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And hung up.

Herbert tried to call Hood, but he did not answer his cell phone. Ticked off quickly became pissed off as frustration and consternation grew. Darrell McCaskey called, and Herbert told him what he knew. Liz Gordon suggested that they track him down using the GPS and intercept him somewhere.

“If he’s been dismissed, we don’t know what he might do,” the staff psychologist said.

“I don’t think Paul is the kind of guy who would off himself,” Herbert said.

“Actually, those are exactly the people you have to worry about, the über-steady souls who guide you through a crisis, then don’t have a place to put their key,” Gordon countered. “Like soldiers who come back from war. The job is finished, the purpose is removed from life, it’s time to check out. Though that’s not what concerns me about Paul.”

“What does?” Herbert asked. The intelligence chief was half-convinced that this was displacement, that Liz Gordon was upset and disoriented and looking for a place to put her key.

“He might turn his anger outward, at the thing he perceived has hurt him,” Gordon said.

“The president?”

“Op-Center,” she replied. “He could go to the press and complain, visit an old friend and divulge secrets without thinking, just get himself into a lot of trouble.”

“I think Paul is a little steadier than that,” Herbert replied.

“Do you.” It was a statement, not a question. “Remember what a chance meeting with an old girlfriend did to him?”

“Liz, that was the love of his life.”

“And what is Op-Center? This place is his life.”

Liz had a point there. Herbert still thought the soul of her concern was psychobabble, and he was not ready to hunt Paul Hood down and put a tail on him. Still, Herbert agreed that they should revisit this question after the staff meeting. Hopefully, by that time, General Carrie would have more information about her predecessor or Hood himself would have gotten in touch by then.

Hood had to know they would be concerned.

The emotionally impervious Matt Stoll called to ask if the rumors of a new director were true and how Herbert thought this would impact his own staff and operations. Herbert said he did not know, but he was perversely relieved that someone, at least, was concerned about Op-Center and not about its people. It reminded him that, like it or not, they had a job to perform, a nation to serve.

And then it was two minutes to ten o’clock. Time to get intelligence.

Assuming, of course, that any of them still had jobs.

EIGHT

Washington, D.C. Monday, 10:40 A.M.

At first blush the Tank struck General Carrie as a relatively spartan and unwelcoming chamber. The wood paneling was dark, the drop-down fluorescent lights were cold, and the rectangular table that dominated the room was heavy and plain.

The Tank got its name from the protection it afforded all electronic activity that was conducted within its walls. The room was completely surrounded by a barrier of electromagnetic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes. The phone and computer lines were similarly protected. It was the only section of Op-Center that had survived the EMP blast, and it served as the field headquarters for its reconstruction.

General Carrie had selected this room for the meeting because it was impersonal. Though the director’s office was large enough to accommodate everyone, there were photographs of Paul Hood’s children on his desk and pictures of Hood and various individuals on the wall. That would have been a distraction. She was having Benet box those and messenger them to Hood.

Anyway, she told herself, people make a room. If these people were as sharp and stimulating as their dossiers suggested, the austerity of the place would not matter. She set her folder and notepad on the table. Although there were computers in the highly secure conference room, she would not be needing one.

The general had arrived precisely on time and nodded once at the guarded, unfamiliar faces. She had chaired hearings and run briefings countless times. Frequently, there was a percentage of officers or politicians in attendance who felt uneasy or amused to have a woman in charge, the sense that what she had to do or say was somehow less important than if she had been a man. And a white man at that. Carrie had no doubt that African-American and Latino officers experienced unspoken reserve similar to what she had always felt.

All General Carrie saw right now was concern in the faces of the five men and one other woman sitting around the oblong table. Some of that was probably about their own futures, and some of it was certainly worry about Paul Hood.

The general recognized the key tactical department heads from their photographs. Technical Director Matt Stoll was to her left, Op-Center attorney Lowell Coffey III was beside him, and Darrell McCaskey was next to him. Bob Herbert sat at the foot of the table with Deputy Director Ron Plummer to his left and Liz Gordon beside him.

There was a pitcher of water beside her computer. The general poured some into a glass. She asked anyone else if they wanted any. Only a few people answered to say no thank you. As usual, Carrie did not sit. She preferred to stand, not because it made her taller than everyone else but because it allowed her voice to carry. She did not have a classic baritone bark, as they called it at the Army General Staff. She put her hands together in the small of her back and looked out at the room.

“I am General Morgan Carrie,” she said to the group. “At the request of the president I assumed the directorship of Op-Center commencing at eight-thirty this morning. Unfortunately, I have no information regarding the disposition of former-director Hood. Perhaps one of you has spoken with him?”

Most eyes looked down. A few heads shook slowly.

“I will be pleased to share whatever information I am provided about Mr. Hood,” Carrie said.

“We had our differences, General, but he is our friend,” Bob Herbert said.

Carrie looked at him. “I am happy to hear that, Mr. Herbert. It gives me something to shoot for.”

“That isn’t why I mentioned it,” Herbert replied. “When General Mike Rodgers was dismissed six months ago, Paul Hood was up front about it. He was unhappy. He was apologetic. And he was sensitive to the fact that none of us was going to like it. This team has never relied on information that was ‘provided’ to us. We dig it up. I want to make sure we know what happened to Paul, why, and how.”

“Or else?” General Carrie asked. There seemed to be a threat in Herbert’s tone. She did not like being challenged any more than she liked being patronized.

“Think of it as the intelligence equivalent of leaving one of your troops behind in battle,” Herbert told her. “Leave unanswered questions lying around, and you will have a command, but you won’t have trust or respect.”

“That would be my problem,” she replied sharply. “Your responsibility will be to do your job, not mine.”

“My job description includes advising the director,” Herbert said, unfazed. “I believe I have just done that, General Carrie.”

Carrie unfolded her hands and leaned on the table. The annual evaluation Hood had written of Bob Herbert included a notation that the intelligence chief tended to challenge everyone. Hood saw it as an “often productive if frequently exasperating exercise.” Hood had not understated the case.

“Do you have any other advice for me, Mr. Herbert?” she asked.

“None at present, General.”

“Good. Then I have some for you. There is a line between advice and criticism, and you just crossed it. Sometimes it’s a word or a phrase; sometimes it’s a tone. But cross it again in my presence, Mr. Herbert, and I will be able to tell this team exactly what happened to the former intelligence director of Op-Center.”