Anyway, the meeting dragged on, partly because clueless people tend to be talkative, and partly because George was enjoying the sound of his own voice. The decision was made to issue a public statement saying the White House Chief of Staff and his wife had been murdered and the circumstances and cause were under investigation, which at first blush appeared to be an attempted burglary gone askew. I must've missed something in this discussion, because it struck me that the only people who wouldn't be misled by this silliness were the killers.

Further, it was decided the task force would operate out of Ferguson Home Security Electronics, because it was centrally located and a secure facility; because it contained all the necessary communications and intelligence systems; and because nobody suggested a better place, Actually, Mr. Halderman helpfully volunteered the use of the newly constructed Homeland Security Information Analysis and Infrastructure Protection Office, and that drew a few chuckles. Nobody could even remember all the adjectives. It sucks being the new guy.

But finally Meany appeared to recognize that we were wasting precious time, while the opposition was not. He informed us, "Agent Margold's preliminary observations suggest a two-pronged approach. This was an inside job, so we will turn over every stone to find that leak. And we will look on the outside to find our perpetrators."

Right. This was sound and logical reasoning. Everybody nodded to acknowledge George's wisdom.

He continued, "I suggest three major efforts." He nodded in the direction of Charles and said, "Agent Wardell will be responsible for the cocoon of security around the administration." He pointed at Jennie and announced, "Agent Margold will direct the team investigating the murders." He smiled at me and said, "Drummond will head the team looking for any international connections… specifically, who put the bounty on our President's head, and whether there are international ties."

I said, "I have a question."

He studied my face, suspecting I was going to say something nasty

Rather than disappoint George, I asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Glad you asked, Drummond. I'll oversee the overall operation. It's my philosophy to power down-to put direct responsibility on my subordinates. It encourages initiative… and accountability."

This sounded like an excerpt from some New Age management text. But nobody missed the subtext here. In Washington jargon and practice, accountability means shit flows downhill. George was going to be sure everybody had a little skin in the game, and if the ship hit an iceberg, the captain of this good ship wasn't going to be waving bon voyage from the forebridge to the crew in the life rafts. There would be no life rafts. If George had his way, there would be no survivors. I glanced at Jennie. She rolled her eyes.

CHAPTER SIX

The sign on the front door of Ferguson Home Security Electronics declared, "Closed for inventory and product liquidation." Yet the parking lot was already filled with official-looking cars and unmarked vans, and guys and gals wearing fretful expressions and blue and gray suits were parading in and out of the entrance.

It struck me that the locals might find all this activity a little distracting, uncharacteristic perhaps, even mysterious. To belabor my aforementioned point, had they pursued my quirky yet ingenious suggestion to make this a VD clinic, the sign could read, "Incurable airborne gonorrhea discovered-enter at invitation only" For sure this would explain the odd visitors with stricken faces, and nobody was going to be sniffing through the garbage or absently wandering into the building.

I was happy to see Lila, our receptionist, seated at her desk, disguised as usual as a sexy front-desk clerk. She looked up as I entered, but I detected no hint of recognition on her face. To my surprise, she said, "All right, pal… stop right there."

"What?"

"Hands where I can see them. Remove your ID slowly I have a gun under this desk-it's pointed at your balls."

"But, miss, I'm a CIA bureaucrat. I have no balls."

She laughed.

I leaned across her desk and in all seriousness said, "If you haven't received the warning, there is a guy running around town impersonating an FBI agent. He's got real-looking creds, he's armed, and he's dangerous."

"I hadn't heard."

"He's using the alias George Meany, and if he shows up here and flashes his creds, you should blow his balls off."

She laughed again and informed me, "Special Agent Meany arrived nearly an hour ago."

"And did you at least kneecap him?"

"Please. He was very nice and charming. Also cute. Is he married?"

"No. But you're married."

"Oh…"

She laughed again. Women are such bad judges of men.

But appearances aside, Lila was a smart and perceptive lady Which was a prerequisite for her job, since she belonged to the Agency's security service, and probably knew, ten ways to kill me with her eyelashes. She signed me in, commenting, "I hear you had a fun morning."

"I had an interesting morning."

"It's sure getting weird around here."

"It was weird here before this morning"

She shrugged and said, "Phyllis is in her office with Mort. She wants you to join her right away"

So I left Lila, and by the door that led into the converted rear warehouse I noted that some tidy and efficient soul had already installed a bulletin board showing the temporary residents where to set up, and where to sit, who'd be on whose team, who'd have what phone numbers, and, more helpfully, the phone numbers for some nearby pizza and Chinese delivery joints. I hate to sound incorrigibly sexist, but when women have the reins, the little things do get taken care of.

Also I observed a bunch of temporary partitions that appeared to have been hastily erected to divide the equally temporary occupants into roughly three groups: Agency employees, Feds, and Homeland Security bureaucrats.

I should mention that in the federal culture, walls are the foundations upon which you build trust, teamwork, and fluid communications. Just kidding.

I walked through the maze of cubicles and walls without seeing anybody I knew, found Phyllis's crib at the rear of the building, and entered. She nodded at the heavyset man seated comfortably in a chair in front of her desk, whose face I only vaguely recognized. She said, "I believe you two know each other."

Not really, though I did recall being briefly introduced to Mort Silverman around my second day on the job. He was short, bald, and broad of girth-fat, actually, a gent of Jewish descent with an elegant Bronx patois who handled Middle Eastern affairs for the team. I was not really sure what this meant, and the Office of Special Projects does not really encourage its employees to give a shit. Unlike me, Mort was a regular CIA employee, and his official title was project officer, as was mine, so we were roughly equal in rank.

Anyway, the three steaming cups of coffee on the desk suggested that Phyllis had already been notified by Lila that I was in the building, and further indicated that Phyllis was laying it on thick.

She apparently read my mind, because she offered me a seat with an ingratiating smile and then ordered Mort, "Tell him what we know."

Mort handed me a slim folder stamped "TOP SECRET-Sensitive Sources," followed by the usual string of initials indicating sources and collection methods and the compartments you'd better belong to if you open the file. I wasn't in any of the right clubs, but with the White House Chief of Staff decomposing on a morgue slab, protocols were falling by the wayside, fast. Mort asked me, "You heard about the bucks on the President, right?"

"Where do I sign up?"