Read Online The President's Vampire by Christopher Farnsworth - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Farnsworth
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have a normal life. That’s gone. The sooner you reconcile yourself to that fact, the better.”
“No.” Zach shook his head. “That was Griff’s problem. Not mine. I’m not giving up on my life just because he gave up on his.”
Agent William Hawley Griffin was Zach’s immediate predecessor in the post of liaison. He’d been killed during Zach’s first assignment, at the end of the assault on the White House.
As liaison, it became Zach’s job to go to Griff’s house and organize his effects for any next of kin. He found a nearly empty space with bare walls and thick layers of dust on the furniture. There was an open bottle of whiskey sitting by an easy chair.
Zach also found Griff’s will. There was no next of kin. He’d left the house to whoever came after him in the liaison job.
It was a decent place in a pretty good part of town, but Zach still kept his apartment. He couldn’t bring himself to sell the house, and yet, he couldn’t move in, either. Too much like wearing a dead man’s clothes.
“This is your life now,” Cade said. “That’s what I’m trying to help you understand.”
“Look,” he said. “I appreciate the advice. It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.”
“Griff used whores,” Cade said.
Zach sighed. “Good to know.” He grabbed his bag and headed for the secret exit to the surface, and the National Mall.
“You’ve got a long flight tomorrow. Get a full meal and some rest.”
He left.
Cade said nothing.
ZACH WENT HOME. He barely even slept there anymore. Most nights, he was in the Reliquary. And if not there, he was traveling from one literally godforsaken spot to the next.
He cracked open his laptop. He needed a little more detail about Colonel Graves.
As the machine booted up, a red beam flashed from the camera mounted in the laptop’s screen, lancing into his eye. At the same time, Zach pressed his index finger into a pad on the base.
He was prompted for a series of codes, and only then did the laptop allow him access.
Pain in the ass, Zach thought. Nobody would believe a word contained in the files, even if they did steal the computer.
Even with all his top-secret database-cracking software, Zach ran into one brick wall after another.
Archer/Andrews was a subsidiary of PKD Ltd., itself a subsidiary of Pickman-Derby, a corporation under so many umbrellas it never saw the sun. He finally gave up trying to track down its true owners.
Graves was another cipher. He was ex-CIA, Zach was pretty sure. The “Colonel” title was something CIA operatives gave themselves when they were on military operations. But Zach had spent a lot of time around real soldiers, and Graves didn’t have the bearing exactly right. His hair was a little too neatly parted. He wore cologne. His grooming spoke of vanity, not discipline.
He found the CIA’s file on Graves after running his name through the NOC list—the “non-official cover” list of all the operatives the Agency would never admit existed. These were the men and women who were buried in false identities as they carried out missions that would never be formally approved, even if the Agency paid all the bills. If they were captured or killed, operatives on the NOC list couldn’t expect a hostage negotiation or a public funeral. At best, they might get a quiet moment of mourning over drinks, or, in rare cases, an anonymous star on the wall at Langley.
The photo with the NOC list matched Graves, but there was a long string of aliases attached to it. Whatever his real name was, it was buried under years of disinformation.
Even in the NOC list, Graves’s bio was heavily redacted. Everything was so classified it hadn’t even been transferred to computer, and any paper records were likely shredded and burned.
All Zach could access on his laptop was a list of assignments, ordered by date and location.
That was enough.
Graves—whatever his real name was—had been a part of every major covert operation the
“No.” Zach shook his head. “That was Griff’s problem. Not mine. I’m not giving up on my life just because he gave up on his.”
Agent William Hawley Griffin was Zach’s immediate predecessor in the post of liaison. He’d been killed during Zach’s first assignment, at the end of the assault on the White House.
As liaison, it became Zach’s job to go to Griff’s house and organize his effects for any next of kin. He found a nearly empty space with bare walls and thick layers of dust on the furniture. There was an open bottle of whiskey sitting by an easy chair.
Zach also found Griff’s will. There was no next of kin. He’d left the house to whoever came after him in the liaison job.
It was a decent place in a pretty good part of town, but Zach still kept his apartment. He couldn’t bring himself to sell the house, and yet, he couldn’t move in, either. Too much like wearing a dead man’s clothes.
“This is your life now,” Cade said. “That’s what I’m trying to help you understand.”
“Look,” he said. “I appreciate the advice. It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.”
“Griff used whores,” Cade said.
Zach sighed. “Good to know.” He grabbed his bag and headed for the secret exit to the surface, and the National Mall.
“You’ve got a long flight tomorrow. Get a full meal and some rest.”
He left.
Cade said nothing.
ZACH WENT HOME. He barely even slept there anymore. Most nights, he was in the Reliquary. And if not there, he was traveling from one literally godforsaken spot to the next.
He cracked open his laptop. He needed a little more detail about Colonel Graves.
As the machine booted up, a red beam flashed from the camera mounted in the laptop’s screen, lancing into his eye. At the same time, Zach pressed his index finger into a pad on the base.
He was prompted for a series of codes, and only then did the laptop allow him access.
Pain in the ass, Zach thought. Nobody would believe a word contained in the files, even if they did steal the computer.
Even with all his top-secret database-cracking software, Zach ran into one brick wall after another.
Archer/Andrews was a subsidiary of PKD Ltd., itself a subsidiary of Pickman-Derby, a corporation under so many umbrellas it never saw the sun. He finally gave up trying to track down its true owners.
Graves was another cipher. He was ex-CIA, Zach was pretty sure. The “Colonel” title was something CIA operatives gave themselves when they were on military operations. But Zach had spent a lot of time around real soldiers, and Graves didn’t have the bearing exactly right. His hair was a little too neatly parted. He wore cologne. His grooming spoke of vanity, not discipline.
He found the CIA’s file on Graves after running his name through the NOC list—the “non-official cover” list of all the operatives the Agency would never admit existed. These were the men and women who were buried in false identities as they carried out missions that would never be formally approved, even if the Agency paid all the bills. If they were captured or killed, operatives on the NOC list couldn’t expect a hostage negotiation or a public funeral. At best, they might get a quiet moment of mourning over drinks, or, in rare cases, an anonymous star on the wall at Langley.
The photo with the NOC list matched Graves, but there was a long string of aliases attached to it. Whatever his real name was, it was buried under years of disinformation.
Even in the NOC list, Graves’s bio was heavily redacted. Everything was so classified it hadn’t even been transferred to computer, and any paper records were likely shredded and burned.
All Zach could access on his laptop was a list of assignments, ordered by date and location.
That was enough.
Graves—whatever his real name was—had been a part of every major covert operation the
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