Black Rain

Six months after NRI’s creation—and well before the first shovel of dirt had turned at the VIC—a rider was attached to a last-minute spending bill being rushed through Congress. The rider amended the NRI’s charter, effectively dividing the organization in two, or more accurately adding a new division to the NRI’s existing structure. That new entity was called Operations Division, or OpD.

OpD was tasked with a more sinister mission—the active gathering of industrial secrets, including those belonging to foreign powers and entities. In other words, industrial espionage. Appropriately, OpD had been run from its very inception by former members of the CIA, begi

To the outside world the change was invisible. OpD appeared to be almost irrelevant, little more than the support apparatus for Research Division, a handmaiden to its charming and successful big sister. It was Research Division that garnered all the press, Research Division that senators and CEOs enjoyed being linked to, that articles in Time and BusinessWeek focused on. To the adoring public, Research Division was the NRI; it claimed eighty percent of the budget, ninety percent of the staff and four of the five buildings at the Virginia Industrial Complex. But to the few people who knew the truth, OpD was considered the more important entity.

As Moore walked past the other buildings he couldn’t help but smile. In all his years with the NRI he’d yet to set foot in any of them—a fact that wasn’t going to change today. Whatever the future held, it waited for him on the other side of the hill, with Stuart Gibbs, in Building Five.

At the end of his half-mile trek, Moore felt energized. He bounded up the steps and into the lobby, flashed his ID badge and placed his thumb on the infrared sca

Gibbs’ secretary barely looked up. “He’s ready for you now.”

Moore set his jaw and stepped inside.

The director’s office was a windowless inside room, well lit and large, but surprisingly spartan for a man who carried such a big stick. As Moore entered, Stuart Gibbs stepped forward, extending a hand. “Welcome, Arnold,” he said, “early as always.”

The greeting was odd and hollow; the smile was uneven, like the jagged teeth of some rabid predator. Moore felt anything but welcome.

“Have yourself a seat,” Gibbs said, steering Moore toward the visitors’ chairs in front of his desk, one of which was already occupied.

“I’ve asked Matt Blundin to join us,” Gibbs explained. “He has some information that might interest you.”

Matt Blundin was chief of security for the NRI, a huge apple of a man whose sheer volume could not be contained within the arms of the leather vistors’ chair. He was a smoker and known to be a heavy drinker who preferred late nights to early days. At eight in the morning he reeked of nicotine, and his greasy hair and wrinkled suit did nothing to belie the assumption that he’d been out all night.

Still, Blundin was one of the best in the business, consulted at times by the FBI, the SEC and the Congressional Budget Office, and if he ever left the NRI, a long list of companies waited to make him a wealthy man.

Moore took a seat next to Blundin and wondered if he should have an attorney present.

Gibbs began the conversation. “How long has it been since we spoke face-to-face? Nine months? Maybe a year?” He shrugged. “Too damned long, either way.”

Thin, angular-faced and eight years Moore’s junior, Gibbs stood rigidly straight. His sandy blond hair was turning grayer by the year but remained swept back and gelled with utter precision; his designer suit was impeccable but hanging a little loose. Gibbs had always been gaunt, but he’d lost a few pounds since the last time Moore saw him. It left him looking almost ferretlike. Gibbs the Rodent, Moore thought. Gibbs the Rat.

Moore fired first. “All right, Stuart, enlighten me with your reasons for bringing me here. If you have any.”

“I’m not sure I like your tone,” Gibbs said.

“I’m quite certain that you don’t,” Moore replied. “But that’s what happens when you pull the rug out from under someone and then ignore them for a week. They get a little off-key.”

Gibbs glared at Moore. “The three of us are here for several reasons. Begi

Moore felt his face go flush. “What type of incident?”

“She was attacked at the meeting,” Gibbs replied. “Her vehicle was shot up badly and she was almost killed.”

“Damn it,” Moore said. “I knew something like this would happen. I warned you not to pull me out. I could have protected her.”

Almost imperceptibly, Gibbs nodded. “Perhaps,” he said, glancing at Blundin, “or perhaps not. I find it interesting that you didn’t choose this particular contact until after I informed you of the change.”

“Meaning what?”

Gibbs shrugged, as if it were obvious. “If she’d been killed, we’d have had no choice but to send you back.”

Moore ground his teeth. “You can’t actually believe what you’re suggesting.”

“Medina was your contact,” Gibbs said. “Supposedly secure, supposedly trustworthy. Yet the meeting turns out to be an excuse for a hit. Who do you think we’re going to look at? In our position you’d do the same.”

Moore turned to Blundin and then back to Gibbs. He could have throttled the director. “If you think—”

Gibbs cut him off. “You argued with me for weeks about putting her in charge. You’ve been calling for updates every day since you returned despite the fact that you’re no longer a part of the project and were told to forget it. It almost seemed like you were expecting something.”

Moore snapped, “You listen to me, you son of a bitch. Danielle is a friend and a partner. You knew what that meant once. I know, because I know people who worked with you. Maybe you’ve been in this office for too damned long, because it seems you’ve forgotten.” Moore shook his head, realizing midstream that he’d taken the bait. This was just Gibbs’ way of pushing him, of screwing with him and setting him off balance.

“You know goddamned well that I would never endanger her, so cut out this fucking charade and tell me what the hell you really brought me here for.”

Gibbs was silent for a moment, as if he was mulling over what Moore had said. He tilted his chair back. “It’s taken some effort,” he said finally, “but I believe we’ve managed to clear you.”

Moore sat back. The words were spoken too precisely. They were a setup to something else, though he could not guess what.

“Show him the photos,” Gibbs said to Blundin.

Blundin opened a file folder that rested on the desk in front of him. He pulled out a black and white surveillance shot. “Is this your man Duarte?”

Moore studied the photo. It looked like Medina. “I think so.”

“Well, this guy’s dead. Been in the morgue since the day before the attack.”

Moore winced. Medina was the nephew of a man who had helped him before. A man he considered a friend. “Are you sure?”

Blundin nodded.

“Do we know who killed Medina?”

“Not yet. The police down there don’t have much to go on.”

The director took it from there. “But we have a plan to lure them out, and that’s where you actually become useful once again.”

“So now we come to it.”

Gibbs smiled wickedly, and as he spoke there was a certain amount of glee in his voice. “We’re going to make it look as if you’ve fallen into disfavor here. This meeting is the first step. I’m sure the tongues are already wagging out there. In a day or two it’ll be all over the office. Then you’ll be put on administrative leave, pending an investigation. All expectations will point to an early, forced retirement. But don’t worry, it won’t be for disloyalty—that would be too obvious. The write-ups will be for incompetence, misuse of funds and our mutual inability to get along with each other.”