The General's Daughter (62 page)

And did the door
swing
open? No, it
slid
into the wall as far as its dummy doorknob. Do I need this nonsense?

Anyway, there’s also a video scanner overhead, in case your thumbprint got screwed up with a chocolate bar or something, and
if they recognize your face, they also open the door, though in my case they might make an exception.

So I went in, and the door slid closed automatically behind me. I was now in what appeared to be the reception area of an
airline travelers’ club. Why there’d be such a club in a building that’s not a passenger terminal is, you can be sure, a question
I’d asked, and I’m still waiting for an answer. But I know the answer, which is that when the CIA culture is present, you
get this kind of smoke-and-mirrors silliness. These clowns waste time and money on stagecraft and such, just like in the old
days when they were trying to impress the KGB. What the door needed was a simple sign that said, KEEP THE FUCK OUT.

Anyway, behind the counter was Nancy Tate, the receptionist, a sort of Miss Moneypenny, the model of efficiency and repressed
sexuality, and all that. She liked me for some reason, and greeted me cheerily, “Good afternoon, Mr. Corey.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Tate.”

“Everyone has arrived.”

“I was delayed by traffic.”

“Actually, you’re ten minutes early.”

“Oh…”

“I like your tie.”

“I took it off a dead Bulgarian on the night train to Istanbul.”

She giggled.

Anyway, the reception area was all leather and burled wood, plush blue carpet, and so forth, and on the wall directly behind
Nancy was another marquee of the fictitious Conquistador Club. And for all I knew, Ms. Tate was a hologram.

To the left of Ms. Tate was an entranceway marked CONFERENCE AND BUSINESS AREA that actually led to the interrogation rooms
and holding cells, which I guess could be called the Conference and Business area. To the right, a sign announced LOUNGE AND
BAR. I should be so lucky. That was in fact the way to the communications and operations room.

Ms. Tate said to me, “Ops Room. There are five people including yourself.”

“Thanks.” I walked through the bar-and-lounge doorway, down a short hallway, and into a dim, cavernous, and windowless room
that held desks, computer consoles, cubicles, and such. On the big rear wall was a huge, computer-generated color map of the
world that could be programmed to a detailed map of whatever you needed, like downtown Islamabad. This was big-time.

Anyway, this facility wasn’t my actual workplace, which is in the aforementioned Federal building in lower Manhattan. But
this was where I had to be on this Saturday afternoon to meet and greet some Arab guy who was switching sides and needed to
be taken safely downtown for a few years of debriefing.

I kind of ignored my teammates and made for the coffee bar which, unlike the one in my old detective squad room, is neat,
clean, and well stocked. Compliments of the Federal taxpayers.

I fooled around with the coffee a while, which was my way of avoiding my colleagues for a few more minutes.

I got the coffee the right color and noticed a tray of donuts that said NYPD and a tray of croissants and brioche that said
CIA and a tray of oatmeal cookies that said FBI. Someone had a sense of humor.

Anyway, the coffee bar was on the operations side of the big room and the commo side was sort of elevated on a low platform.
A guy was up there monitoring all the gidgets and gadgets.

My team, on the operations side, was sitting around somebody’s empty desk, engaged in conversation. The team consisted of
the aforementioned Ted Nash of the CIA, George Foster of the FBI, Nick Monti of the NYPD, and Kate Mayfield of the FBI. WASP,
WASP, Wop, WASP.

Kate Mayfield came to the coffee bar and began making herself tea. She is supposed to be my mentor, whatever the hell that
means. As long as it doesn’t mean partner.

She said to me, “I like that tie.”

“I once strangled a Ninja warrior to death with it. It’s my favorite.”

“Really? Hey, how are you getting along here?”

“You tell me.”

“Well, it’s too soon for me to tell you. You tell me why you put in for the IRA section.”

“Well, the Muslims don’t drink, I can’t spell their f-ing names on my reports, and the women can’t be seduced.”

“That’s the most racist, sexist remark I’ve heard in years.”

“You don’t get around enough.”

“This is not the NYPD, Mr. Corey.”

“No, but
I’m
NYPD. Get used to it.”

“Are we through attempting to shock and appal?”

“Yeah. Look, Kate, I thank you for your meddling—I mean mentoring—but in about a week, I’ll be in the IRA section, or off
the job.”

She didn’t reply.

I looked at her as she messed around with a lemon. She was about thirty, I guess, blond, blue-eyed, fair skin, boyish kind
of build, perfect pearly whites, no jewelry, light makeup, and so on. Wendy Wasp from Wichita. She had not one flaw that I
could see, not even a zit on her face or a fleck of dandruff on her dark blue blazer. She probably played three sports in
high school, took cold showers, belonged to 4-H, and organized pep rallies in college. I hated her. Well, not really, but
about the only thing we had in common was some internal organs, and not even all of those.

Also, her accent was hard to identify, and I remembered that Nick Monti said her father was an FBI guy, and they’d lived in
different places around the country.

She turned and looked at me, and I looked at her. She had these piercing eyes, the color of blue dye No. 4, like they use
in ice pops.

She said to me, “You came to us highly recommended.”

“By who? Whom?”

“Whom. By some of your old colleagues in homicide.”

I didn’t reply.

“Also,” she said, “by Ted and George.” She nodded toward Schmuck and Putz.

I almost choked on my coffee. Why these two guys would say anything nice about me was a total mystery.

“They aren’t fond of you, but you impressed them on that Plum Island case.”

“Yeah, I even impressed myself on that one.”

“Why don’t you give the Mideast section a try?” She added, “If Ted and George are the problem, we can switch you to another
team within the section.”

“I love Ted and George, but I really have my heart set on the anti-IRA section.”

“Too bad. This is where the real action is. This is a career builder.” She added, “The IRA are pretty quiet and well behaved
in this country.”

“Good.”

“The Palestinians and the Islamic groups, on the other hand, are potentially dangerous to national security.”

“No ‘potentially’ about it,” I replied. “World Trade Center.”

She didn’t reply.

I’d come to discover that these three words in the ATTF were like, “Remember Pearl Harbor.” The intelligence community got
caught with their pants down on that one, but came back and solved the case, so it was a draw.

She continued, “The whole country is paranoid about a Mideast terrorist biological attack or a nuclear or chemical attack.
You saw that on the Plum Island case. Right?”

“Right.”

“So? Everything else in the ATTF is a backwater. Nobody’s seen a Black Panther in years, the Puerto Ricans want statehood,
the IRA just wants Yankee dollars, the Reds are finished, the neo-Nazis and militia guys from Idaho are afraid of getting
mugged in New York, and the other fringe political groups are either nonviolent or too stupid to worry about. The real action
is in the Mideast section, and you look like a man of action.” She smiled.

I smiled in return. I asked her, “What’s it to you?”

“I like you.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I like New York Neanderthals.”

“I’m speechless.”

“Think about it.”

“Will do.” I glanced at a TV monitor close by and saw that the flight we were waiting for, Trans-Continental 175 from Paris,
was inbound and on time. I asked Ms. Mayfield, “What’s the name of this guy we’re waiting for?”

“Khalil. Asad Khalil.”

N
ELSON
D
EMILLE
is a former U.S. Army lieutenant who served in Vietnam and is the author of nine acclaimed novels, including the
New York Times
bestsellers
The Charm School, Word of Honor,

The Gold Coast, The General’s Daughter,

Spencerville,
and
Plum Island.