Iron Orchid by Stuart Woods

English, the deputy director for operations, and Robert Kinney, the brand new director of the FBI. They were looking down at all that was left of a townhouse. Lance had choppered up from Langley with the Deputy Director of Intelligence in the middle of the night, and he missed the sleep. He must be getting old, he thought.
    The DDIO and the director were grim-faced, and Lance wasn’t sure if it was because of what they knew or what they didn’t know.
    A young agent stepped up to Kinney and whispered something in his ear.
    “Excuse me a minute, Hugh, Lance,” Kinney said and walked a few steps away with the agent. Lance could see his face as the agent delivered his news, and Kinney looked both astonished and outraged. “That’s impossible,” Lance heard him say. “I never did that.” Kinney came back to English and Lance. “This is Special Agent Kerry Smith,” he said, and introduced the two men. “He’s brought me some news, and it puts this incident in a whole new light.”
    “What is it, Bob?” English asked.
    “It looks as though the explosive used here was C-4, and that it came from the evidence room in our New York field station downtown.”
    “How can that be possible?” English asked. “Do you suspect one of your own people?”
    Kinney shook his head. “Here’s how it went: a man in a suit walked into the evidence room, presented credentials that identified him as an FBI agent and presented a letter, ostensibly signed by me and endorsed by the AIC, authorizing him to remove four pounds of C-4 from the evidence room to transport to D.C. as evidence in a trial. The man’s I.D. said his name was Curry. There is no agent by that name, but by God, the name was in the database that confirmed his I.D.”
    “How could an outsider get hold of a verifiable I.D. card for an agent who doesn’t exist?” Lance asked.
    “Hugh,” Kinney said, “has Kate spoken with you about the Teddy Fay problem?”
    “Oh, God,” English said, nodding.
    Lance was baffled. “Teddy Fay is dead, isn’t he?”
    “Not anymore,” Kinney replied.
     
    HOLLY AND HER FOUR TEAM MEMBERS were in the conference room on time. A man they didn’t know came in and put a cardboard box on the table.
    “Good morning,” he said. “Mr. Cabot couldn’t be with you this morning; he’s in New York with the DDL.” He reached into the box and removed five heavy brown envelopes and distributed them among the group, calling each by name. It was the first time Holly had heard any of their names.
    “First, please pass me the I.D. cards you were issued when you arrived at the Farm.”
    The group turned in their I.D.'s.
    “Now open your envelopes,” the man said. “Inside you’ll find a leather wallet with your permanent I.D. card, which bears your photograph, your right index fingerprint and your signature. It also contains, on a magnetic strip, much other information from your service record, including a copy of your DNA profile. The card identifies you as an officer of the CIA and explicitly authorizes you to carry concealed weapons, not just firearms, in the fifty states and the territories of the United States. Should you be sent abroad on duty, you’ll be provided with other weapons authorizations.
    “Also in the envelope is a copy of your commission, and you will return that to me to be placed in your service record. Also in the envelope is a box of five hundred business cards. Generally speaking, you are not to identify yourself as a CIA officer unless circumstances demand it, but if you must, you’ll have these two means of identification. The phone number on your business card is a Washington number, but any calls you receive will be routed to an electronic mailbox or to your local number, upon your instructions.
    “Also in the envelope is a card with a New York City address and a street map showing its location. You will present yourselves at that address by three p.m. today. Your car, if you own one, will be garaged in the