Saving Faith By: David Baldacci

still rated protection afforded no ordinary citizen. Politically, even

in the context of total destruction, there must be order.

The bunker was built at a time when people believed it possible to

survive a direct nuclear hit by burrowing into the earth inside a steel

cocoon. After the holocaust that would annihilate the rest of the

country, leaders would emerge from the rubble with absolutely nothing

left to lead, unless you counted vapor.

The original, aboveground building had been leveled long ago, but the

subterranean room remained under what was now a small strip mall that

had been vacant for years. Forgotten by virtually all, the chamber was

now used as a meeting place for certain people in the country’s primary

intelligence-gathering agency. There was some risk involved, since the

meetings were not related to the men’s official duties. The matters

discussed at these gatherings were illegal, and tonight even murderous.

Thus additional precautions had been necessary.

The super-thick steel walls had been supplemented by a copper coating.

That measure, along with tons of dirt overhead, protected against

prying electronic ears lurking in space and elsewhere. These men

didn’t particularly like coming to this underground room. It was

inconvenient, and ironically, it seemed far too James Bondish even for

their admittedly cloak-and-dagger tastes. However, the truth was the

earth was now encircled with so much advanced surveillance technology

that virtually no conversation taking place on its surface was safe

from interception. One had to dig into the dirt to escape his enemies.

And if there was a place where people could meet with reasonable

confidence that their conversations would not be overheard even in

their world of ultra sophisticated peekaboo, this was it.

The gray-headed people present at the meeting were all white males, and

most were nearing their agency’s mandatory retirement age of sixty.

Dressed quietly and professionally, they could have been doctors,

lawyers or investment bankers. One would probably not remember any of

the group a day after seeing them. This anonymity was their

stock-in-trade. These sorts of people lived and died, sometimes

violently, over such details.

Collectively, this cabal possessed thousands of secrets that could

never be known by the general public because the public would certainly

condemn the actions giving rise to these secrets. However, America

often demanded results-economic, political, social and otherwise-that

could be obtained only by smashing certain parts of the world to a

bloody pulp. It was the job of these men to figure out how to do so in

a clandestine manner that would not reflect poorly on the United

States, yet would still keep the country safe from the pesky

international terrorists and other foreigners unhappy with the stretch

of America’s muscle.

The purpose of tonight’s gathering was to plot the killing of Faith

Lockhart. Technically, the CIA was prohibited by presidential

executive order from engaging in assassination. However, these men,

though employed by the Agency, were not representing the CIA tonight.

This was their private agenda, and there was little disagreement that

the woman had to die, and soon; it was critical for the well-being of

the country. These men knew this, even if American presidents did not.

However, because of another life that was involved, the meeting had

become acrimonious, the group resembling a cadre of posturing members

fighting on Capitol Hill over billion-dollar slices of pork.

“What you’re saying, then,” one of the white-haired men said as he

poked the smoke-filled air with a slender finger, “is that along with

Lockhart we have to kill a federal agent.” The man shook his head

incredulously. “Why kill one of our own? It can only lead to

disaster.”

The gentleman at the head of the table nodded thoughtfully. Robert

Thornhill was the CIA’s most distinguished Cold War soldier, a man

whose status at the Agency was unique. His reputation was

unassailable, his compilation of professional victories unmatched. As

associate deputy director of Operations, he was the Agency’s ultimate

free safety. The DDO, or deputy director of operations, was

responsible for running the field operations that undertook the secret

collection of foreign intelligence. The operations directorate of the

CIA was also unofficially known as the “spy shop,” and the deputy

director was still not even publicly identified. It was the perfect

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