Independence Day by Ben Coes

“Actually, he took the first fifty before we came to an agreement.”
    “Brazen.”
    Malnikov laughed mirthlessly.
    “He’s a scrawny little fuck,” he said. “There’s evil behind his eyes. They say he helped disrupt American air traffic control systems on nine/eleven.”
    Calibrisi was silent.
    “He said you would come to me and seek my help. He said to tell you everything I know.”
    Calibrisi paused.
    “He told you to help us?”
    “He was quite emphatic.”
    “My God,” said Calibrisi. “What else did he say?”
    “He said he was the one who supplied the information that enabled the U.S. to arrest my father.”
    Calibrisi was silent on the other end of the phone.
    “Are you kidding?”
    “No.”
    “Do you have a photo of him?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “But you’ve met him, right?”
    “Twice.”
    “Stay on the line, Alexei. I’m going to bring in a sketch artist.”
    *   *   *
    Five minutes later, the CIA’s top sketch artist was seated in Calibrisi’s office, listening to Malnikov and drawing a portrait of Cloud as the Russian mobster described him over speakerphone.
    Calibrisi glanced at his watch; he was supposed to be at the White House.
    He stepped outside and looked at Lindsay, his admin.
    “Is Pete back?” he asked.
    “He’s waiting for you in two.”
    “Is Dewey with him?”
    Lindsay shook her head.
    Calibrisi walked down the hallway to the conference room. Seated, Prada wingtips up on the table, was Pete Bond. He stepped inside and shut the door.
    “How did Mexico go?” asked Calibrisi.
    Bond had a blank look on his face.
    “We accomplished the mission.”
    “That’s not what I’m asking.”
    “I know.”
    “So?”
    “He froze up,” said Bond, “just like you said he would.”
    Calibrisi nodded.
    “Where is he?”
    “I dropped him off in Georgetown.”
    “Thanks, Pete.”
    Calibrisi turned to leave.
    “Chief, you need to know something.”
    “What?”
    “Gant met us at Andrews. He was waiting for the plane to land.”
    Calibrisi’s head turned sharply back to Bond.
    “ What? ”
    “He was waiting on the tarmac,” said Bond. “He asked for a first look on the debrief. Gave me a rash of shit.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    “Well, I probably shouldn’t have done this, but I told him I report to Bill and he could get my brief from him.”
    “That’s exactly what you should’ve done. Thanks for the heads-up.”
    Calibrisi reached for the door, then turned.
    “Bring him in,” said Calibrisi. “Whatever condition he’s in.”
    Bond nodded at Calibrisi.
    “Will do, J.P.”
    Calibrisi walked to the fire stairs, then descended, two steps at a time, to the fourth floor. He moved down a curving glass-walled hallway to the offices of Josh Gant, deputy director of the CIA.
    Unlike Calibrisi, Gant had a fancy set of offices, complete with a large entry foyer adorned with framed photographs of Gant posing with President J. P. Dellenbaugh.
    Gant’s assistant stood up as Calibrisi marched into the outer office and brushed past her. He stepped into Gant’s office and shut the door.
    Gant held his hand over the phone. Gant had on a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses. He was tan. His hair was brown and neatly coiffed. He had on a seersucker suit, a yellow button-down, and cordovan loafers.
    “I’m on a call,” said Gant.
    “Get off it.”
    Gant stared at Calibrisi. He put the phone back to his ear.
    “I’ll call you back.”
    “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Calibrisi.
    “I was trying to convince my daughter not to change her major from economics to French literature, if you want to know the truth.”
    “I’m talking about Dewey Andreas.”
    “Sinaloa is in my matrix, Chief. You’re the one who assigned it to me, remember?”
    “I’m talking about that psych eval you got Furr to order up,” said Calibrisi.
    “He’s got a screw loose, Hector, and I don’t like it when NOCs have loose screws. You shouldn’t