The End Game

Callan found herself watching the agent instead of paying attention to the briefing. He had a scar on the side of his neck, long and white, and she wondered how he’d gotten it. Shrapnel? A knife? A bullet? She knew all Israeli men and women served in the military, a mandatory three years when they turned eighteen. Knew he’d seen combat since Israel rarely saw peace.

Later, he’d told her about a sloe-eyed woman who’d gotten close to him in a coffee shop one afternoon when he was with his wife and daughter. A sloe-eyed woman wearing a suicide vest. And how it had changed him, their needless deaths.

Later, she’d traced the line down his neck with her tongue, trying, and failing, to heal them both.

The car turned onto Pe

She had to assume this was tied to her resistance against the peace talks.

They drove through the security gate, parked in the portico between the White House’s West Wing and the EEOB entrance. She hesitated a second before stepping out of the car. Every minute from now until Damari was captured could be her last on this earth, and didn’t that have a way to focus the brain? She took a deep breath, savored the sweet air slipping into her lungs. She had no intention of letting him kill her.

Her heels clicked against the old marble floors as she walked the winding staircase up to her office. She found herself looking at every Secret Service agent on her detail, wondering if they were working with the enemy, and that was the worst, the loss of trust.

She worked her morning, smiled and shook hands for the meet and greets, got through the dairyland photo op, and finally sat down for her security briefing on the Bayway Refinery explosion and this maniac group COE.

All the faces in the conference room were as familiar to her as her own: the director of National Intelligence, Maureen McGuiness, sweet syrupy drawl, utterly ruthless, and held grudges; the CIA’s director of intelligence, Templeton Trafford, sneaky, more devious than a snake, that was Temp; and the FBI’s deputy director, Jimmy Maitland, stalwart and solid, said what he thought and shut up, lived and breathed FBI when all was said and done.

They all sat silently on the facing chairs and couch, waiting for her signal to begin. They looked serious and jumpy, all except Temp, once a CIA operative, many times on assignment with her in the field, always ready for a good brawl and a clean kill, like she’d been, she supposed, and now he ran the Intelligence Division. Temp always held information close to the vest. He was now sitting with his arm lazed over the back of his chair, his left leg crossed over the right, foot swinging.

Callan raised her hands like a conductor. “Well? Who is behind COE, and what are they really after? And this cyber-attack—are the Russians, the Chinese bankrolling them? At least we know it isn’t North Korea. Jimmy, give us the rundown.”

Maitland sat forward. “Until yesterday, this COE group only worked the fringes, attacking out-of-the-way oil refineries and power grids, threatening any company that worked with Middle Eastern oil. The sheer size of the bombing of Bayway, the fifteen deaths, and the subsequent cyber-attack on the oil companies, driving the oil prices into the tank, trying to get their production offline, this is bigger, they’ve stepped up their game on a massive scale, and, unfortunately, we don’t yet know what it is.”

McGuiness of National Intelligence turned to Maitland and said, her sweet drawl leaking impatience, “Jimmy, why haven’t you identified the ringleader of this group yet? I thought your people had a line on them. We need answers, we need to find out who’s behind this.”

Maitland said easily, “We’re trying to get that information right now, Maureen.”

Callan said, “Good. Now, do we know the full extent of the damage yet? How long the refinery will be offline? And the hack—did they steal anything from the oil companies or was the attack merely destructive?”

Maitland said, “We’ll know more once the final reports are back from the oil companies. And the damage to the Bayway Refinery was, as you all know, severe. It will be weeks before they’re functioning at full capacity again.”

McGuiness was shaking her head, clearly disappointed in her FBI, ready, as always, to go for the jugular. She turned to Callan and threw Maitland under the bus. “Madam Vice President, truth be told, as Mr. Maitland has unfortunately made abundantly clear, we have no idea what’s happening. I fear the FBI isn’t moving quickly enough to get the matter resolved.”

Well, duh, Templeton Trafford thought, eyeing the group. He didn’t like Maureen McGuiness, never had, thought she was a candy-coated pit bull, found her myopic, thought she never saw the big picture. Plus, he didn’t like all the oversight forced down his throat by National Intelligence. A pity she had so much juice. However, he did like Callan Sloane, liked her a lot, actually, since she’d saved his ass more than once out in the field during her years in the CIA. However, he wasn’t about to tell any of them what he knew. He was enjoying watching McGuiness hang herself.

Callan looked from McGuiness to Maitland. What was this blame game all about? They were all on the same team, except for Maureen McGuiness, who, Callan was convinced, wanted to become emperor of the world. She laid her palms flat on the table and spoke, her voice not at all nice. “Maureen, how is that possible? You and your team are supposed to be our highest intelligence organization. Are you saying your people missed this threat? Are you saying there was no chatter, no warning signs COE were about to step up their game? No clue something like this cyber-attack was going to happen? If you are still clueless, tell me now.” So I can start paving the way for your replacement.

“No, ma’am, there was no chatter, nothing.” You power-hungry bitch. “We have been trying to get a line into these people, particularly since the FBI in New York has dropped the ball.”

Maitland took the shot, said in his mild, stolid voice, “Madam Vice President, we’ve assigned Agents Drummond and Caine to the case, and believe me, they’ve been at it nonstop. I know it’s frustrating, but I assure you they’ll find these people and put a stop to it.”

There was a small, discreet snort from McGuiness, which everyone ignored. Callan saw that Temp was smiling behind his hand. He knew something, but what?

She said to them all, “Do we at least have confirmation COE is responsible for the bombing last night? Have they claimed responsibility?”

McGuiness beat everyone to the punch. “Yes, their signature claim showed up at CNN twenty minutes ago. So clever, aren’t they? ‘No more oil from terrorist countries or you will pay the price.’ We haven’t been able to trace it.” McGuiness added, “Yet.”

Callan slapped a hand down on the table. “Come on, people. Work with me. Tell me we have something I can go out with today and give a great snappy sound bite that will calm the populace. Or at least something Costello can give The Washington Post on background. These people are making us—and that means you—look like incompetent morons.”

Everyone at the table was pissed at her words, afraid they were true, and that they were all circling the drain.

Callan looked at all their insulted faces. “Allow me to rephrase. I want names. I want these people in custody, and I want it to happen immediately.

“You are all trusted advisers of the president. You know what’s at stake. If the president were here, he’d be livid, since he’d know, as all of us do, that COE is disrupting his Middle East peace talks, focusing the public’s attention on how vulnerable we are being dependent on Middle East oil, particularly since most of the oil-producing countries hate our guts and would like to see us destroyed. And if the talks get derailed, I won’t want to be in any of our collective shoes. Find out who is behind this group, and do it today. Do I make myself clear?”