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