along with descriptions of Laika Harris and Joseph Stein. Let's see if we can't get better pictures of the three somewhere—put an agent on that exclusively, but very low profile. I don't want anybody knowing we're looking for these people. And when you send out the data, tell the field to keep on the lookout. Maybe we'll get lucky, maybe not. And tell them to pay particular attention if they're in the vicinity of vaguely so-called paranormal occurrences."
McIntyre grabbed another newspaper off the pile sitting on his desk and began to go through it, looking for any small item that would trigger his deep database of a memory. His glimpse of the photograph of Anthony Luciano had led to the current investigation, and Phillips had seen McIntyre perform even more wondrous leaps from the most seemingly innocent mentions.
Phillips turned and left the office without another word. His boss was at work. There was something deep between McIntyre and Richard Skye of the CIA, but Phillips had no idea what it could be. There had always been a rivalry between the two agencies, and although the CIA had run plenty of operations inside the country, the feds had never liked it, even on the rare occasion when they were informed.
But this thing between McIntyre and Skye seemed to be more than mere professional jealousy. Phillips had the feeling that the deputy director hated Richard Skye. Whenever the FBI became aware of a domestic operation by the Company, they were always interested, since it was possible that it could be a rogue op, run for a traitor's own good. So it was possible that Skye had sent out a team of cps on his own, though Phillips doubted it.
There were too many ways that such an operation could be discovered. He had never heard of anyone successfully covering all the many clandestine bases. There was always something they had missed. From the intelligence that the bureau had gathered on Skye and his operation, it seemed to be sanctioned by everyone it needed to be sanctioned by. At least the cover did.
As for the deep cover, the actual operation within the United States, breaking that Company ice was nearly impossible for the bureau. Phillips could only hope that the king spooks knew what was wiggling in their own drawers.
In the meantime, he would do what he could to satisfy Quentin McIntyre. The odds of a field agent stumbling across these three ops were about as long as winning the Virginia state lottery, but hell, Phillips still bought an occasional ticket. So he'd do what McIntyre told him and more. If his number hit and the agents turned up, it would be one hell of a payday for him. McIntyre might not have been the kind of guy who thanked you for schlepping him coffee, but he knew how to recognize performance above and beyond, and that was precisely where Phillips intended to go.
Chapter 8
T hey were close now. They had been scheduled to stop outside of Albuquerque for the night, but had made good enough time through the day that Laika had decided to push on. She was driving now, and Joseph was dozing in the backseat. Laika had loaded the CD changer with all three discs of Birgit Nilsson's 1966 Bayreuth recording of Tristan und Isolde , and while listening to it kept her alert, it had been an effective soporific for Joseph.
Tony sat in the passenger seat, reading with the aid of a mini-light that plugged into the cigarette lighter, and occasionally glancing into the right rearview mirror. "Don't you ever sleep?" Laika asked. It was long after midnight, and Tony had driven for most of the day.
"When I hit the sack," he said, "and not before. When I know I'm safe and sound—or when I know I'm as close to it as I can get and I don't have any choice, I sleep."
"Lightly, I'll wager."
"Yeah," Tony said quietly, thinking about the two times that sleeping lightly had saved his life, once in Beirut, another time in Montevideo. When much of your career was wet work, you had to learn to sleep little and lightly, or
McIntyre grabbed another newspaper off the pile sitting on his desk and began to go through it, looking for any small item that would trigger his deep database of a memory. His glimpse of the photograph of Anthony Luciano had led to the current investigation, and Phillips had seen McIntyre perform even more wondrous leaps from the most seemingly innocent mentions.
Phillips turned and left the office without another word. His boss was at work. There was something deep between McIntyre and Richard Skye of the CIA, but Phillips had no idea what it could be. There had always been a rivalry between the two agencies, and although the CIA had run plenty of operations inside the country, the feds had never liked it, even on the rare occasion when they were informed.
But this thing between McIntyre and Skye seemed to be more than mere professional jealousy. Phillips had the feeling that the deputy director hated Richard Skye. Whenever the FBI became aware of a domestic operation by the Company, they were always interested, since it was possible that it could be a rogue op, run for a traitor's own good. So it was possible that Skye had sent out a team of cps on his own, though Phillips doubted it.
There were too many ways that such an operation could be discovered. He had never heard of anyone successfully covering all the many clandestine bases. There was always something they had missed. From the intelligence that the bureau had gathered on Skye and his operation, it seemed to be sanctioned by everyone it needed to be sanctioned by. At least the cover did.
As for the deep cover, the actual operation within the United States, breaking that Company ice was nearly impossible for the bureau. Phillips could only hope that the king spooks knew what was wiggling in their own drawers.
In the meantime, he would do what he could to satisfy Quentin McIntyre. The odds of a field agent stumbling across these three ops were about as long as winning the Virginia state lottery, but hell, Phillips still bought an occasional ticket. So he'd do what McIntyre told him and more. If his number hit and the agents turned up, it would be one hell of a payday for him. McIntyre might not have been the kind of guy who thanked you for schlepping him coffee, but he knew how to recognize performance above and beyond, and that was precisely where Phillips intended to go.
Chapter 8
T hey were close now. They had been scheduled to stop outside of Albuquerque for the night, but had made good enough time through the day that Laika had decided to push on. She was driving now, and Joseph was dozing in the backseat. Laika had loaded the CD changer with all three discs of Birgit Nilsson's 1966 Bayreuth recording of Tristan und Isolde , and while listening to it kept her alert, it had been an effective soporific for Joseph.
Tony sat in the passenger seat, reading with the aid of a mini-light that plugged into the cigarette lighter, and occasionally glancing into the right rearview mirror. "Don't you ever sleep?" Laika asked. It was long after midnight, and Tony had driven for most of the day.
"When I hit the sack," he said, "and not before. When I know I'm safe and sound—or when I know I'm as close to it as I can get and I don't have any choice, I sleep."
"Lightly, I'll wager."
"Yeah," Tony said quietly, thinking about the two times that sleeping lightly had saved his life, once in Beirut, another time in Montevideo. When much of your career was wet work, you had to learn to sleep little and lightly, or
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