The Mark of the Assassin by Daniel Silva

wife and children; Cynthia was on the secure line to London, feeding intelligence to Britain’s MI5. Thankfully, Gigabyte had gone to a nightclub with a group of friends who believed he created Web sites for a living.
    Michael had fifteen minutes before he briefed the executive director on developments in the case. The claim of responsibility for the attack on the jetliner had been forwarded to Langley an hour ago. Michael read it for the fifth time. He reviewed the preliminary forensic studies performed by the FBI lab on the Boston Whaler found adrift off Long Island that morning. He studied the photographs of the corpse found on the boat.
    Ten minutes left. He could run downstairs to the swill pit and grab a bite to eat, or he could telephone Elizabeth. He had missed her appointment at Georgetown, and he knew they would very likely quarrel. It was not a conversation he wanted to conduct on an Agency telephone. He shut down his computer and stepped out of the bull pen.
    The corridor was starkly lit and quiet. The Agency’s Fine Arts Commission had tried to brighten the hallway with a display of Indonesian folk art, but it was still as cold and sterile as intensive care. He followed the corridor to a bank of large elevators, took one down to the basement, then followed another anonymous hall to the swill pit. It was late, the selection worse than usual. Michael ordered a fish sandwich and French fries from the bleary-eyed woman behind the counter. She punched at the cash register as if she wanted to do it harm, snatched Michael’s money, and gave him the change.
    Michael ate while he walked. It was dreadful—cold, cooked hours earlier—but it was better than yet another bag of chips. He finished half the sandwich and a few of the fries and tossed the rest in a trash can. He glanced at his watch: five minutes. Enough time for a cigarette. He took the elevator up one level, then walked through a glass doorway giving onto a large center courtyard. William Webster had outlawed smoking inside the building. Those still afflicted with the habit were forced to huddle like refugees in the courtyard or around the exits. After years of working undercover in Europe and the Middle East, cigarettes and smoking had become part of his tradecraft. Michael was unable and unwilling to give them up just because he was now at headquarters.
    Dead leaves swirled across the expanse of the courtyard. Michael turned his back to the wind and lit a cigarette. It was cold and very dark; the only light came from the glow of office windows above him, tinted green by soundproof glass. In the old days his office was the back streets of Berlin or Athens or Rome. He was still more comfortable in a Cairo coffeehouse than Starbucks in Georgetown. He glanced quickly at his watch. Another relaxing dinner. He stuffed his cigarette into a sand-filled ashtray and went inside.
     
    The briefing room was directly across the hall from the bull pen—small, cramped, most of it consumed by a large rectangular table of cheap government-issue wood. On one wall hung the emblems of every government agency with a role in the Center. On the wall opposite the doorway was a projection screen. Michael arrived at precisely 11:45 p.m. He was straightening his tie when two men entered the room.
    The first was Adrian Carter, the director of the Counterterrorism Center and an operations veteran of twenty years. He was small and pale, with sparse gray hair and bags beneath his eyes that gave him the appearance of perpetual boredom. Michael and Carter had a professional and personal friendship dating back fifteen years. The second was Eric McManus, the Center’s deputy director. McManus was big and bluff with an easy smile, a thick head of ginger-gray hair, and a trace of south Boston in his voice. He was FBI and looked it: navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, red tie. When Michael’s father worked for the Agency, an FBI man in such a senior role would be considered heresy. CIA