54. Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter fifty-four
Sam Gunn made her way to the seventh floor, past the secretaries acting as sentinels to the upper management and rapped her knuckles against the director’s door.
She was still reeling from Trevor’s death.
Her eyes were puffy and her nose clogged.
She’d spent the entire drive back to Langley wiping tears.
Her heart felt wrung out like a sponge. Exhaustion coupled together with heartbreak made her shoulders slump and her feet drag.
She wanted to throw herself down on a sofa, drift off to sleep and forget, but that wasn’t an option.
After his briefing with the President, Director McHale had called an emergency meeting.
Besides, even if the world’s must luxurious mattress happened to be available, Sam knew it would be days before she got any real sleep.
From inside the Director’s office a voice called, “Enter.”
Sam pushed down on the latch and slipped inside.
The D/CIA’s office was the largest of the central three with a polished coffee table in the middle of the room flanked by a pair of well used sofas.
Bookshelves lined the walls, illuminated by track lights in the ceiling.
There were no plants here, just a soft grey carpet underfoot and the slightly stringent odor of McHale’s discount aftershave.
The Director was a pudgy man with a cherub face, round glasses balanced on the end of a bulbous red nose and thinning hair.
Deputy Director Nguy?n was there, along with Kearns.
They were gathered around the table, a series of reports spread out before them.
McHale glanced up as Sam entered and greeted her, “There’s coffee on the sideboard. ”
“Thank you, sir.” Sam started toward the coffee pot. “I’m exhausted.”
“Pour me a cup, thank you,” said McHale. “I take it black.”
Sam pursed her lips. Her nostrils flared. She poured two cups and carried them to the sofas.
Director McHale reached out a hand. “Needless to say, the President wants to know what we are doing to contain this nightmare. You just came from the airport. How are things there?”
“Under control.” She looked for a place to sit.
Kearns and Nguy?n had one sofa and they’d spread out with enough space between them that they dominated the whole surface.
Neither seemed like they were about to move over to make room.
McHale sat in the middle of the other sofa, perched on the edge, but taking a seat next to the Director seemed presumptuous.
Sam stood instead. “CDC has the plane, along with all of the passengers and crew, locked down. We don’t have to worry about the virus spreading from there.
However, Trevor de Camp is… He passed away. ”
McHale frowned, blew on his coffee, and sipped. “That’s unfortunate. Does he have a family?”
“Doesn’t everybody?” Sam asked.
McHale ignored that remark. “What’s the situation in Serbia? Do we have any idea who these people are? What they want?”
Nguy?n said, “The chief of station in Belgrade is working on that. He’s turning over every stone but so far, we have very little actionable intel.”
“I have my own source inside Serbia,” Sam announced.
She put her coffee cup down on the table and scrubbed her face with both hands, like she could rub away the exhaustion.
“My contacts are pointing toward a former Albanian military surgeon named Doctor Arben Kadare. He served time in the Hague for crimes committed during the Kosovo war. Doctor Kadare performed a number of experimental surgeries on enemy soldiers, even some civilians. Chemical and biological warfare was one of his specialties. He was recently released and I believe he’s working with a former Albanian military captain by the name of Zeqiri.
As to the why… well, we’d have to ask Kadare himself. ”
Deputy Director Nguy?n frowned up at Sam. “Who is this information source of yours?”
Sam thought about how to answer. “It’s information collected by a private intelligence firm.”
“Freelancers,” Kearns said, as if that alone was enough reason to doubt the accuracy of the information. “Hardly a credible source.”
“They were onto this before we were,” Sam said.
“What’s the name of this private intelligence firm?” McHale asked.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Sam said. “At this point they want to remain anonymous.”
“This is a matter of national security.” Kearns sat up a little straighter and fixed Sam with a frown.
“I cannot legally force them to divulge their identities,” Sam pointed out.
“Not officially,” Kearns countered. “But you can tell us.”
“You are asking me to break the law,” Sam said.
McHale held up a hand. “We could get a court order.”
“That’s your right, sir.” Sam shrugged. “But that’s going to take days. This information is solid. Instead of wasting valuable time trying to figure out the identity of the operatives who collected it, why not take it as a gift and act on it? I’m sure the President would agree.”
“In this room, I’m in charge.” McHale leaned back in the sofa, studied Sam a moment and asked, “How certain are you that this information is accurate?”
“I’d stake my reputation on it.”
Kearns snorted.
McHale pulled off his glasses, cleaned them on his tie, and slipped them back on. “Okay, Ms. Gunn. You’ve got the ball, run with it. But I’m warning you; if you’re wrong, it’s not just your reputation on the line. It’s your career.”