minded. It was just that this time, burnishing his brand wasn’t a particular priority. He had to clear up this Hamilton situation. It would be very bad if the journalist somehow were to make it home.
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 10
R emar sat in the waiting area outside Senator McQueen’s office in the Hart Senate Office Building. He’d been told to arrive at two o’clock and it was now a quarter past. Remar suspected the man was keeping him waiting on purpose. If you wanted to understand the mentality of most Washington insiders, all you had to do was put yourself in the mind of an insecure teenager, at which point it all began to make sense. Even the director liked to play these little power games from time to time. Remar had little patience for it. He considered himself a straight shooter and preferred to deal with people like himself. He smiled, thinking not for the first time that, given his preferences, he was definitely living in the wrong city.
He thought about the audit the director had ordered him to carry out on God’s Eye. He hadn’t found any way Perkins could have had access, which was the main thing. But he’d discovered something else, as well. The most sensitive uses to which the program had been put had been walled off. What remained . . . well, if the worst were to happen, if the program were to be revealed, it would all pose less of a problem for Remar than it would for the director, who had conceived God’s Eye in the first place as part of his “collect it all” mantra.
The thought made him feel guilty, and he half-consciously rubbed the plasticized scar tissue below the eye patch. He’d been the director’s man ever since waking in agony while being tended by a forward surgical team, unable to see through the dressing covering his face, the director himself, then a colonel, holding his hand through his own bandages and telling him he was all right, he was going to be all right.
And he had been all right, eventually, after a half-dozen reconstructive surgeries, extensive rehabilitation, and a yearlong addiction to painkillers that would have led to a formal reprimand had the director not intervened to have the problem expunged from his record. He’d told the director Manus was like a dog, but he hadn’t meant it as an insult. He admired that kind of loyalty, valued it. And, when it came to the director, shared it. He owed his life to the director, his career, his position. He didn’t approve of all the director’s decisions, and if it were up to him, things would be run differently. But it wasn’t up to him, that wasn’t how fate had played out, and what he owed the director, he sometimes just had to borrow against his own conscience.
So it didn’t matter that his audit had revealed a possible . . . divergence in their potential exposure, and therefore in their interests. And besides, any divergence was only theoretical anyway. Because Perkins didn’t have the access. He couldn’t.
At just past two thirty, two frightfully young and bright-eyed staffers emerged from the inner sanctum and closed the door behind them. Yes, I get it , Remar thought. You were keeping me waiting just for a conversation with a couple of interns .
A few minutes later, a secretary ushered him in. McQueen stood from behind his massive desk and hurried around to shake Remar’s hand, his jowls bouncing. “General Remar! So good to see you. Thanks for coming and apologies for keeping you waiting.”
“Senator,” Remar said, wanting to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. The man’s hand was moist, and Remar resisted the urge to wipe his palm on his trousers after they shook.
“Please,” McQueen said, circling back behind his desk as though afraid he might shrivel if too long away from it. “Have a seat. What can I do for a genuine war hero?”
Remar didn’t mind the bullshit, but he hated when these idiots felt compelled to attach it to some notion of his
CHAPTER . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . 10
R emar sat in the waiting area outside Senator McQueen’s office in the Hart Senate Office Building. He’d been told to arrive at two o’clock and it was now a quarter past. Remar suspected the man was keeping him waiting on purpose. If you wanted to understand the mentality of most Washington insiders, all you had to do was put yourself in the mind of an insecure teenager, at which point it all began to make sense. Even the director liked to play these little power games from time to time. Remar had little patience for it. He considered himself a straight shooter and preferred to deal with people like himself. He smiled, thinking not for the first time that, given his preferences, he was definitely living in the wrong city.
He thought about the audit the director had ordered him to carry out on God’s Eye. He hadn’t found any way Perkins could have had access, which was the main thing. But he’d discovered something else, as well. The most sensitive uses to which the program had been put had been walled off. What remained . . . well, if the worst were to happen, if the program were to be revealed, it would all pose less of a problem for Remar than it would for the director, who had conceived God’s Eye in the first place as part of his “collect it all” mantra.
The thought made him feel guilty, and he half-consciously rubbed the plasticized scar tissue below the eye patch. He’d been the director’s man ever since waking in agony while being tended by a forward surgical team, unable to see through the dressing covering his face, the director himself, then a colonel, holding his hand through his own bandages and telling him he was all right, he was going to be all right.
And he had been all right, eventually, after a half-dozen reconstructive surgeries, extensive rehabilitation, and a yearlong addiction to painkillers that would have led to a formal reprimand had the director not intervened to have the problem expunged from his record. He’d told the director Manus was like a dog, but he hadn’t meant it as an insult. He admired that kind of loyalty, valued it. And, when it came to the director, shared it. He owed his life to the director, his career, his position. He didn’t approve of all the director’s decisions, and if it were up to him, things would be run differently. But it wasn’t up to him, that wasn’t how fate had played out, and what he owed the director, he sometimes just had to borrow against his own conscience.
So it didn’t matter that his audit had revealed a possible . . . divergence in their potential exposure, and therefore in their interests. And besides, any divergence was only theoretical anyway. Because Perkins didn’t have the access. He couldn’t.
At just past two thirty, two frightfully young and bright-eyed staffers emerged from the inner sanctum and closed the door behind them. Yes, I get it , Remar thought. You were keeping me waiting just for a conversation with a couple of interns .
A few minutes later, a secretary ushered him in. McQueen stood from behind his massive desk and hurried around to shake Remar’s hand, his jowls bouncing. “General Remar! So good to see you. Thanks for coming and apologies for keeping you waiting.”
“Senator,” Remar said, wanting to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible. The man’s hand was moist, and Remar resisted the urge to wipe his palm on his trousers after they shook.
“Please,” McQueen said, circling back behind his desk as though afraid he might shrivel if too long away from it. “Have a seat. What can I do for a genuine war hero?”
Remar didn’t mind the bullshit, but he hated when these idiots felt compelled to attach it to some notion of his
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