beneath it.
“Something wrong?” asked Tony.
“No, I just assumed we’d be going to CIA headquarters.”
“Helmont exclusively does contract work for the US government, including the CIA,” he replied, as if that explained everything. The SUV went down to the first subterranean level, stopping near an elevator.
They got out and went to the lift. A uniformed guard was waiting for them. Tony showed him his ID, then produced several pages of closely printed text. One of the many frightening security agreements Bianca had signed on the plane, she saw, recognizing her own signature on the last page. The man scrutinized it, then nodded. Tony inserted his card into a reader beside the elevator; a green light came on, and the doors opened. “After you,” he said.
Bianca entered, immediately noticing security cameras mounted prominently in each corner of the ceiling. “It’s a good thing cameras don’t really steal your soul,” she said, trying to cover her sudden nervousness. “You’ve got plenty of them!”
He grinned. “I dunno, that might explain a lot about people who work their whole lives in Washington.” The joke eased her tension, slightly.
Tony pushed the button marked “5.” The elevator began its ascent. “The bottom floors actually are used by Helmont,” he said. “They do a lot of low-level but still classified data processing, so nobody thinks twice about the security measures. The upper floors are ours, though.”
“The CIA?” she asked.
“Not quite. This project’s actually run by the Special Technology Section—STS.”
“I’m glad it’s not called the Special Technology Division!”
It took him a moment to get the joke, which produced a crooked grin. “It’s connected to the CIA and other US intelligence agencies, without being controlled by them. The org chart for the US intelligence community is … complicated. To say the least.”
“But your ID said you were with the CIA.”
“I am. On paper, anyway. STS is a black agency—it doesn’t officially exist. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
A chime announced that they had arrived at the fifth floor. The doors opened.
Bianca was almost disappointed. She had half expected some kind of elaborate control room illuminated by stylish blue lights, the sort of place where James Bond or Jack Bauer would feel at home. Instead, she stepped out into what looked like a perfectly ordinary business, corridors leading off to various offices.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter,” said a woman seated behind a reception desk. “Mr. Morgan is waiting for you with the admiral and Dr. Kiddrick in briefing room B.”
“Thanks. When did the admiral arrive?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
Tony’s expression suggested he had just tasted something bitter. “Should be fun,” he said, half to himself. “Okay, Dr. Childs. Follow me, please.” He led the way down a hallway and opened a door. “After you.”
The room was anodyne, the view of the linden trees through the windows masked by a heavy tint applied to the glass. A very large flat-screen TV occupied one wall. Three men sat at a long conference table, rising as she entered—one of them somewhat belatedly.
“Dr. Childs,” said Tony, “I’d like you to meet Martin Morgan, the project director”—a stern, middle-aged black man with glasses and graying hair—“Dr. Nathaniel Kiddrick, senior scientific adviser”—the gangling slow-stander; late fifties, with unsettlingly wide eyes beneath a domed forehead, sporting the kind of tough-guy-wannabe mustache that could only be carried off successfully by a cop or soldier—“and Admiral Gordon Harper, director of national intelligence.”
Bianca shook Morgan’s hand, then Kiddrick’s, before greeting Harper. Despite being introduced as an admiral, the white-haired man wore a suit rather than a uniform.His hand almost swallowed hers in a brief but steely grip. Unlike Kiddrick with his silly mustache, he didn’t need
“Something wrong?” asked Tony.
“No, I just assumed we’d be going to CIA headquarters.”
“Helmont exclusively does contract work for the US government, including the CIA,” he replied, as if that explained everything. The SUV went down to the first subterranean level, stopping near an elevator.
They got out and went to the lift. A uniformed guard was waiting for them. Tony showed him his ID, then produced several pages of closely printed text. One of the many frightening security agreements Bianca had signed on the plane, she saw, recognizing her own signature on the last page. The man scrutinized it, then nodded. Tony inserted his card into a reader beside the elevator; a green light came on, and the doors opened. “After you,” he said.
Bianca entered, immediately noticing security cameras mounted prominently in each corner of the ceiling. “It’s a good thing cameras don’t really steal your soul,” she said, trying to cover her sudden nervousness. “You’ve got plenty of them!”
He grinned. “I dunno, that might explain a lot about people who work their whole lives in Washington.” The joke eased her tension, slightly.
Tony pushed the button marked “5.” The elevator began its ascent. “The bottom floors actually are used by Helmont,” he said. “They do a lot of low-level but still classified data processing, so nobody thinks twice about the security measures. The upper floors are ours, though.”
“The CIA?” she asked.
“Not quite. This project’s actually run by the Special Technology Section—STS.”
“I’m glad it’s not called the Special Technology Division!”
It took him a moment to get the joke, which produced a crooked grin. “It’s connected to the CIA and other US intelligence agencies, without being controlled by them. The org chart for the US intelligence community is … complicated. To say the least.”
“But your ID said you were with the CIA.”
“I am. On paper, anyway. STS is a black agency—it doesn’t officially exist. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
A chime announced that they had arrived at the fifth floor. The doors opened.
Bianca was almost disappointed. She had half expected some kind of elaborate control room illuminated by stylish blue lights, the sort of place where James Bond or Jack Bauer would feel at home. Instead, she stepped out into what looked like a perfectly ordinary business, corridors leading off to various offices.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter,” said a woman seated behind a reception desk. “Mr. Morgan is waiting for you with the admiral and Dr. Kiddrick in briefing room B.”
“Thanks. When did the admiral arrive?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
Tony’s expression suggested he had just tasted something bitter. “Should be fun,” he said, half to himself. “Okay, Dr. Childs. Follow me, please.” He led the way down a hallway and opened a door. “After you.”
The room was anodyne, the view of the linden trees through the windows masked by a heavy tint applied to the glass. A very large flat-screen TV occupied one wall. Three men sat at a long conference table, rising as she entered—one of them somewhat belatedly.
“Dr. Childs,” said Tony, “I’d like you to meet Martin Morgan, the project director”—a stern, middle-aged black man with glasses and graying hair—“Dr. Nathaniel Kiddrick, senior scientific adviser”—the gangling slow-stander; late fifties, with unsettlingly wide eyes beneath a domed forehead, sporting the kind of tough-guy-wannabe mustache that could only be carried off successfully by a cop or soldier—“and Admiral Gordon Harper, director of national intelligence.”
Bianca shook Morgan’s hand, then Kiddrick’s, before greeting Harper. Despite being introduced as an admiral, the white-haired man wore a suit rather than a uniform.His hand almost swallowed hers in a brief but steely grip. Unlike Kiddrick with his silly mustache, he didn’t need
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