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this, then make sure she stays busy with the relevant stuff. As in, what happened in Syria is not relevant. Those soldiers officially died in a training accident…We need to be able to work with the military, and if that piece of misinformation comes out on our end, then they won’t trust us with anything else. And frankly, I wouldn’t blame them,” Andrews added.
    Harper was about to respond when the heavy mahogany door was edged open by a secretary. “Excuse me, sir, but you might want to turn to Channel 3. It’s about Senator Levy.”
    The confusion was evident on the faces of both men as the director scrambled for the remote control. An image appeared on the screen of a high-rise apartment complex that Harper recognized immediately.
    â€œIf you’re just joining us, we’re here outside the Kennedy-Warren, an exclusive residential building on Connecticut Avenue, where officials from the Justice Department have tracked down the man suspected in providing information that led to the cold-blooded murder of Senator Daniel Levy last week. The man has been identified as Michael Shakib, a Congressional staffer with strong ties to the Iranian American community, who has—”
    â€œJesus Christ!” Andrews screamed, his voice drowning out the excited anchorwoman. “How the hell did this get past us, John?”
    â€œThe FBI is supposed to be keeping us up-to-date on these kinds of developments, but—”
    â€œBullshit!” Andrews took a few deep breaths, resting his hands on one of the few empty spaces on his cluttered desk. Seconds passed, and the anger fell from his features. “Sorry, John, that’s not meant for you. I can see that they fucked us on this.”
    The DCI thought for a long moment before continuing. “You know, it might even work out better that we’re not obviously invested. I don’t see this ending well, not with all those reporters out there. All the same, get someone down there without making a lot of noise about it. Send Kealey, if you want.”
    Harper was in awe of the man’s self-control. “If I know him, sir, he’s probably already on the way.”
    â€œMake sure we have a part in this, John. Bring us into the loop. If we don’t know what’s going on, it’ll be easier for them to hang the blame on us.”
    It was a dismissal. Harper left the room quietly, grateful to leave behind the now-fuming director of Central Intelligence.
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    Ryan had driven his BMW down from Maine rather than risk being stuck in an uncomfortable rental for the duration of his stay in Washington. He decided that it had been a good decision as the powerful 4.4-liter engine pushed the car north along Connecticut Avenue. He was quickly approaching the Dupont Circle underpass, a cell phone pressed to his ear as he expertly navigated the busy street with one hand on the steering wheel.
    â€œI got it, John. Talk to the guy on the scene, don’t make any noise…Fine, I understand. Here, talk to your girl.” He handed it over to a pale-faced Naomi Kharmai, who had to unclench her tightly balled fists to accept the outstretched phone.
    â€œDon’t let them brush you off, Naomi,” Harper said. “We need to know if this is on the up-and-up. If Shakib is the leak, then we’re getting somewhere. Don’t worry that we didn’t get ahold of this first—it’s what we do with it now, okay?” The DDO broke off to speak with someone else momentarily. “Call me when you have some details.”
    The phone went dead in her ear before she could respond. As Ryan shifted into fourth gear and punched the pedal, she slunk back down in the seat as far as she could go, absolutely positive that they would be dead long before reaching their destination.
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    Connecticut Avenue outside the Kennedy-Warren was filled to capacity with emergency-service vehicles, fire engines, and the unmarked