“Me, only me,” Liam says, realizing that even in the midst of this crisis, he is out on a long, thin, creaking branch.
The director smiles. “With what’s going on, that was minor, indeed, Liam. In fact, it’s going to help us. We have a reporter in the most respected and prestigious newspaper in this part of the world, and she’s already working on the story.”
Noa says, “At the right time, Director Abrams, she could release a number of stories that would help you.”
Abrams nods. “That’s what I’m thinking. Liam, can you meet with her? Safely?”
“It’ll take some time, but yes, I can do that.”
“Good. Meet up with her and we’ll set up a confidential pipeline to her. Feed her information, have her tell us what her editors think, have her tell us what she’s finding out from her own sources. A quid pro quo. It won’t do the job entirely, but it’ll be a help.”
Noa clears her throat. “With all due respect, Director Abrams, what is our job?”
Abrams says, “To have President Barrett resign before he kills us all.”
Nearly an hour later, after more discussion, brainstorming, and setting up plans to contact his former wife—boy,he thinks,she is going to get one hell of a surprise in a few hours—Liam says, “With what the snatch team did to my Jeep, I’m going to need transportation, Director.”
Hannah is about to reply when one of her two security officers, Ralph, steps into the room and says, “Sorry to interrupt, Madam Director, but there’s a phone call.”
She gets up from a couch and says, “Probably my deputy director, wondering why in hell I’m so late getting to work.”
Ralph’s tone is apologetic. “I’m sorry, Madam Director. The phone call is not for you.”
Liam is frozen at the next words Ralph says.
“The call is for Liam Grey.”
CHAPTER 81
J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, DC
FBI DEPUTY DIRECTOR Edie Hicks is in Director Warren Jablonski’s office on the seventh floor of the FBI building at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, trying to keep her patience in place.
The director looks at a two-page memo that Edie had earlier deposited on his wide, shiny, and spotless wooden desk. He stares at it like a dinner at a fine French restaurant, ready to send theblanquette de veauback to the kitchen because it’s two degrees too cool.
The office is huge, with a conference room table, fine furniture, bookshelves, and, behind the director, American flags and the flag of the FBI. Edie has been in this office numerous times, with both Jablonski and his predecessor. Edie came up the ranks of the FBI the old-fashioned way, assigned to the Criminal Division in the New York Field Office, working the streets, even joining the SWAT team. More assignments followed, from Counterterrorism to even serving two tours in Afghanistan, and running the FBI office in Chicago before being promoted here.
The FBI director talks in a slow voice, like every word is being carefully weighed and chosen.
“That’s quick work, Edie,” he says. “Very impressive. A nice reflection on the agents you chose to do such a sensitive job.”
“Thank you, Director.”
Then he shuts up.
Edie feels like sighing. The gaunt man in front of her with the sad basset hound eyes and thick black hair has come up a different way through the Department of Justice, by never making waves and never doing anything controversial. Not an approach that was respected by most of the FBI field agents, but when a crisis ever hit the DoJ or the attorney general’s office, he was always the compromise candidate who’d get the job to “clean things up.”
She doubts he’s ever made an arrest in the field in his entire career.
But now he’s here, as director, and Edie loathes one of his habits, which is keeping his mouth shut and letting the other party speak.
She waits.
A grandfather clock in the corner goestick-tick-tick.
Screw this,she thinks.