anger in check and his tone reasonable. "There was no reason for him to kill Alien, and especially not his wife and children. Not now."
"Speculation, Kirk, nothing more."
"Maybe. But there's no hard proof that bin Laden ordered them murdered."
"Slaughtered, you mean," Murphy replied sharply. His anger was bubbling to the surface. Like everyone else at headquarters he wanted to strike back right now at whoever was responsible. Which was a good thing, and something
that the President was going to demand, providing they didn't hit the wrong target for the wrong reason.
At sixty-two. Murphy was twelve years McGarvey's senior, although this morning he looked twenty years older than that. In his day he had commanded a tank battalion, and he had earned the nickname Bull Murphy, after the navy's Admiral Bill Halsey, because despite his size he could move quickly and decisively, and like Halsey he had no trouble making straight-ahead decisions. It was quite a combination, an old friend of Murphy's had told McGarvey a few years ago. Watching Roland climbing in and out of tanks was like watching an angry bull that had taken ballet lessons. It was nothing short of awesome. You got out of the way when the man was on the move. But nearly two decades behind a desk had softened his lines, blurred the edges, slowed his body, though not his mind.
"It wasn't his style, you know that. You read Alien's report."
"The bastard thinks he can kill our people and get away with it," Murphy countered strongly. "Well, he's dead wrong, and we're going to show it to him." Murphy had directed the CIA through three White House administrations, and he had never been responsible for the loss of an employee's family. Do the job, but get it done safely, was his watchword. The old cowboy days of shoot 'em outs in Czechoslovakia, parachute drops into Hungary, clandestine jungle training camps in Honduras and arms deals with the Contras were things of the past. Intelligence-gathering in the twenty-first century had become primarily a matter of technical means; electronic eavesdropping, satellites, computers. Shooters like McGarvey had become anachronisms, and Murphy, who had directed many such black operations, had always despised the endeavors with everything in his soul, while at the same time understanding that sometimes violent means were necessary. But he counted this tragic business with Trumble a personal failure. He was ready to turn the clock back. Strike the bastard responsible where he lived.
He glanced at the clock on his desk. "I want you ready at eight-thirty, that'll give us plenty of time to get over to the White House. Since it's your operation you'll give the briefing." He gave McGarvey another speculative look. "Killing one of our chiefs of station is one thing, but his family? That's nothing but terrorism, and bin Laden is the master of it. We're going to teach him a lesson. It's something that the President wants, and it's something I'm going to go along with." "There's another consideration, General."
"Then you'll have to offer the man an alternative, Kirk. Otherwise we're going to war."
CHAPTER FIVE
The White House
The DCI's limousine pulled up at the White House west gate a few minutes before 9:00 a.m." and the guard waved them through. Both Murphy and McGarvey were well known to the Secret Service. They proceeded up the driveway to the portico where Ken Chapin, the DCI's bodyguard jumped out and opened the car door for his boss.
McGarvey let himself out and stood for a moment looking up at the marine guard at the door. Forty-two presidents before this one had made a lot of tough decisions from this building. Just one year into an administration that was thrust upon him, Lawrence Haynes was going to be faced with a very tough call. McGarvey had the feeling that the man was up to it. At least he hoped for all of their sakes that he was.
"Let's not keep the man waiting," Murphy said, and McGarvey fell in beside him. Together they
"Speculation, Kirk, nothing more."
"Maybe. But there's no hard proof that bin Laden ordered them murdered."
"Slaughtered, you mean," Murphy replied sharply. His anger was bubbling to the surface. Like everyone else at headquarters he wanted to strike back right now at whoever was responsible. Which was a good thing, and something
that the President was going to demand, providing they didn't hit the wrong target for the wrong reason.
At sixty-two. Murphy was twelve years McGarvey's senior, although this morning he looked twenty years older than that. In his day he had commanded a tank battalion, and he had earned the nickname Bull Murphy, after the navy's Admiral Bill Halsey, because despite his size he could move quickly and decisively, and like Halsey he had no trouble making straight-ahead decisions. It was quite a combination, an old friend of Murphy's had told McGarvey a few years ago. Watching Roland climbing in and out of tanks was like watching an angry bull that had taken ballet lessons. It was nothing short of awesome. You got out of the way when the man was on the move. But nearly two decades behind a desk had softened his lines, blurred the edges, slowed his body, though not his mind.
"It wasn't his style, you know that. You read Alien's report."
"The bastard thinks he can kill our people and get away with it," Murphy countered strongly. "Well, he's dead wrong, and we're going to show it to him." Murphy had directed the CIA through three White House administrations, and he had never been responsible for the loss of an employee's family. Do the job, but get it done safely, was his watchword. The old cowboy days of shoot 'em outs in Czechoslovakia, parachute drops into Hungary, clandestine jungle training camps in Honduras and arms deals with the Contras were things of the past. Intelligence-gathering in the twenty-first century had become primarily a matter of technical means; electronic eavesdropping, satellites, computers. Shooters like McGarvey had become anachronisms, and Murphy, who had directed many such black operations, had always despised the endeavors with everything in his soul, while at the same time understanding that sometimes violent means were necessary. But he counted this tragic business with Trumble a personal failure. He was ready to turn the clock back. Strike the bastard responsible where he lived.
He glanced at the clock on his desk. "I want you ready at eight-thirty, that'll give us plenty of time to get over to the White House. Since it's your operation you'll give the briefing." He gave McGarvey another speculative look. "Killing one of our chiefs of station is one thing, but his family? That's nothing but terrorism, and bin Laden is the master of it. We're going to teach him a lesson. It's something that the President wants, and it's something I'm going to go along with." "There's another consideration, General."
"Then you'll have to offer the man an alternative, Kirk. Otherwise we're going to war."
CHAPTER FIVE
The White House
The DCI's limousine pulled up at the White House west gate a few minutes before 9:00 a.m." and the guard waved them through. Both Murphy and McGarvey were well known to the Secret Service. They proceeded up the driveway to the portico where Ken Chapin, the DCI's bodyguard jumped out and opened the car door for his boss.
McGarvey let himself out and stood for a moment looking up at the marine guard at the door. Forty-two presidents before this one had made a lot of tough decisions from this building. Just one year into an administration that was thrust upon him, Lawrence Haynes was going to be faced with a very tough call. McGarvey had the feeling that the man was up to it. At least he hoped for all of their sakes that he was.
"Let's not keep the man waiting," Murphy said, and McGarvey fell in beside him. Together they
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