her amnesia, but it was time to remedy something he could. He grinned ferociously. “Time for me to throw my weight around.” He marched into the lobby, right up to the large security desk, and held out his creds. “I’m here to speak to Assistant Director Claire Farriger. Right away.”
Surprisingly, within five minutes they were facing a man with thick dark hair, maybe forty, wearing a stylish brown suit that barely contained his body builder’s bulk. He introduced himself as Lance Armstrong, of all things, and Assistant Director Farriger’s personal assistant. He took each of their creds, studied them like it was a final exam and they’d failed. He finally said, his voice clipped, “Many people here call me the assistant director’s pit bull. They would be correct. Now, I realize you, sir, are marginally important in the FBI, but you did not call to make an appointment. Assistant Director Farriger is very busy. However, I doubt she would want me to show you out, given you are FBI, so I will inform her you are here.” He turned, gave a light knock on a door off a large entryway, and disappeared inside, closing the door behind him.
One of Maitland’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s the admin? He’s Goldy’s counterpart? Looks like an ex–field operative to me.” He huffed out a breath. “He’s certainly more buff than his namesake, but my money’d be on Goldy. She could take him in a New Jersey minute.”
Savich agreed. Sherlock only smiled, she had no clue.
Mr. Lance Armstrong came right back out and nodded. “Assistant Director Farriger will see you for five minutes. You may go in now. Please follow me.”
Sherlock giggled.
It was so unexpected, Savich stared at her. She hiccupped, splayed her hands in front of her. “Sorry. He’s so very formal and persnickety, like a butler, despite looking like a professional wrestler.”
Claire Farriger watched the three FBI agents closely as they walked into her office, James Maitland in the lead. He looked as he always looked when she saw him on Capitol Hill—hard, no-nonsense, impatient to get to whatever work was at hand. She respected that about him, on occasion. She’d also seen him so brusque she’d wanted to punch him out. She wasn’t surprised to see Agent Dillon Savich and his wife, Agent Sherlock, were with him. She’d not met Savich before, but had heard plenty, usually praise. He was much admired for his sheer doggedness. She’d even wished he’d worked with her at the CIA rather than at the FBI. Now she’d be squaring off with him. And yet again she marveled—what were the odds Justice Cummings would smash the windshield of Agent Sherlock’s car? She’d hoped to avoid a direct meeting, but it really didn’t matter. She knew how to treat their kind. She took the lead immediately and intended to keep the reins firmly in her hands. “Mr. Maitland? Agent Savich?” She paused, looked beyond the two men at Sherlock. She couldn’t help a punch of pride at what this amazing woman had done. Farriger came from behind her desk, shook Sherlock’s hand. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you. I heard you were in an automobile accident on Tuesday and one of our own analysts was involved. All of America is relieved you’re all right. Do sit down.” She cast a glance at Savich and Maitland. “Gentlemen, you may sit, too.”
Statuesque, that was Sherlock’s first impression of Farriger, most likely a runner, long and lean. She was well dressed in a dark suit, white blouse, low black heels. Arrogance shimmered the air around her, and a formidable intelligence. She looked ready to handle anything the world dished up, and there was something else, something that eluded Sherlock. Was she worried? Anxious? From that moment on Sherlock never took her eyes off Farriger’s face.
Farriger sat down behind a very nice mahogany desk with a shiny matching credenza flanking it. There were no photos, no plants, nothing at all. “I assume you are here to discuss my missing analyst, Justice Cummings. A terrible thing he was involved in a traffic accident, he and Agent Sherlock. But why are the FBI here?”
Mr. Maitland said, “We are involved because Mr. Cummings is a federal employee and it is feared he has come to harm. That puts him in the FBI purview.”
Farriger said in a calm, clipped voice, “Obviously, it is not every day a CIA analyst gets struck by a car and disappears. Of course we have protocols in place, a number he was trained to call. We have taken precautions, of course, in case he’s been compromised. And we’re looking for him, out of concern for his well-being.”
Savich said, “As of this morning, there is still no word of his whereabouts. Neither you nor I have any idea if he is dead in a ditch or holed up somewhere nursing his wounds or under interrogation. I find it curious he’s made no contact with anyone here at the CIA, his place of employment. Am I missing anything?”
Farriger tapped her fingers rhythmically on the desktop, said nothing.
Maitland said, “I find it curious as well that he hasn’t at least contacted his group chief, Alan Besserman, or you, Ms. Farriger, tell you he was hurt, or in trouble, and he needed help?”
“That is disturbing, naturally, Mr. Maitland. We will discover the reasons for his actions once we find him and bring him in, if, that is, he is still alive.”
“Bring him in? It sounds like you believe he’s done something wrong,” Sherlock said. “He’s in the Russian group, isn’t he, ma’am? Is there anything related to his work that warrants investigation? Was he working with anyone outside the organization? Assets, perhaps, stationed in Moscow?”
Farriger waved her off. “Not that either I or Mr. Besserman know of. He’s a talented analyst, not a covert operative. But his work is highly classified. If you came expecting a briefing about his work here, we are at an impasse. You can continue to look for him along with us, and we can brief each other if we make progress. There is nothing more I can do for you. Now, if that is all, I need to prepare for a meeting with the director.” She rose.
Mr. Maitland sat back, began swinging his foot. “We already know a good deal about him. Justice Cummings is thirty-one years old. He came to you from MIT six years ago. He was immediately assigned to the Russian section, where he has excelled. He’s married, two children, and his wife and children are currently out of town, their specific whereabouts still unknown.”