officers of the old school thought FBI agents could fit everything they knew about intelligence on the backs of their gold shields. That was not the case with McManus, a Harvard-trained lawyer who worked in FBI counterintelligence for twenty years before his assignment to the Center.
Monica Tyler, as was her habit, entered the room last and precisely five minutes late. She regarded her time as priceless, never to be wasted by others. A pair of identical male factotums trailed softly after her, each fervently clutching a leather-bound briefing book. Except for Personnel, no one within the Agency claimed to know who they were or who had spawned them. The office wits said they were conveyed with Monica from her Wall Street investment firm, along with her private bathroom and mahogany office furniture. They were slender and sinewy, dark-eyed and watchful, and silent as pallbearers. They seemed to move in slow union, like performers in an underwater ballet. Since no one knew their true names, they were christened Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Monica’s detractors referred to them as Tyler’s eunuchs.
McManus and Carter got to their feet without enthusiasm as Monica entered the room. She squeezed past McManus’s bulky frame and took her customary seat at the head of the table, where she could see the screen and the briefer with an easy turn of her regal head. Tweedledee placed a leather-bound notebook on the table in front of her as though it were an ancient tablet and then sat behind her against the wall, next to Tweedledum.
“Monica, this is Michael Osbourne,” Carter said. “Michael’s dealt with counterterror most of his career and has been working on the Sword of Gaza since the group surfaced.”
Tyler looked at Michael and nodded, as though she had been told something she did not know. Michael knew that was not the case. Monica was renowned for reading the files of any officer with whom she came in contact. The rumor mill said she wouldn’t bump into an officer at the water cooler without first having read his fitness reports.
She turned her gaze from Michael to the blank screen. Her short blond hair was perfectly styled, her makeup fresh. She wore a black suit with a high-collared white blouse beneath. One hand lay across the table; the other held a slender gold pen. She nibbled at the tip. Monica Tyler had no life other than her work; it was the one personal trait she made no attempt to conceal from her colleagues. The Director brought her to the Agency because she had followed him to every government job he’d ever had. She knew nothing of intelligence, but she was brilliant and an extremely quick study. She usually could be found in her seventh-floor office late into the night, reading briefing books and old files. She had the corporate lawyer’s gift for knowing the right question to ask. Michael had seen her reduce ill-prepared briefers to ashes.
Carter nodded at Osbourne. He dimmed the lights and began the briefing. He pressed a button on a panel at the back of the room, and a photograph appeared on the screen.
“This is Hassan Mahmoud. He was born in Gaza, grew up in a refugee camp, and joined Hamas during the Intifada. He is a committed Islamic revolutionary and is opposed to peace with Israel. He was trained in the camps of Lebanon and Iran. He is an expert bomb maker and a deadly gunman. He split from Hamas after the peace accords were signed and joined the Sword of Gaza. He is suspected of taking part in the assassination of an Israeli businessman in Madrid and the failed attempt to kill the Jordanian prime minister in Paris last year.”
Michael paused. “This next photograph is rather graphic.” He switched to the next image. Carter and McManus both winced. Monica Tyler’s face betrayed no emotion.
“We believe this is Hassan Mahmoud now. The body was found in a Boston Whaler twenty miles off Long Island. He was shot in the face three times. The launch tube of the Stinger was found next to
Monica Tyler, as was her habit, entered the room last and precisely five minutes late. She regarded her time as priceless, never to be wasted by others. A pair of identical male factotums trailed softly after her, each fervently clutching a leather-bound briefing book. Except for Personnel, no one within the Agency claimed to know who they were or who had spawned them. The office wits said they were conveyed with Monica from her Wall Street investment firm, along with her private bathroom and mahogany office furniture. They were slender and sinewy, dark-eyed and watchful, and silent as pallbearers. They seemed to move in slow union, like performers in an underwater ballet. Since no one knew their true names, they were christened Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Monica’s detractors referred to them as Tyler’s eunuchs.
McManus and Carter got to their feet without enthusiasm as Monica entered the room. She squeezed past McManus’s bulky frame and took her customary seat at the head of the table, where she could see the screen and the briefer with an easy turn of her regal head. Tweedledee placed a leather-bound notebook on the table in front of her as though it were an ancient tablet and then sat behind her against the wall, next to Tweedledum.
“Monica, this is Michael Osbourne,” Carter said. “Michael’s dealt with counterterror most of his career and has been working on the Sword of Gaza since the group surfaced.”
Tyler looked at Michael and nodded, as though she had been told something she did not know. Michael knew that was not the case. Monica was renowned for reading the files of any officer with whom she came in contact. The rumor mill said she wouldn’t bump into an officer at the water cooler without first having read his fitness reports.
She turned her gaze from Michael to the blank screen. Her short blond hair was perfectly styled, her makeup fresh. She wore a black suit with a high-collared white blouse beneath. One hand lay across the table; the other held a slender gold pen. She nibbled at the tip. Monica Tyler had no life other than her work; it was the one personal trait she made no attempt to conceal from her colleagues. The Director brought her to the Agency because she had followed him to every government job he’d ever had. She knew nothing of intelligence, but she was brilliant and an extremely quick study. She usually could be found in her seventh-floor office late into the night, reading briefing books and old files. She had the corporate lawyer’s gift for knowing the right question to ask. Michael had seen her reduce ill-prepared briefers to ashes.
Carter nodded at Osbourne. He dimmed the lights and began the briefing. He pressed a button on a panel at the back of the room, and a photograph appeared on the screen.
“This is Hassan Mahmoud. He was born in Gaza, grew up in a refugee camp, and joined Hamas during the Intifada. He is a committed Islamic revolutionary and is opposed to peace with Israel. He was trained in the camps of Lebanon and Iran. He is an expert bomb maker and a deadly gunman. He split from Hamas after the peace accords were signed and joined the Sword of Gaza. He is suspected of taking part in the assassination of an Israeli businessman in Madrid and the failed attempt to kill the Jordanian prime minister in Paris last year.”
Michael paused. “This next photograph is rather graphic.” He switched to the next image. Carter and McManus both winced. Monica Tyler’s face betrayed no emotion.
“We believe this is Hassan Mahmoud now. The body was found in a Boston Whaler twenty miles off Long Island. He was shot in the face three times. The launch tube of the Stinger was found next to
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