would use whatever tactics he could to bring his agency back to the
forefront, even if it meant stealing a page from his most bitter foe.
Well, watch me do you one better, Ed.
Thornhill focused again on the men clustered around him. “Not having
to kill one of our own would, of course, be ideal,” he said. “However,
the fact is, the FBI have her under ’round-the-clock stealth security.
The only time she’s truly vulnerable is when she goes to the cottage.
They may place her in Witness Protection without warning, so we have to
hit them at the cottage.”
Another man spoke up. “Okay, we kill Lockhart, but let the FBI agent
live, for God’s sake, Bob.”
Thornhill shook his head. “The risk is too great. I know that killing
a fellow agent is deplorable. But to shirk our duty now would be a
catastrophic mistake. You know what we’ve invested in this operation.
We cannot fail.”
“Dammit, Bob,” the first man to protest said, “do you know what will
happen if the FBI learns we took out one of their people?”
“If we can’t keep a secret like that, we have no business doing what we
do,” Thornhill snapped. “This is not the first time lives have been
sacrificed.”
Another member of the group leaned forward in his chair. He was the
youngest of them. He had, however, earned the respect of the group
with his intelligence and his ability to exercise extreme, focused
ruthlessness.
“We’ve only really looked at the scenario of killing Lockhart to
forestall the FBI’s investigation into Buchanan. Why not appeal to the
FBI director and have him order his team to give up the investigation?
Then no one has to die.”
Thornhill gave his younger colleague a disappointed look. “And how
would you propose going about explaining to the FBI director why we
wish him to do so?”
“How about some semblance of the truth?” the younger man said. “Even
in the intelligence business there’s sometimes room for that, isn’t
there?”
Thornhill smiled warmly. “So I should say to the FBI director-who, by
the way, would love to see us all permanently interred in a museum-
that we wish him to call off his potentially blockbuster investigation
so that the CIA can use illegal means to trump his agency. Brilliant.
Why didn’t I think of that? And where would you like to serve your
prison term?”
“For chrissakes, Bob, we work with the FBI now. This isn’t 1960
anymore. Don’t forget about CTC.”
CTC stood for the Counter Terrorism Center, a cooperative effort
between the CIA and the FBI to fight terrorism by sharing intelligence
and resources. It had been generally deemed a success by those
involved. To Thornhill, it was simply another way for the FBI to stick
its greedy fingers into his business.
“I happen to be involved in CTC in a modest way,” Thornhill said. “I
find it an ideal perch on which to keep tabs on the Bureau and what
they’re up to, which is usually no good, as far as were concerned.”
“Come on, were all on the same team, Bob.”
Thornhill’s eyes focused on the younger man in such a way that everyone
in the room froze. “I request that you never say those words in my
presence again,” Thornhill said.
The man paled and sat back in his chair.
Thornhill clenched his pipe between his teeth. “Would you like me to
give you concrete examples of the FBI taking the credit, the glory for
work done by our agency? For the blood spilled by our field agents?
For the countless times we’ve saved the world from annihilation? How
they manipulate investigations in order to crush everyone else, to beef
up their already bloated budget? Would you like me to give you
instances in my thirty-six-year career where the FBI did all it could
to discredit our mission, our people? Would you?” The man slowly
shook his head as Thornhill’s gaze bored into him. “I don’t give a
damn if the FBI director himself came down here and kissed my shoes and
swore his undying allegiance to me-I will not be swayed. Ever! Have I
made my position clear?”