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“Jonathon, come in here a moment, would you?” said Edmund.
“I’m actually late for an appointment,” said Reid.
“It’ll keep.”
Reluctantly, Reid walked over to the far side of the car and got in the back, next to the CIA director. There was a partition between the driver and the backseat; it was closed.
“Why are you doing this?” demanded Edmund. “I thought we were friends.”
“This isn’t personal,” said Reid. “There’s nothing personal involved.”
“You were trying to make me look bad with the President.”
“Herm, that’s not true. I barely spoke.”
“Your tone was atrocious. Raven is an important project,” continued Edmund. “It was started two directors ago. It wasn’t my idea.”
“I’m sure it’s important.”
“So why are you sabotaging it? What if I were I to do the same with Whiplash?”
“I don’t see that as a parallel situation in any way,” said Reid.
“No, of course you wouldn’t.”
“You do oversee Whiplash, the Agency component at least.”
“Oh come on, Jon. Everyone knows it’s your baby. You got it assembled, you got the funding, you convinced Magnus and the others in DoD to go along. It’s your baby. If anyone were to look at it cross-eyed, you’d scream.”
“The way Raven was deployed was not characteristic of your best decisions,” said Reid. He consciously picked his words, making the stiffest choices. Distance would be useful. This wasn’t a personal matter, and Edmund shouldn’t see it that way.
“Deploying the weapon without extensive testing and safeguards was ill-advised,” Reid continued. “You were almost guaranteed that something would go wrong.”
“You have no idea of the safeguards we employed,” said Edmund. “Or how much testing it’s undergone. Sooner or later it has to be used. That’s the real test. This—This was just a bizarre set of circumstances. The Predator caused the accident. It was part of the safeguards and it bit us in the butt—if we hadn’t had it with the flight, we wouldn’t be here talking.”
“It’s a powerful weapon,” said Reid.
“So powerful it should be under your control. Is that it?”
“Not necessarily, no.”
“But if it were a Whiplash project, that would be all right. If your private army had it, then nothing could ever go wrong.”
“Whiplash is just our—is just the action arm of the Joint Technology Task Force, of Room 4,” said Reid. “Nothing more.”
“No, ‘our’ is the key word there.” Edmund had a smug expression on his face, strangely triumphant, as if Reid had proven his point. “I want you to think of what you’re doing to the Agency here, Jonathon. I know you’re jealous of me. But think of the Agency. The institution. Our oaths. Our history. You’re going to drag the Agency through the mud. Again. You. Both of us swore we would never let that happen. I’m just surprised that you went back on that. I expected a lot more from you.”
“I’m not involved in the politics at all.”
“Oh come on. You didn’t tell Ernst?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I know you’re the one who went to the President, Jonathon. What did you do? Use Brea
“Brea
“Now you’re getting ridiculous.” Edmund’s face reddened. “Get out, Jonathon. We’re done.”
“Herm—”
“Out of my car. I can’t fire you, obviously, but I can tell you that our friendship is done. I’ve been too trusting of people. Ironic for a spy, isn’t it?”
Chapter 7
John F. Ke
New York City
Amara walked into the dimly lit hall trying to get his bearings after the long airplane flight. He’d been to America before, but that experience didn’t help him now. He knew he had nothing to fear—and yet he had everything to fear. The customs agent sat in a small booth similar to a toll collector’s. The man frowned as Amara handed over his passport.
“Why are you here?” the agent demanded.
“Vay-Vacation.”
“What’s a vay-vacation?”
The agent’s hostility made it easier somehow.
“I am here to visit my aunt and uncle,” said Amara. “I have their address.”
The official frowned and began examining his passport. “You’ve been in America before.”
“Yes, sir. I have been to school here.”
“You are thinking of getting a job.”
“It’s very difficult to get a job,” said Amara. This was his first answer that hadn’t been rehearsed. But it didn’t need to be. “I am helping my country build itself. There is much to be done.”
“That makes sense.” No longer interested in him, the agent flipped the passport pages back and forth, then stamped his book. “Be careful,” he said as he handed it back.
Be careful of what? Amara thought, shouldering his backpack out to the luggage claim area.
A half-dozen men in dark suits were standing near the doors, holding cards with handwritten names. He glanced at them. The terminal building felt a little unbalanced, as if the floor were tilted. He went to the carousel, watching the luggage move around. Three-fourths of the bags were black, and at least half of those looked like his. Amara eyed them nervously, twice examining a suitcase before realizing it wasn’t his.
Finally, with the crowd around him thi
“Amara, my cousin,” said a man on his right. “We are glad you are here.”
His voice was extremely soft—so low, in fact, that Amara nearly didn’t hear him. The tone belied the words: rather than being a warm greeting, it sounded cold and impersonal.
Which, of course, it was.
“My uncle,” said Amara, trying not to let the words sound like a question.
“This way. We’ll take a cab,” said the man, who had tan skin, but lighter than his. If he’d had to guess, he would have said he was Egyptian or Palestinian. He took Amara’s bag and led him to the large doors at the front of the terminal. “Is your backpack heavy?”
“I have it.”
Amara remained on his guard as he was led to a cab parked at the curb.
He knew little of the project, beyond the fact that the Brothers were cooperating with others, presumably in exchange for money.
Amara wasn’t sure if the taxi driver, who looked Palestinian, was part of the network. He knew better than to say anything that would give himself away. And as his guide was silent, he thought it best for him to remain so as well.
The city sprawled on both sides of them as they drove toward Manhattan. The rows of houses seemed endless. Tall buildings rose in the distance. It had been nearly three years since he’d been in New York. The city had seemed like a vast temptation, a fascinating place filled with many sweets, a decadent paradise. Or hell, depending on one’s point of view.
“First time in New York?” asked his “uncle.”
It was a dumb question, thought Amara—his “uncle” should know the answer.
“I have been here before,” he said.
“A grand city for a young man like yourself.”
Amara turned to the window, staring at the old bridge they were crossing. When he first came to New York, he was surprised to find so many old things: he’d assumed the name was literal. And there was a great deal of dirt and grime, so much so that it reminded him of Cairo. But a few days in Manhattan and he stopped noticing such things.
They drove through the heart of the city, weaving through thick morning traffic. Finally, they pulled up to a curb.