American doctors. She wouldn’t have had these problems in the first place if she hadn’t come to Spain. None of them are coming back to this place. Ever. ”
Leslie Collins. May 5 .
Monday morning was never pleasant for Leslie Collins, but after the longest week of his career, this Monday was the worst he could imagine. As always, he’d gotten out of bed at 4 am, beginning his day drinking coffee as he reviewed the intelligence summaries of the day. It was more of the same. Violence spreading in the Ukraine as nationalist and pro-Russian forces came into conflict. The German newspaper Bild am Sonntag had somehow gotten wind of the fact that the US had sent specialists from FBI and CIA to advise the Ukrainian government on how to stop the rebellion in Kiev. Leslie made a note to have someone follow up and find out the source of the leak. Iraq had just finished its bloodiest month in a year, with more than 750 Iraqis killed in April, most of them civilians. As always, Leslie bristled at the implication that the Agency should be doing more there. If Congress and the President would give him the resources, he could do something. As it was, the President had crippled the Agency.
At least he wasn’t heading up the NSA. Edward Snowden’s revelations of NSA spying had diverted a lot of attention from CIA in recent months, and while technically they were all on the same side, Leslie wasn’t above a little interagency competition. Collins had come to believe that his career was going to mirror that of his predecessor George H. W. Bush, who had moved from the Director of Central Intelligence to Vice President and finally to President. He had the ability. He had the ambition. One day he would be at the helm, and he would destroy al-Qaeda and ensure his country’s safety.
Review of his official files completed, he turned to his less official reports. And he froze.
Adelina Thompson had been shot at crossing the border into Canada? And she had asked for political asylum? Asylum was the craziest thing he’d ever heard, first of all, but he’d been very clear with Danny McMillan that there was to be no more violence directed at the Thompsons. He had more than enough paper trails established to ensure that Thompson was destroyed, and more violence would only serve to raise suspicions. What he needed right now was for the independent prosecutor and the grand jury to indict Richard Thompson. Smear his name until nothing he said was believable, before he went public about Wakhan and somehow tried to blame Collins for it.
Christ , he thought. If his role in Wakhan—or Andrea Thompson’s kidnapping, for that matter—ever came to light, he could forget about his ambitions. Was Danny trying to sabotage him? Danny had to know he was replaceable—after all, he’d taken care of Mitch Filner, who had once served as Collins’ chief confidential aide.
He picked up the phone and started dialing, never mind that it was 4:30 in the morning.
The phone rang—once, twice, three times. Then a groggy voice answered. “Hello.”
“McMillan. It’s Collins.”
At the other end of the line, was a muttered curse and fumbling. Then the sluggish voice said, “Do you know what time it is?”
“I don’t care what time it is. What the hell happened on the border yesterday?”
“The border with where?”
“With Canada, you idiot. Why did you send someone to attack Adelina Thompson? I thought I made it clear I didn’t want any more violence.”
Silence for just a second, then McMillan said, “Collins, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I didn’t send anybody after her. We’ve been watching, and that’s it. I didn’t even have a bead on her. She turned up?”
“She turned up at the border crossing with a former soldier in pursuit, then demanded political asylum. Which she’s not likely to get; it’s Canada, after all. But I guarantee you it’s going to make a lot of news.”
“I don’t know what that’s
Leslie Collins. May 5 .
Monday morning was never pleasant for Leslie Collins, but after the longest week of his career, this Monday was the worst he could imagine. As always, he’d gotten out of bed at 4 am, beginning his day drinking coffee as he reviewed the intelligence summaries of the day. It was more of the same. Violence spreading in the Ukraine as nationalist and pro-Russian forces came into conflict. The German newspaper Bild am Sonntag had somehow gotten wind of the fact that the US had sent specialists from FBI and CIA to advise the Ukrainian government on how to stop the rebellion in Kiev. Leslie made a note to have someone follow up and find out the source of the leak. Iraq had just finished its bloodiest month in a year, with more than 750 Iraqis killed in April, most of them civilians. As always, Leslie bristled at the implication that the Agency should be doing more there. If Congress and the President would give him the resources, he could do something. As it was, the President had crippled the Agency.
At least he wasn’t heading up the NSA. Edward Snowden’s revelations of NSA spying had diverted a lot of attention from CIA in recent months, and while technically they were all on the same side, Leslie wasn’t above a little interagency competition. Collins had come to believe that his career was going to mirror that of his predecessor George H. W. Bush, who had moved from the Director of Central Intelligence to Vice President and finally to President. He had the ability. He had the ambition. One day he would be at the helm, and he would destroy al-Qaeda and ensure his country’s safety.
Review of his official files completed, he turned to his less official reports. And he froze.
Adelina Thompson had been shot at crossing the border into Canada? And she had asked for political asylum? Asylum was the craziest thing he’d ever heard, first of all, but he’d been very clear with Danny McMillan that there was to be no more violence directed at the Thompsons. He had more than enough paper trails established to ensure that Thompson was destroyed, and more violence would only serve to raise suspicions. What he needed right now was for the independent prosecutor and the grand jury to indict Richard Thompson. Smear his name until nothing he said was believable, before he went public about Wakhan and somehow tried to blame Collins for it.
Christ , he thought. If his role in Wakhan—or Andrea Thompson’s kidnapping, for that matter—ever came to light, he could forget about his ambitions. Was Danny trying to sabotage him? Danny had to know he was replaceable—after all, he’d taken care of Mitch Filner, who had once served as Collins’ chief confidential aide.
He picked up the phone and started dialing, never mind that it was 4:30 in the morning.
The phone rang—once, twice, three times. Then a groggy voice answered. “Hello.”
“McMillan. It’s Collins.”
At the other end of the line, was a muttered curse and fumbling. Then the sluggish voice said, “Do you know what time it is?”
“I don’t care what time it is. What the hell happened on the border yesterday?”
“The border with where?”
“With Canada, you idiot. Why did you send someone to attack Adelina Thompson? I thought I made it clear I didn’t want any more violence.”
Silence for just a second, then McMillan said, “Collins, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I didn’t send anybody after her. We’ve been watching, and that’s it. I didn’t even have a bead on her. She turned up?”
“She turned up at the border crossing with a former soldier in pursuit, then demanded political asylum. Which she’s not likely to get; it’s Canada, after all. But I guarantee you it’s going to make a lot of news.”
“I don’t know what that’s
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