She had a home in the upper-brackets region of D.C. and a vacation place on Nantucket, where she would go to unwind with her security detail tagging along. Her ex-husband, a New York-based private equity fund manager, had amassed an enormous fortune using other people’s money while paying an income tax rate lower than that of his secretary. She had gotten half of his net worth in the divorce and could do what she pleased. And what she pleased was to run the nation’s security platform and apparently make Peter Bunting’s life a hell on earth.
“It seems as though everyone was satisfied with my report.” He eyed Quantrell and then his gaze flitted back to her. “Well, almost everyone.”
“You’re joking, right, Peter?” she said.
“If you have some definitive examples I can certainly discuss them with you.”
“What’s to discuss? The analysis you delivered today was total crap and everyone in the room knows it. Other than you, apparently.”
Bunting gazed once more at the people around the table. Not a sympathetic face in the bunch. “I answered every question and every follow-up question. I didn’t get a standing ovation, but I left nothing hanging, either.”
Foster leaned forward. “In your contract renewal you’ve asked for an increase of twenty-three percent based on a variety of factors.”
Bunting shot a glance at Quantrell, who was shaking his head and making clucking sounds.
“Madame Secretary, with all due respect, one of my main competitors is sitting in this room. That information was delivered in confidence to–”
“I’m sure we can rely on Mr. Quantrell’s professionalism.”
Bunting wanted to say, What professionalism? He’s a slimeball and you know it. But instead he said, “Every single cost increase is justifiable. My people spent months cranking the numbers. And they worked with the government side on all of it, so there’re no surprises in there.”
“While we in Washington have the reputation of being a blank check with a rubber stamp, some of us do like to get what we pay for.”
Though nearly a foot taller than the woman, Bunting now somehow felt much smaller than Foster. “I think we bring considerable value to the table.”
“Frankly, I gave you a chance, Peter. You blew it.”
“I spoke with the president,” Bunting said hastily and then instantly regretted it.
She compressed her lips. “Yes, I know. Neat little end-around. But all it bought you was a little time. Nothing more.”
Foster looked around the room. “I think that concludes the meeting. Mr. Quantrell, if you would join me in my office, I have some important matters I’d like to discuss.”
She left the room with Mason Quantrell following.
As the room cleared Bunting stood there for a few moments staring down at the useless briefing book in his hand. When he finally did leave no one looked at him as he passed little conversation groups in the hall. Foster had done her work well, it seemed.
He waited outside her office until she came out with Quantrell.
“May I have a word, Madame Secretary?” Bunting asked.
She gazed at him in mild surprise. “I have a full schedule.”
“Please, just a minute.”
Quantrell looked amused. “I’ll talk to you later, Ellen.” He slapped Bunting on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Pete. You can always come back to work for Mercury. I understand we need a geek in the IT Department.”
Quantrell walked off and Bunting turned to Foster.
“Well?” she said. “Make it quick.”
He drew closer. “Please don’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“The preemptive action.”
“Good God, Bunting,” she hissed. “You’re talking about this out in the damn hallway? Have you lost your mind?”
“Just give me a little more time.”
She looked him up and down and then closed her office door in his face.
On the drive back to the airport, Bunting noted the inconspicuous building set at the end of a strip mall. And the brick structure that backed up to a suburban neighborhood. Then there was a building that looked like it was made of all glass but that in reality had not one window in the place. These were all footprints of intelligence gathering. They were stuck like splinters into pieces of the outside world and most of the people passing by them had not the remotest idea what went on inside of them.
Intelligence work was dirty and at times deadly. Whether your adversary was killed quick with a bullet or slow with an enhanced interrogation session, or was anonymously obliterated by a drone strike launched from thousands of feet up, he was still dead. Like Edgar Roy might be soon. Dead.
Bunting settled back in his seat and let out a long sigh. Right now the two-point-five-billion-dollar contract didn’t seem nearly worth it.
CHAPTER 35
“DO WE SHADOW Carla Dukes? Do we go see Edgar Roy again? Do we try to bust Murdock’s chops somehow? Do we dig into Kelly Paul’s background and see what turns up? Do we investigate Bergin’s and Hilary’s murders? Do we keep going after the six bodies in Edgar Roy’s barn?”
Michelle fell silent and looked expectantly at Sean as they walked along the oceanfront near Martha’s Inn.
“Or do we do all of that? And if so, how?” he replied. “There’s only the two of us.”
“We multitask well.”
“Nobody multitasks that well.”
“But we have to do something.”
“The six bodies can cut two ways. Either someone knew that he was the Analyst for the government and framed him. Or he killed those people and the government is trying to keep what Roy actually did from the public.”
“But you don’t think he did it, do you?”
“No, though I don’t have any solid reasons to back that up.”
“So the people framing him must be enemies of this country. They know what he does and they’re trying to stop him? But why not just kill him? He lived alone on that farm. It would’ve been easy.”
“Well he must have had security, so it might not have been that easy. But maybe they wanted to do more than simply deprive America of its brilliant analyst.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Sean admitted.
“Who do you think shot out our car windows?”
“Either our side or the other side.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Lot of dangerous folks out there.”
“Exactly.” Michelle took his arm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Ninety minutes later Sean was walking out of Fort Maine Guns with a new Sig 9mm.
“I haven’t fired a pistol in a while.”
“Which is why we’re going there next.” She pointed to a door in a building adjacent to Fort Maine with a sign outside that said Shooting Range.
An hour later Sean studied his results.
“Not bad,” Michelle said. “Total score of ninety percent. Your kill zone shots were right where they need to be.”
He glanced at her targets. The holes were huge because the bullets had all congregated in the same spot.
“What was your score?”
“A bit better than yours. But just a bit.”
“Liar.”
When they got back to the inn Megan was hard at work at the round table in the parlor, with papers and files strewn around.