Death Wave by Stephen Coonts Page B

She hadn’t been fired so much as promoted sideways; she was over at Foggy Bottom now, working for the secretary of state.
Rubens could not imagine a better move for the woman.
The new ANSA was a retired Marine four-star general, John L. James. The President’s appointment of James had been a real shock to Beltway insiders; the current POTUS was not seen as a friend of the military. Speculation and outright gossip held that James was nonconfrontational, had no personal agenda or strong ideological leanings, and could evaluate ideas dispassionately whether they came from the left or the right. Historically, the NSC had often been blocked or sidelined in the rough-and-tumble politics required to gain and hold the President’s ear.
James was well respected by nearly everyone in town and was known as a team player. With the secretary of state, the secretary of defense, the director of central intelligence, and the President’s chief of staff all battling with the NSC for presidential access, it would take a no-nonsense combat veteran as well as a diplomat to thread the labyrinth of Washington’s halls of power. Hell, the guy was a former commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps. If anyone could handle the job, he could.
Rubens knew a number of U.S. Marines, both active duty and retired. Charlie Dean was one. He wondered if the President knew just what he’d signed on for by appointing one as his advisor on national security.
“All rise,” Wehrum called from behind the podium. A moment later, General James strode into the room, followed by several aides and accompanied by Rodney C. Mullins, a congressman from New York and a prominent member of both the House Armed Services Committee and the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence. Rubens had not been aware that Mullins was going to be present today.
“Sit down, sit down,” James growled at the room. He was known to dislike ceremony and protocol. “Sorry I’m late. The Honorable Mr. Mullins and I were held up in an Intelligence Oversight Committee meeting. Mr. Wehrum? What’s up first on the dog-and-pony show?”
“Sir … the Palestinian crisis. We have a report from the deputy DNI—”
“Let’s get on with it, then. What do you have for us, Mr. Scribens?”
Wehrum sounded annoyed by James’ bluntness—or perhaps it was by his dismissal of the briefing session as a dog-and-pony show, Pentagon slang for formal prepared briefings designed to please, rather than inform, high-ranking officers or civilians.
Rubens smiled inwardly. It was well known that Wehrum had expected to step into Bing’s shoes; she’d been grooming him as the next ANSA throughout most of her tenure, and James’ appointment must have been a bitter surprise. He took his seat, however, as Paul C. Scribens, one of four deputy directors of national intelligence, stood and walked to the podium.
It would be, as Wehrum had promised, a long session.
Ruebens wondered if Dean and Akulinin were clear yet, and back in contact with the Art Room.
    CHARLIE DEAN
SAFE HOUSE
DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN
WEDNESDAY, 2040 HOURS LOCAL TIME
     
“Net li oo vahs luchshi comatih?” Dean asked.
The white-haired woman peering through the cracked-open door looked him up and down, then stared past him at Akulinin and Masha. The crack closed, Dean heard the rattle of the chain lock, and then the door opened again. “Did anyone see you?” she asked in accented English. She was an older woman with gray hair and eyes that might have seen too much. Dean guessed that she might be in her sixties. “Did anyone follow you?”
“Not that we could see,” Dean told her. “All the excitement is over in the center of the city.”
“Excitement is right. You three have kicked over hornets’ nest. Get in, get inside.”
They’d parked the Hunter inside a shed behind the Adkhamov safe house. The woman running the house, Tatyana Konovalova, was a transplanted Russian who’d been recruited by the CIA in Moscow back in the bad old