Anders adjusted his glasses thoughtfully. “Our role is to support the president with all available resources. And while those resources are considerable, Brian, I do want to caution any hotheads among us. We know Ryan Hamilton is in a grave position. Exceptionally grave. And as desirous as all of us are to see him return safely to the Homeland, we also want to make sure we don’t do anything that worsens his situation or the possible outcomes. There are many, many moving parts right now, and they need time to work properly. Anyone demanding immediate action, without a comprehensive understanding of Hamilton’s circumstances, could easily be hastening the worst for the young man. So I would urge everyone to be patient, to give the president space to use all the sources and methods available to us to ensure Hamilton’s ultimate safety.”
The rest of the interview was the usual awestruck network suck job. Not that Anders minded. It was just that this time, burnishing his brand wasn’t a particular priority. He had to clear up this Hamilton situation. It would be very bad if the journalist somehow were to make it home.
CHAPTER
10
Remar sat in the waiting area outside Senator McQueen’s office in the Hart Senate Office Building. He’d been told to arrive at two o’clock and it was now a quarter past. Remar suspected the man was keeping him waiting on purpose. If you wanted to understand the mentality of most Washington insiders, all you had to do was put yourself in the mind of an insecure teenager, at which point it all began to make sense. Even the director liked to play these little power games from time to time. Remar had little patience for it. He considered himself a straight shooter and preferred to deal with people like himself. He smiled, thinking not for the first time that, given his preferences, he was definitely living in the wrong city.
He thought about the audit the director had ordered him to carry out on God’s Eye. He hadn’t found any way Perkins could have had access, which was the main thing. But he’d discovered something else, as well. The most sensitive uses to which the program had been put had been walled off. What remained… well, if the worst were to happen, if the program were to be revealed, it would all pose less of a problem for Remar than it would for the director, who had conceived God’s Eye in the first place as part of his “collect it all” mantra.
The thought made him feel guilty, and he half-consciously rubbed the plasticized scar tissue below the eye patch. He’d been the director’s man ever since waking in agony while being tended by a forward surgical team, unable to see through the dressing covering his face, the director himself, then a colonel, holding his hand through his own bandages and telling him he was all right, he was going to be all right.
And he had been all right, eventually, after a half-dozen reconstructive surgeries, extensive rehabilitation, and a yearlong addiction to painkillers that would have led to a formal reprimand had the director not intervened to have the problem expunged from his record. He’d told the director Manus was like a dog, but he hadn’t meant it as an insult. He admired that kind of loyalty, valued it. And, when it came to the director, shared it. He owed his life to the director, his career, his position. He didn’t approve of all the director’s decisions, and if it were up to him, things would be run differently. But it wasn’t up to him, that wasn’t how fate had played out, and what he owed the director, he sometimes just had to borrow against his own conscience.
So it didn’t matter that his audit had revealed a possible… divergence in their potential exposure, and therefore in their interests. And besides, any divergence was only theoretical anyway. Because Perkins didn’t have the access. He couldn’t.
At just past two thirty, two frightfully young and bright-eyed staffers emerged from the inner sanctum and closed the door behind them. Yes, I get it, Remar thought. You were keeping me waiting just for a conversation with a couple of interns.
A few minutes later, a secretary ushered him in. McQueen stood from behind his massive desk and hurried around to shake Remar’s hand, his jowls bouncing. “General Remar! So good to see you. Thanks for coming and apologies for keeping you waiting.”
“Senator,” Remar said, wanting to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. The man’s hand was moist, and Remar resisted the urge to wipe his palm on his trousers after they shook.
“Please,” McQueen said, circling back behind his desk as though afraid he might shrivel if too long away from it. “Have a seat. What can I do for a genuine war hero?”
Remar didn’t mind the bullshit, but he hated when these idiots felt compelled to attach it to some notion of his heroism. He’d been in a Humvee when a mortar round had struck the area. If there was a hero involved, it had been the director, not him. He wondered sometimes if the McQueens of the world, who had probably never even handled a rifle, much less served, really meant it when they laid it on about the glory of soldiers, or if it was just another DC con job. He supposed it didn’t matter either way.
He set his attaché case on the floor, opened it, and took out a bug detector. He turned it on and quickly swept the office. It was clean.
“I recommend we power down our phones, Senator. And place them in my attaché case, which is soundproofed and jams all electronic signals.”
McQueen eased himself into his enormous leather chair and touched an imaginary imperfection in his gray bouffant. “Are you serious?”
The guy’s ignorance was breathtaking. Did he think that because he was on the Homeland Security Committee and the Intelligence Committee, he was somehow immune to surveillance? Did he not understand that his positions in fact made him a target? But knowing all this would be clarified in just a moment, Remar simply said, “Do I look like I’m joking?”
McQueen chuckled. “Well, you’re the national security expert. Whatever you say.” He turned off his mobile and handed it to Remar. Remar powered off his own, and placed both in the attaché. Then he took out an acoustic noise generator and set it on McQueen’s desk.
McQueen eyed it suspiciously. “And that is…?”
“Speech protection system. Just being extra careful. And Senator, if I could trouble you to disconnect the power cord from your desk phone and from your computer.”
“Come on, Remar, this is ridiculous.”
“Senator, I assure you that when you’ve received my briefing you will thank me copiously for taking precautions.”
McQueen rolled his eyes and smiled. He shut off the surge protector to the desk phone and computer, and ostentatiously checked his watch. Then he pointed to the watch and said, his tone mock-serious, “Oh, do you need me to take this off, too?”
McQueen was peeved that someone was telling him what to do in his own office, and had to show he wasn’t cowed in response. Remar was accustomed to the juvenile bullshit, of course, but still found it vaguely pathetic.
“You know what they say,” Remar said, taking a seat and closing the attaché. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”
“Sure, and just because they’re out to get you doesn’t mean you’re not being paranoid. Come on, Remar. I’ve seen more than my share of NSA razzle-dazzle. Bow down to the high priests of info security. You should save it for the youngsters in these corridors. I’ve been to the show too many times to be impressed by it.”
Remar nodded as though in understanding, then shifted into character. “Senator, I won’t deny there’s some theater involved in what we do. How could there not be, in this town? But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because we have evidence the Chinese have put together a sensitive dossier on you, which we believe they intend to use in an attempt to influence your votes.”