“We’re checking that possibility now,” Stimson responded. “Safe deposit and mail drops, hotel rooms, safe houses — all that sort of thing. Easton’s car, too … once we find it.”
“Find it?” said the President.
“I’m afraid it was conveniently stolen around the same time Easton was killed,” Stimson reported.
“Then the logical question is what does that leave us with? What in hell do we do?”
“Replacing Easton is our first step,” came McCall’s swift reply. “Send someone out to pick up where he left off.”
“All well and good if we knew where that was,” Stimson countered. “We haven’t got a clue, and if we did, sending a man out now would be tantamount to having him walk a greased tightrope.”
“I believe, sir,” McCall said, turning toward the President, “that my people are more than capable of picking up the pieces as soon as you authorize this as a Company operation.”
“It started with the Gap and that’s where it will end,” Stimson said staunchly.
“Stow the bullshit, gentlemen,” the President said. “I asked you here for answers, not boundary squabbles. Andy, you sound pretty adamant about keeping this within Gap jurisdiction. I assume you’ve thought out our next step.”
Stimson nodded, stealing a quick glance at his counterpart in the CIA. “What Barton said before about a replacement for Easton has to be the first priority. But there is no one present in our active files who fills the necessary criteria and who we can afford to label expendable.”
“That puts us back at square one,” muttered the President, his voice laced with frustration.
“Not exactly.” Stimson paused. “I suggest recalling someone from the inactive list.”
“Recalling who?” McCall asked suspiciously.
Stimson didn’t hesitate. “Blaine McCracken.”
“Now, hold on just a min—”
“I’ve thought this thing out.” Stimson’s voice prevailed over McCall’s. “McCracken’s not only the perfect man for the job, he’s also … expendable.”
“With good reason,” McCall snapped.
“McCracken,” said the President. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” McCall went on. “McCracken’s a rogue, a rebel, a deviant son of a bitch who—”
“Has always had a knack for successfully completing missions,” Stimson broke in.
“Always on his own terms and always with complications.”
“I would suggest that in this case the terms and complications are meaningless,” Stimson followed with barely a pause. “Results are all that matter.”
“At what cost?” McCall challenged. “McCrackenballs doesn’t obey orders and has proved an embarrassment to this government every time we’ve sent him into the field.”
The President leaned forward. “McCracken what?”
McCall cleared his throat.
“It’s a long story,” Stimson replied.
“We’ve got loads of time. Easton’s funeral isn’t for two days,” the President said bitingly.
“I’ll sum up the man we’re dealing with here as succinctly as I can,” Stimson continued as if he had memorized the words. “The early stages of McCracken’s career were routine enough. Two decorated tours in ’Nam with the Special Forces. Lots of medals. After the war the Company put him to use in Africa and later South America. Deep cover. McCracken’s specialty was infiltration.”
“Along with teaching schoolchildren how to make Molotov cocktails,” McCall added.
“His orders were to promote resistance against the rebels.”
“And there was hell to pay for his little escapades with the kiddies once the papers got hold of them. If we hadn’t covered our tracks in time, the whole episode would have made the Nicaraguan training manual business look like back-page news.”
“He was following orders,” Stimson reiterated.
“No, Andy, he was interpreting them in his own unique manner.” McCall shook his head as if in pain, turning toward the President. “We sent him to London to train with the SAS.”
“Buried him there, you mean,” Stimson snapped.
“But he dug himself up quite nicely, didn’t he?” McCall shot back. “There was an unfortunate episode where an Arab group nabbed a plane and threatened to shoot a passenger every minute the authorities exceeded their demands deadline. The British were convinced they were bluffing. McCracken was certain they weren’t. In the end, by the time the SAS stormed the plane, four passengers were dead.”
“Oh, Christ …”
“McCracken screamed at British officials on national television, shouted that they had no … balls.”
“His word?” the President asked.
“His exact word,” nodded McCall. “Then to reinforce his point, he went to Parliament Square and blew the balls right off Churchill’s statue with a machine gun, at least the general anatomical area under the statue’s greatcoat.”
The President looked dumbfounded.
Stimson leaned forward. “Because innocent people died at Heathrow. McCracken can’t stand civilian casualties.”
“And he’s convinced he’s the only man who can avoid them,” McCall countered. He swung back to the President. “McCracken’s a goddamn lone ranger who won’t even let Tonto play. Dismissal at his level was, of course, out of the question. So we started moving him around from one petty post to another to avoid further embarrassments. He finally settled as a cipher operator in Paris.”
“And he’s stuck it out, hasn’t he?” Stimson challenged. “Does everything he’s told to from confirming scrambled communications to sorting paper clips even though it’s probably busting him up inside.”
“An agent could do a lot worse.”
“Not an agent like McCracken. It’s a waste.”
“More a necessity, Andy. He’s brought all this on himself.”
“Fine. Then I’ll take the responsibility for lifting it off.” Stimson’s eyes found the President’s. “Sir, I would like McCracken reassigned from the Company to the Gap to take the place of Easton.”
“Out of the question!” McCall roared.
“Which,” the President began with strange evenness, “would have been my exact reaction if you told me yesterday that one of our agents was going to be gunned down at a bordello in the company of two pubescents. Andy, if you want to use McCracken to clean up this mess we’ve got, then use him. Just get it done.”
McCall’s face reddened. “Sir, I must protest—”
“The matter is closed, Barton.” The President sighed. “In the past twenty-four hours, we’ve had a deep-cover agent murdered and a space shuttle blown right out of the sky. Nathan Jamrock will probably be here tomorrow with a report indicating that little green men destroyed Adventurer and, who knows, maybe the same little green men visited Madame Rosa’s this afternoon carrying Mac-10s instead of ray guns. Wonder where they’ll strike next?”
A heavy knock came on the Oval Office door. Before the President could respond, his chief aide stepped swiftly into the room.
“Sorry to intrude, sir,” said the wiry, bespectacled man, “but we’ve just got word a jet has been seized by terrorists in Paris with over a hundred Americans on board.”
The President’s empty stare passed from McCall to Stimson, then to neither. “Well, boys, it looks like my question’s been answered.”
Chapter 2
“So what are they asking for?” Tom Daniels, chief of CIA operations in France, asked Pierre Marchaut, Sureté agent in charge of the seizure at Orly Airport.
Marchaut regarded the American patiently as he moved away from the telephone and consulted his notes. “The usual things, mon ami. Release of political prisoners being held in French jails, safe passage to the country of their choice, a message to be read over the networks this evening.”