The Clan Corporate

COPS

A lot had happened in twelve weeks. The assorted federal agents who had been sucked into the retreat in Maryland had acquired a name, a chain of command, a mission statement, and a split personality. In fact it was, thought Mike, a classic example of interdepartmental politics gone wrong, or of the blind men and the elephant, or something. Everyone had an idea about how they ought to work on this situation, and most of the ideas were incompatible.

“It’s not just Smith,” Pete complained from the other side of his uncluttered desk. “I am getting the runaround from everyone. Judith says she’s not allowed to use agency resources to cross-fund my research request without a directive from the Department of Justice—she’s ass-covering—Frank says the County Surveyor’s Office isn’t allowed to release the information without a FOIA, and Smith says he wants to help but he’s not allowed to because the regs say that data flows into the NSA, never out.”

Days of running around offices trying to get a consensus together were clearly taking their toll on Pete Garfinkle. Mike nodded wearily. “Have you tried public sources?”

“What? Architecture Web sites? Property developers’ annual reports, that kind of thing? I could do that, but it’d take me weeks, and there’s no guarantee I’d spot everything.” Pete’s shoulders were set, tense with frustration. “We’re cops, not intelligence analysts, Mike, isn’t that right? I mean, except for you, babysitting source Greensleeves. So we sit here with our thumbs up our asses while the big bad spooks run around pulling their National Security cards on everybody. I can’t even requisition a goddamned report on underground parking garages in New Jersey that’ve been fitted with new security doors in the past six months! And this is supposed to be a goddamned joint intelligence task force?”

“Chill out.” It came out more sharply than Mike had intended. “You’ve got me doing it too, now. Listen, let’s go find a Starbucks and unwind, okay?”

“But that means—” Pete rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I know, it means checking out of the motel. So what? It’s nearly lunchtime. We’ve almost certainly got time to sign out before we have to sign back in again. Come on.”

Mike and Pete cleared their cramped two-man office. It wasn’t a simple process: nothing was simple, once you got the FBI and the NSA and the CIA and the DEA all trying to come up with common security standards. First, everything they were reading went into locked desk drawers. Then all the stationary supplies went into another lockable drawer. Then Mike and Pete had to cross-check each others’ locked drawers before they could step outside into the corridor, lock the office door, and head for the security station by the elevator bank. FTO—the Family Trade Organization—was big on compartmentalization, big on locks, big on security—big on just about everything except internal cooperation. And big on the upper floors of skyscrapers, where prices were depressed by the post-9/11 hangover and world-walker assassins were considered a greater threat than hijacked jets.

The corridor outside was a blank stretch punctuated by locked doors, some with red lights glowing above them, the walls bare except for security-awareness posters from some weird NSA loose-lips-sink-ships propaganda committee. Mike made sure to lock his door (blue key) and spun the combination dial before he headed toward the elevator bank. The last door on the corridor was ajar. “Bill?” asked Pete.

“Pete. And Mike.” Bill Swann smiled. “Got something for me?”

“Sure.” Mike held out his keys, waited for Bill to take them—and Pete’s—and make them disappear. “Going for lunch, probably back in an hour or so,” he said.

“Okay, sign here.” Swann wasn’t in uniform—nobody at FTO was, because FTO didn’t exist and blue or green suits on the premises might tip some civilian off—but somehow Mike didn’t have any trouble seeing him as a marine sergeant. Mike examined the proffered clipboard carefully, then signed to say he’d handed in the keys to his office at 14:27 and witnessed Bill returning them to the automatic key access machine—another NSA-surplus security toy. “See you later, sirs.”

“Sure thing. I hope.” Pete whistled tunelessly as he scribbled his chop on the clipboard.

“Dangerous places, those Starbucks.”

“You gotta watch those double-chocolate whipped cream lattes,” Pete agreed as they waited at the elevator door. “They leap out at you and mug you. One mouthful and they’ll be rolling you into pre-op for triple bypass surgery. Crack your rib cage just like the alien in, uh, Alien.”

“Mine’s a turkey club,” Mike said tersely, “and a long stand. Somewhere where . . .” The elevator arrived as he shrugged. They stood in silence on the way down. The elevator car had seen better days, its plastic trim yellowing and the carpet threadbare in patches: the poster on the back wall was yet another surplus to some super-black NSA security-awareness campaign. We’re at war and the enemy is everywhere.

“Do you ever get a feeling you’ve woken up in the wrong company?” he asked Pete as they crossed the lobby.

“Frequently. Usually happens just before her husband gets home.”

“Gross moral turpitude ’R’ us, huh? Does Nikki know?”

“Just kidding.”

Pete’s marriage was solid enough that he could afford to crack jokes, Mike noted. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, I know . . .” Pete paused while they waited at the crosswalk outside. It was a hot day, and Mike wished he’d left his suit coat behind. “Let’s go. Listen, it’s the attitude thing that’s getting to me. The whole outlook.”

“Cops are from Saturn, spooks are from Uranus?”

“Something like that.” Pete’s eyebrows narrowed to a solid black bar when he was angry or tense. “Over there.” He gestured down a side street lined with shops, in the general direction of Harvard Square. “It’s a cultural thing.”

“You’re telling me. Different standards of evidence, different standards on sharing information, different attitudes.”

“I thought it was our job to roll up this supernatural crime syndicate,” Pete complained. “Collect evidence, build cases, arrange plea bargains and witness support where necessary, observe and induce cooperation, that sort of thing.”

“Right.” Mike nodded. A familiar Starbucks sign; there was no queue round the block, they’d made their break just in time to beat the rush. “And the management have got other ideas. Is that what you’re saying?”

“We’re cops. We think of legal solutions to criminal problems. Smith and the entire chain of command above us are national security. They’re soldiers and intelligence agents. They work outside the law—I mean, they’re governed by international law, the Geneva conventions and so on, but they work outside our domestic framework.” He broke off. “I’ll have a ham-and-cheese sub, large regular coffee no cream, and a danish.” He glanced at Mike. “I’m buying this time.”

“Okay.” Mike ordered; they waited until a tray materialized, then they grabbed a pair of chairs and a table in the far corner of the shop, backs to the wall and with a good view of the other customers. “And you figure they’re making it difficult because they’re not geared up to share national security information with domestic police agencies, at least not without going through Homeland Security.”

“Home of melted stovepipes.” Pete regarded his coffee morosely. “It’s frustrating, sure, but what really worries me is the policy angle. I’m not sure we’re getting enough input into this. NSC grabbed the ball and the Preacher Man is too busy looking for pornographers under the bed and jailing bong dealers to have time for the turf war. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve classified it so he doesn’t even know we exist, or thinks we’re just another drug ring roundup embedded in some sort of counter-terrorist operation Wolf Boy and Daddy Warbucks are running.”

Mike blew on his coffee cautiously, then took a sip. “I’m not sure they’re wrong,” he admitted.

“Not sure—hmm?”

“Not sure they’re right, either.” Mike shrugged. “I just know we’re not tackling this effectively. It’s the old story: if the only tool you’ve got is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. Matt’s former associates are a problem, okay? Only we can’t get at them, can we? Which leaves policing techniques to get them the hell out of our home turf. So why the emphasis on the military stuff? I half suspect some guys who know a lot more than us figure that this is a situation which merits military force. It sure doesn’t look like something we can do more than a holding action against from here, at any rate.”

“I don’t agree. We’ve got to track down those safe houses they’re still using. What Matt said about them being short of couriers—it’s got to start hurting them sooner or later! If we can capture enough of them, we can stop them.”

Mike shook his head. “If we do that, it just starts up all over again a generation later,” he said slowly. “Unless we can get at their home turf. Which is a military, not a policing, solution. It may look like magic, but there’s got to be some kind of way to do whatever they do, hmm? Bet you that’s what the Los Alamos guys are into us for. Although whether they get anywhere . . .”

“Could be.” Pete sat back and scanned the shop one more time. “It’s getting a bit crowded in here. How’s the home life?”

“Oh, you know.” Mike got the message, put his plate down. “The cat thinks I’m a stranger, there’s a layer of dust thick enough to ski on in the rec room, and my neighbors phoned the cops last time I went home because they thought I was a burglar. How ’bout you?”

“Huh. You need to get a girlfriend.” Pete cracked a smile.

“Not really.” Pete stirred his coffee. “The job tends to put the good ones off.”

“Like, what was she called? That journalist you were seeing last year, or whenever it was.”

“Drop it, Pete.”

Pete stared at him. “Getting you down, huh?”

“I said, drop it.” Mike looked up. “Do you have life? Or is it just me?”

“Wherever I hang my hat, there’s my home. That’s what Nikki tells me, anyway: mostly I use the hook on the back of the office door. If I was earning overtime . . .”

“I’m saving up my vacation days.” Mike finished his coffee. “When we get this under control I’m going to—I don’t know. Get a life, I guess. Nine years and I could do the early retirement thing, head south and get a boat and go fishing forever. Except at this rate there won’t be enough of me left to do any of that.”

“You’ve got to stop putting everything into the job,” Pete advised. “At least, take a couple of evenings a week to have a life. You about finished?”

“Nearly.” Pete drained his coffee and pulled a face. “Let’s take a hike. I could do with some fresh air before I go back.”

They were half a block away before Pete said it. “Loose lips, Mike. I know”—he waved off Mike’s answer before it began—“it’s just not office politics as usual, is it?”

“No, it is not.” Mike chose his next words with care. “Your data-mining hunt. Do you think they’re giving you the runaround deliberately?”

“No, I—” Pete paused. “No, it’s not deliberate. I think what it is is, they’ve got you riding herd on Greensleeves and they had to find something to keep me out of trouble as I was in on that first debrief. But they don’t expect to tackle this as a civil law enforcement problem, so they’re not giving me any backup. You, they can use. Intelligence, in a word.” He shrugged. “It makes me mad,” he added quietly.

“If they’re not looking at it as a civil law enforcement problem, how do you think they’re going to deal with it?”

“I don’t know. And that gives me a very bad feeling.”

If the altitude doesn’t give you a nosebleed, the interagency catfights will do it every time, Mike reflected mordantly as he waited at the elevator bank in the Boston office. He sniffed, mildly annoyed with himself. He’d only just got back from his lunch and chat with Pete, and had just about made up his mind to do something in the evening—some propitiatory gesture in the direction of having a life, like phoning his sister Lois (in Boulder, safely distant) or renting a movie—when his insecure phone rang. “Mike? Deirdre here. Can you come up to the meeting room, please? Eric would like a word with you.” “Eric”—Colonel Smith—was one rung above him on the embryonic org chart, and the colonel was more likely to give him a headache than offer him a Tylenol. Odds were high that the phone call meant he’d be working as late as usual tonight. Bad cop, no life. It was like being on a homicide case twenty-four/seven.

The twenty-first floor had once been mahogany row, back when these offices had belonged to a dot-bomb. FTO had leased them cheap, from the sixth floor up. Everything below ten was a red zone—at risk of enemy incursion. Mike’s destination was the office meeting room. It bore a red security seal, but there was no combination lock—it was a meeting room, not a High Security Portal leading to an NSA-style Vault Type Room. FTO didn’t have enough secrets yet to fill a bucket of warm spit, much less a multimillion-dollar bank vault in the penthouse of an office block. It was a sign, in Mike’s opinion, of how badly the whole business was going. Or of how starved they were for intelligence.

Mike hit the buzzer outside the door, next to the small CCTV lens. “Mike Fleming, as requested. You wanted to see me?”

“Come in, Mike.” Smith normally tried to be friendly but sounded unusually reserved today. Taking his cue, Mike straightened up as the door opened.

Despite not being a full VTR, the meeting room was about as friendly as Dracula’s crypt—no windows, air-conditioning ducts and ceiling and floor tiles made out of transparent Lexan so you could check them visually for bugs, white-noise generators glommed against every flat resonant surface to confound any bugging devices. It hummed and whistled like an asthmatic air conditioner, mumbling to itself incessantly to drown out any secrets the conferees might let slip. Meetings in the crypt always sounded like a conference of deaf folks: Eh, what? Would you repeat that?

Mike waited for Smith to unlock the door. Smith was in shirtsleeves, his collar undone and his tie loose. Air conditioner must be acting up again, Mike thought before he registered the other man sitting at the transparent table.

“What can I do for you, sir?” He glanced at the stranger, appraisingly. Red badge, purple stripe. In the arcane color-coded NSA hierarchy Smith had imported, that meant a visitor, but the kind of visitor who was allowed to ask pointed questions. “Good morning,” Mike added, cautiously.

“Have a seat.” Smith dropped back into his own chair so Mike took his cue, settled at the other side of the table. The visitor was thin-faced, in his thirties or forties, and had a receding hairline, like Hugo Weaving in The Matrix, Mike realized. Right down to the tie clip. That had to be deliberate. An asshole, but a high-clearance asshole, he thought irritably.

“Mike, this is Dr. Andrew James, from Yale by way of the Agency and the Heritage Foundation. Andrew, this is senior agent Mike Fleming, DEA, on secondment to FTO. So you know where you stand, Mike, Dr. James is our new Deputy Director of Operational Intelligence, which is to say, he’s going to be running our side of the show once we achieve some organizational focus.” His cheek twitched. “Any questions?”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,” Mike said politely, trying to keep his face impassive. Shit, another spook. “Spook” spelled “cowboy,” as far as Mike was concerned. They tended to know nothing about law enforcement, and cared less. Which said something unpleasant about the direction in which this meeting was going to go.

“I’m sure you’re pleased.” James had a dry, gravelly voice. “I know what you’re thinking.” He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He looks like a robot, Mike thought. He rubbed his palms on his trousers, abruptly uneasy.

“You’re dead right,” James continued. “I am a political appointee. I’m here because certain parties in the administration want to keep a tight lock on the operational cycle of the Family Trade Organization and ensure it doesn’t run wild. You’re currently stovepiped into NSA and DEA, but that’s got to change. We’re keeping the DOJ connection, but it’s been decided that the operational emphasis in the organization is going to be moved toward the military side. So my public title is Deputy Director, Political-Military Affairs, reporting to NSC. In reality, I’m going to be moving into your turf here as your DD/OI, liaising with NSC and the White House to keep them appraised of whatever you HUMINT guys can get out of our assets, and also to keep Justice in the loop. Are we clear, yet?” He cracked a wintry smile.

Mike glanced at Smith, registering his close-faced expression. This is not good. “Not entirely, sir,” he said slowly, trying to get his thoughts in order. “I understand the oversight aspect. But am I right in saying that you see this as primarily a national security problem, rather than a domestic policing one?”

“Yes.” James laid his hands flat on the tabletop, fingers spread wide across it. “We will be emphasizing national security approaches. These—this ‘Clan’—is an external threat. They’ve got nuclear material, and the narcoterrorism angle is, in our view—that is, the strategic view received from the top down—of subsidiary importance to the question of whether a hostile power is going to start blowing up our cities.”

“Am I still needed?” Mike asked bluntly, a disturbing sense of anger and helplessness stealing over him. “Or did you call me up here to reassign me?”

James smiled again, like a shark circling wounded prey in the water. “Not exactly. Colonel Smith tells me that in the eighty-one days since this organization got off the ground, the organization has laid its hands on just one willing HUMINT asset, and he’s of questionable worth. You’ve been tasked with interrogating him, because you were his first contact. I find that kind of hard to believe—can you summarize for me?”

Mike felt his pulse quicken. Smith set me up. He glanced at his boss, who narrowed his eyes and shook his head infinitesimally. No? Then it was James. Spook tactics. Double-check everyone against everyone else, trust nobody, grab the situation by the throat—hang on. “Can you confirm your clearances for me? No offense, but so far all I’ve got to go on is your word.” He nodded at Smith. “Standard protocol.” Standard protocol was trust nobody, accept nothing, and it was supposed to apply at all levels—which was why Swann checked Mike’s ID and clearances every morning before giving him the keys to his own office. He tensed: if James wanted to make an issue of it—

But instead he nodded agreeably. “Very good, Mr. Fleming. Badge reader over there.” He stood up and walked over to the machine. “Why don’t you clear yourself to me, at the same time?”

“I think that would be a very good idea, sir,” Mike said carefully. They both ran their badges through the scanner, and Mike noted James’s list of clearances. It was about a third longer than his own. “Great, I’m allowed to tell you that you exist.” He smiled, experimentally, and James nodded as he returned to his seat.

Mike took a deep breath. Okay, so he’s not a total jerk. I can live with that. “We have a problem with intelligence assets,” he began. “All we’ve got is one willing defector and two prisoners. The defector, as usual, is willing to tell us one hundred and fifty percent of whatever he thinks we want to hear. And the prisoners not only aren’t talking, I don’t think they can talk.”

James grunted as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Explain.” He held up one hand: “I’ve read the backgrounder and played the debrief tapes from Matt. Color me an interested ignoramus and give it to me straight, I don’t have time for excuses. Pretend I’m Daddy Warbucks, if you like. That’s where this buck stops.”

“Uh, okay.” Mike sat down again, head whirling. The Office of the Vice President? He’s in charge, now? Notoriously strong-willed, the VP in this administration more than made up for any lack of experience in the Oval Office. But this was still news to Mike. Later.

He cleared his throat. “We got a windfall in the form of Matt. Without him, FTO wouldn’t exist. We’d still be looking at eight to ten gigabucks of H and C per annum transshipping into the east coast with no clue how it was getting past the Coast Guard. We’re still probably looking at half that, but for now—” He shrugged. “First thing first, Matt is probably the most valuable informer any American police or security department has acquired, ever.”

He swallowed. “But we hit a concrete wall in the follow-through stage.”

“Concrete.” James made a steeple of his fingers, elbows braced on the transparent tabletop. “What do you mean, concrete?”

“Okay. In our first week, Pete and I holed up with Matt and milked him like crazy. Apart from the side trip to the black box down in Crypto City, of course.” He nodded at Smith. “By day six on the timeline we were ready to move. Thanks to the courier snatch on day two, the other side already knew we were active, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when we rolled eight empty nests in a row. The haul was pretty good but the assets had flown, money and bodies and drugs. If you’ve seen the details of what we found”—James nodded—“you’ll know it was a very substantial operation. Disturbingly well structured. These guys are like a major espionage agency in their approach, sort of like the old-time KGB: organized in teams with secure communications and safe houses and an org chart. This isn’t some street gang. But we didn’t catch anyone. There’s another raid going down today, as it happens, but I expect that one to draw a blank too. These guys are way too professional.”

James nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Tell me about the two prisoners.”

“Well. Pete and I went back to Matt, who filled us in on the other side’s security architecture. We put our heads together and took a stab, with Matt in the loop, at second-guessing how the other side’s head, the Duke, would rearrange things in the light of Matt’s disappearance. Matt said he’d arranged a cover that would make it look like he’d died, so we tried a few fallbacks on the working assumption that they hadn’t twigged that Matt was in our pocket. We also hit another nine that we knew would be evacuated, in case they put two and two together about Matt. The decoys got the same treatment as the first wave of raids, but for the special targets we pulled strings to get some special assets in for the party.”

Mike leaned back. Special assets—the sort of people the CIA had been forbidden ever since the Church commission, the wake of Operation Phoenix, and the other deadly secrets from the sixties and early seventies. Guys with plastic-surgery fingerprints and briefcases full of very expensive custom-built toys. “We drew a blank on one site, but number two had about sixty kilos of uncut heroin, plus a bunch of documents in Code Gamma. The third site, we hit pay dirt and three couriers. One of them died in the extraction process”—killed by fentanyl fumes, brain-dead before the special assets could hook her up to a ventilator—“but the other two we bagged and tagged and shipped off to Facility Echo. Turns out there’s no record of these guys anywhere—they’re ghosts, they don’t exist. Didn’t even have any fake ID on them. I liaised with Special Agent Herz and we arranged a section 412 detention order. Because they’re of no known nationality there’s no one to deport them to, and once INS punches their ticket as illegal aliens we get to keep them out of the court system. Better than Camp X-ray. Shame we can’t get anything useful out of them,” he added apologetically.

James frowned. “Why won’t they talk?”

“Well, near as we can tell, they don’t speak English.” Mike waited to see how James would react.

When it came, it was a minute nod. “What about Spanish?”

“Nope.” Mike watched him minutely. No grasping at straws, no accusations of leg-pulling. He’s not so bad, he thought grudgingly. Not bad for a REMF spook. “We know about the tattoos, so we took precautions. Courier Able had a mirror tattoo on his head, under the hairline, and Courier Bravo had one on the inside of his left wrist. We kept them hooded and blindfolded until we had time to get a security-cleared cosmetologist with a laser in to erase them. But we’re pretty sure that these guys don’t speak English or Spanish—or French, German, Dutch, Portuguese, Italian, Greek, Russian, Czech, Serbo-Croat, Japanese, Latin, Korean, Mandarin, or Cantonese.” And don’t ask how we know—the old fire drill trick could look very bad, very close to psychological torture, if a defense attorney dragged it up in front of a hostile jury. “They do speak something Germanic, we got that much, and Matt checks out as a translator. They call it hochsprache, and it sounds like it diverged from various proto-German dialects about sixteen hundred years ago—it’s about as similar to German as modern Spanish is to classical Latin.” He took another deep breath. “I’m trying to learn it, but there’s not much to go with—I mean, neither of the detainees are willing to help, and Matthias isn’t exactly a foreign-language teacher. We’re working on a lexicon, and we’ve got a couple of research linguists coming in as soon as we get their security clearances through, but it’s a big problem. I figure these guys were drafted in as mules, shuttling back and forth between buildings in the same place in both worlds—what they call doppelganger houses. To do that, they don’t need to pass as Americans. But getting information out of them is difficult.”

Which is an understatement and a half, Mike added mentally. Matt was becoming a headache—increasingly demanding and suspicious, paranoid about the terms of his confinement and the likelihood of his eventual release under a false identity. Sooner or later he’d stop cooperating, and then they’d be in big trouble.

“Well, we are going to have a pressing need for that expertise in the near future.” James sat up abruptly, as if he’d come to some decision. “Mr. Fleming, I have some news for you which might sound negative at first, so I hope you’ll listen carefully and take it positively. We have no functioning human intelligence assets at all in the place they come from. Just like the situation in Afghanistan back in 2001—and we can’t afford to be flying blind. I’ve been reviewing your personnel file and, bluntly, you’re nothing exceptional—except that you’ve got a three-month lead over everyone else in the field in this one area of expertise. So, with immediate effect I’m directing Colonel Smith here to reassign you from Investigations Branch to a new core team—on-location HUMINT. And your prisoner is going to be reassigned to military custody, although for the time being he’ll stay where he is.”

“Military custody?” Mike raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s legal.”

“It will be when the AG’s office delivers their ruling,” James said dismissively. “As I was about to say, you will continue to work on language skills and continue debriefing Matthias, and liaise with Investigations Branch as necessary—but you’re also going to go back to school. Field operations school, to be precise. You’re going to ride shotgun on a code word operation you haven’t heard of before now, code word CLEANSWEEP, and you have BLUESKY clearance. Your primary job will be to learn who these people are and how they think, and their language and customs, and anything else that lets us get a handle on their minds. And you’re going to learn them well enough to learn how to move among them undetected. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I think I do.” Mike’s mouth was dry. So they’re taking this military? “You’re asking for a spy. Right?” Can they do this? Legally? He had a feeling that any objections he raised would be steamrolled. And raising them in the first place might be rather more serious than a career-limiting move.

“Not just a simple spy.” James nodded thoughtfully. “You’re going to be recruiting, training, and running other officers, in a way that we haven’t really been good at since the Cold War. Over the past couple of decades we’ve come to rely too heavily on electronic intelligence sources—no offense,” he added in Smith’s direction, “and we just can’t operate that way in fairyland. So you’re going to go in and run our field operation. We’re going in—we’re going over there, carrying the war to the enemy. That is the mission we are tasked with, from the top down. Got that?”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Mike said slowly. His head was spinning. What the hell? It sounds like he’s planning an invasion! “You mentioned some kind of special clearances, projects? Uh, CLEANSWEEP? BLUESKY?”

James nodded to Smith. “You tell him.”

Smith sat up. “The, uh, Clan pose a clear and present danger to the integrity of the United States of America,” he said quietly. “In fact, it’s not overdramatizing things too much to say that they’re the ultimate rogue state. So word is that we’re to prepare, if possible, for a situation in which we can go in to, ah, impose a change of regime. BLUESKY is the intelligence enabler and CLEANSWEEP is the project to conduct espionage operations in hostile territory.”

“All of this assumes we can reliably send spies into a parallel universe and bring them back again,” Mike said quietly. “How would we do that?”

Dr. James glanced at Colonel Smith. “You were right about him,” he murmured. To Mike: “You aren’t cleared for that yet. Let’s just say that we’ve got some long-term ideas, research projects under way. But for the time being”—he smiled at Mike, a frighteningly intense expression that revealed more teeth than a human being ought by rights to have—“we’ve got two enemy couriers, and they will work for us, whether they want to or not. We’ll use them to capture more. And then we’ll make those fuckers sorry they ever messed with the United States.”