A plan Irene didn’t have.
Yet.
Addressing her driver, Irene tasked him with doing something he never thought he’d hear the director of the Central Intelligence Agency say—take the long way. After ensuring that he’d correctly understood her request, the long-serving protection detail agent dutifully complied. In what was surely another omen of what was to come, the long way added a whopping five minutes to Irene’s commute. She had used each second to its utmost, but as Irene strode into the Oval Office, she couldn’t help but wish she’d had just a bit more luck.
Like maybe a flat tire.
“Irene—you’re early.”
Though the words sounded like a statement, Irene knew that President Joshua Alexander was asking a question. A question partly driven by her unexpected appearance and partly because she’d left the Oval Office door glaringly open.
Unsurprisingly, Ted Byrne, Alexander’s chief of staff, had not taken the hint.
“What have you got, Irene?” Byrne said.
Byrne had known Alexander since the president was a little tyke and had played high school football for Alexander’s father. He was fiercely loyal to his boss, but as was often the case with these types of relationships, he occasionally presumed too much. In this regard, Irene felt Alexander’s pain. Half the time, Stan Hurley still saw her as his best friend’s pink-beret-wearing little girl rather than his boss.
Perhaps more than half the time.
“This is for the president only, Ted,” Irene said. The big man’s face reddened, but Irene felt no sympathy for him. She’d given Byrne the chance for a graceful exit. He was the one who’d chosen not to take it.
“Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee, Ted?” Alexander said. “I’ll circle back with you in a bit.”
Joshua Alexander had been born to be president.
Though his forties were wanning, Alexander was still one of the youngest-ever holders of the nation’s highest office. A former collegiate football player, Alexander’s six-foot-two frame was still a trim one hundred and ninety pounds. He was a handsome man with a full head of sandy brown hair and alert, hazel eyes. But it was his charisma rather than his looks that made Alexander the quintessential politician. When the full force of his attention was directed toward someone it could feel like standing in the middle of a spotlight on an otherwise dark stage.
Byrne huffed a bit as he got to his feet, but Irene knew the chief of staff wasn’t mad.
Not really.
That was the effect Joshua Alexander had on people.
A moment later, the door swung shut with a thud, leaving Irene alone with the leader of the free world.
“Let’s have it,” Alexander said.
“It’s CRANKSHAFT, sir,” Irene said.
The president eyed Irene for a beat, his upraised eyebrows registering the significance of her statement. Though the words were innocuous-sounding enough, the meaning behind them was not. CRANKSHAFT was the code word corresponding to a special access program her people had been working for years.
A special access program focused on finding Osama bin Laden.
“Give me some good news,” Alexander said.
“I’m afraid it’s a mixed bag, sir,” Irene said. “Our attempt to gather DNA failed.”
“Son of a bitch,” Alexander said. “What happened?”
Irene knew her boss’s frustration was not directed at her.
Not entirely.
Countless pundits had opined on the stress generated by the world’s most important job, but after watching the changes wrought on the multiple presidents she’d served, Irene had a different view. The pressure exerted by the presidency really couldn’t be put into words. It was a weight in the literal sense of the word.
A burden under which Alexander was beginning to slump.
Though the president’s appearance hadn’t been ravaged in the manner of many of his predecessors, the presidency had taken a toll in other, less notable ways. He was still charming when the occasion warranted, but Alexander’s disposition had taken a more cynical turn. He expected things to go wrong more often than right.
Days like today were the reason.
“Our Pakistani asset was not able to gain access to the compound,” Irene said. “He tried to contact the men we believe are CRANKSHAFT’s bodyguards and couriers via the phone number our analysts derived. No one answered.”
“That’s it?” Alexander said. “He didn’t even knock on the fucking door?”
Alexander’s voice had risen in volume as he spoke so that the last two words had been nearly shouted. The outburst was both rare and revealing. The stress really was getting to him. Or maybe it was more fair to say that it was getting to all of them but for different reasons. Irene stood silently for a moment, allowing the president’s anger to wash over her even as she tried to ignore the tightening sensation in her chest.
Alexander was pissed, but she welcomed his frustration.
He’d just opened the conversational door Irene intended to walk through.
“The asset is a doctor, not a CIA officer,” Irene said. “We all knew using him this way would be a stretch. From the beginning, his handler said that the asset’s motivation was purely financial. I believe her words were something along the lines of Don’t expect too much and you won’t be disappointed.”
Alexander knew that Irene had a photographic memory, which meant that he also probably knew that the phrase she’d just quoted was lifted word for word from the case officer’s cable. The Pakistani doctor had been charged with distributing the hepatitis B vaccine to the rural areas surrounding the mountain town of Abbottabad, Pakistan. His recruitment had been rushed and his training minimal. On the surface, the doctor’s tasking had been simple—vaccinate the occupants of the imposing compound known among the locals as the Waziristan Haveli, or Waziristan Mansion, due to the thick Waziri accents of its occupants.
But even the simplest of taskings had a way of turning complex.
“So that’s it?” Alexander said. “We’re done?”
