“Oh, God. What are you going to do?”
“Who knew, Plante? Who knew I was in Afghanistan?”
“I thought I was the only one.”
“Well, you weren’t. Someone sold me out. I bet it’s the same person who sold Cougar out. And I bet it’s someone inside the CIA.”
Plante went silent.
“Do you know something I don’t, Plante?” asked Morgan.
“I have . . . suspicions. Compromised agents and missions, signs of leaks . . . But getting ahold of any evidence has been like grasping at smoke. Nothing concrete, only suggestions and vague wisps of clues.”
“Does it have anything to do with Acevedo International?”
There was another long pause that said that the answer was yes. Plante said, “I have something to show you. When can you meet me?”
“How do I know you’re not setting me up?” said Morgan.
“You don’t know,” said Plante. “Honestly, there’s nothing I can say to prove it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“Trust is something I’m not exactly brimming with right now,” said Morgan. “But as I see it, I don’t have much of a choice. I can make it to DC by tonight.”
“Good. Then do it,” said Plante. “My house, nine o’clock. I have lots to show you. Maybe together we can get to the bottom of this.”
“And find the son-of-a-bitch who sold out Conley and me,” added Morgan. “There’s just one thing that I need to know right now, and God help you if you lie to me. Do you know where my wife and daughter are?”
“Kline sent two agents to bring them in, but they gave our men the slip. It looks like you taught them well, Cobra.”
Morgan couldn’t help smiling with pride as he hung up and removed the battery from the phone. He tossed it out the window and turned the key in the ignition. As he drove out of the city, he tried to focus on Plante and the possible connection between Acevedo and the CIA, but his heart was elsewhere, with his wife and daughter, wanting to protect them from all those who would harm them to get at him.
CHAPTER 21
It was early afternoon, and Nickerson was sitting in his office, with his feet up on the desk, annotating a draft bill, when in stepped Roland Vinson, a burly, greasy man with bulbous, heavy-lidded eyes and back hair that crept down the back of his neck. Nickerson swung his feet to the ground and leaned forward in his chair.
“Sit down, Roland,” he said. “We need to discuss what to do about this Lamb situation.”
“What situation is that, sir?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t follow C-SPAN, Roland,” said Nickerson, pausing for a beat. Vinson looked at him blankly. Nickerson continued. “It seems that he decided to grow something that vaguely resembles a backbone and come out in favor of greater Intelligence oversight. This makes him rather, well, ungracious in light of our kindness toward him, does it not?”
“Must be losing your touch, boss.”
“Let’s call this a rare slip,” said Nickerson, with a hint of irritation.
“So now what? Do we nuke him?” asked Vinson.
“No. Send a copy of the photos just to his wife. Tell him next time it’s the Washington Post. Hopefully he’ll get the message.”
Vinson nodded. “Sir, there’s also the matter of this McKay woman. What are we going to do about her?”
“It will be taken care of,” said Nickerson tersely.
“Sir, she didn’t back down. We need to do something to—”
“I said it will be taken care of,” interrupted Nickerson. “I have taken care of it. I am well aware of the threat she represents. She is popular and inflexible. She can inspire other senators to do things against their best interests. Against my best interests. But I’m not concerned. She won’t be a problem for long.”
Vinson shifted in his chair. “And what, exactly, is your solution?”
“That’s for me to know, Roland, and you to find out—if and when it’s necessary. Are we done here?”
A scowl played for an instant on Vinson’s face, and then he said, getting up, “Yes. I’ll deal with this Lamb situation.”
“Good, good,” said Nickerson from his seat. “Be sure to keep me updated. And shut the door on your way out, will you?”
Nickerson barely had time to make himself comfortable when his intercom chirped. He picked up.
“Senator?” came a voice over the intercom.
“Yes, Greta?”
“Your three o’clock is here. A Vera Blackburn, an aide to Senator Weidman.”
He frowned. “Did she have an appointment?”