"I have new information pertaining to the case that he needs to see."
"I'll pass this along to him immediately and be back in touch with you to set up a meeting," she said.
"Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate your assistance," he said.
"I'll be in touch," she said, which meant ‘don't call back to check on this.’
Sharpe snapped his phone shut and turned to Hesterman.
"Stay close and make sure all of these images are portable and organized. The director's office could call us back in minutes. We don't leave the building until the director does," he said, starting for the door.
"Whoa! What are…wait a minute. I'm not going to see the director," Hesterman said.
Sharpe gave him a strained look and walked back over to him. "Let's keep it down. The walls have ears around here. Of course you're going. I can't make all of this magic happen or explain it nearly as well, though you will have to economize your words and cut out any attempts at humor."
"What? No…sir? I think O'Reilly is the best agent for the job. She's earned it," Hesterman whispered.
"Earned what? I don't want to sing and dance in front of the director. This is all you. The guy sort of gives me the creeps, anyway. Likes to touch my shot-up arm and grimace like he feels my pain. It's a little creepy," she said.
"It's all you, Hesterman. Put on your game face," Sharpe said.
"You'll do great, Eric. Seriously, you know the ins and outs of this imagery, and I liked the way you presented it to me. I can't possibly drag O'Reilly in there again. Admittedly, it's a little creepy when he touches her arm," Sharpe said.
"He better not touch me," Hesterman said.
"No guarantees. Stay close. When the director calls, we jump," he said and left the Joint Operations Center.
Chapter 10
Frederick Shelby, director of the FBI, stared intensely at Special Agent Hesterman for several uncomfortable seconds. Sharpe had given Hesterman the full briefing on what to expect from the director and hoped the agent didn't fidget. The director hated fidgeting under pressure, and often did whatever he could to elicit what he considered to be an undesirable trait. Eric held it together, only breaking eye contact a few times, but remaining silent and composed until the director spoke.
"This looks promising, Agent Sharpe. Very promising. Agent Hesterman? Excellent job with this discovery. Solid presentation skills I might add. Sharpe. I would like a moment alone with you," he said and turned to face one of the vast windows in his office.
Sharpe patted Hesterman on the back and winked at him. "Can you find your way back?" he whispered.
"I'll figure it out," he said, suppressing a grin.
Hesterman collected the meticulously prepared folios of support documents and satellite imagery, and removed the portable hard drive connected from the computer connected to the director's wall mounted flat-screen monitor.
"See you in a few," Sharpe said.
Hesterman started to walk to the door.
"Agent Hesterman?" the director said.
"Yes, sir?" he said, turning to face the director, who continued to stare out at the inner courtyard of the J. Edgar Hoover building.
"You had one hell of a senior year playing for Michigan. Starting linebacker for an undefeated season. Rose Bowl win over Washington State," he said.
"Thank you, sir. It sure beat the year before," Hesterman said, not sure if he was pushing his luck.
"Damn straight it did. I lost a considerable amount of money on the '96 season. Made up for it your senior year, plus some, so I won't hold it against you."
"I appreciate that, sir. Wolverine?"
"Lacrosse for four years. Graduated in '62, which was one of the worst football seasons in history up until that point. Keep up the good work, Agent Hesterman," the director said, and Sharpe signaled for him to leave.
"Take a look at this," the director said, still facing the window.
Sharpe walked over to join him and stared out at a busy courtyard, filled with agents and support staff, mostly clustered in small groups.
"Can you imagine? Having the time at two in the afternoon to take a little sun break out in the courtyard?"
"Not really, sir. This is the first glimpse of the outside I've seen today," Sharpe said.
"Well, nobody comes to headquarters to enjoy the sun. Especially not while they're on the clock," he said.
Sharpe made a mental note to avoid the courtyard, even if it represented a shortcut to another section of the building.
"Keith Ward won't be happy to know you've gone over his head with this."
"I felt you needed to see this first, without it being watered down," Sharpe said.
"I can appreciate the fact that you had the guts to do it, despite the consequences."
"Surprisingly, it wasn't a difficult decision, sir."
"That's called personal integrity, and it's by far my favorite trait in a person, especially another agent. I'll need to make a few calls on this. I should be able to convince the right people at the Pentagon that we need a look at Argentina. I presume you'd like to keep the CIA out of this?" Shelby said.
"I assume that was a rhetorical question, sir?"
"Very well, we'll leave our scheming brethren out of this one."
"What will you do if the satellite photos ID our man?" Sharpe said.
"Do my very best to rain fire and brimstone down onto him."
Chapter 11
Jessica's attacker committed nearly everything to the overhand, downward knife strike, leaving her with few options. Her attacker possessed a startling combination of agility and raw strength, which had so far left her with little margin for error. For the past minute, which seemed like an eternity, Jessica poured every ounce of skill, power and most importantly, instinct…into staying alive long enough for him to make a fatal mistake. At one hundred and twenty-four pounds, her five-foot-seven-inch frame was lean and exceptionally muscle toned. She could physically match up against most men in a hand-to-hand combat situation, but her current situation was far from normal. This man was a highly trained killer, with more than an eighty pound advantage, and he'd wanted to taste her blood for as long as either of them could remember.
Instinctively, she blocked the devastating strike with her empty left hand, her brain deciding not to grab the wrist. She didn't know why this decision had been made, but as her own processing ability caught up with her instincts, she consciously flowed with it. She imparted a sharp upward motion against the strike and immediately hinged her elbow, allowing the strike to continue downward with more momentum than the attacker had probably expected. She had feinted a solid block, which if executed would have locked her into a useless strength match. Her attacker had been hungry for this and didn't realize his mistake as she stepped forward and pivoted on her left foot, swinging her blade behind her own back, in an admittedly desperate gamble.
She crouched as her entire body turned along the attacker's right side and her knife hand swung in a blinding arc, burying the blade to the hilt in his lower back. He made a useless attempt to swing his own blade backward to strike her, but missed, as she spun even further behind him. He recognized the severity of his wound and knew it was useless.
The knife hadn't really penetrated his back. The Simknife blade was designed to retract and measure the damage imparted by the knife strike. Based on a number of variables, it pressure released a bright red stain relative to the depth of the wound. Similarly, the flexible "blade" could measure lateral slash intensity. Not surprisingly, the stab wound to Leo's back resulted in the maximum spray radius, leaving a six-inch diameter mark on his blue flannel shirt.