| think that can be arranged.” Relief flooded Marks’s face. “Thanks, Rodney.” “Don’t mention it.” He began to dig into what was left of the chowder. As Marks was about to rise, he said, “Do you by any chance know where Soraya is? She’s not in her office and she’s not answering her cell.” “Unh-unh.” Marks resettled himself. “Why?” “No reason.” Something in Feir’s voice gave him pause. “No reason? Really?” “Just, you know how office scuttlebutt can be.” “Meaning?” “You two are tight, aren’t you.” “Is that what you heard?” “Well, yeah.” Feir placed his spoon into the empty bowl. “But if it isn’t true-” “I don’t know where she is, Rodney.” Marks’s gaze drifted off. “We never had that kind of thing going.” “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” Marks waved away his apology. “Forget it. I have. So what do you want to talk with her about?” This was what Feir was hoping he’d say. According to the general, he and LaValle required intel on the nuts and bolts of how Typhon worked. “Budgets. She’s got so many agents in the field, the DCI wants an accounting of their expenses-which, frankly, hasn’t been done since Martin died.” “That’s understandable, given what’s been going on in here lately.” Feir shrugged deferentially. “I’d do it myself; Soraya’s got more on her plate than she can handle, I imagine. Trouble is, I don’t even know where the files are.” He was going to add: Do you? but decided that would be |
rough concrete corridor painted an institutional green, the buzzing fluorescent tubes that hurled purple shadows on the linoleum floor as they passed. He waited patiently outside the locker room for Kendall to change his clothes; then they proceeded down the corridor. At the end of it they climbed a flight of stairs to a reinforced metal door. LaValle pressed his forefinger onto a fingerprint reader. He was rewarded by the clicking of bolts being shot, not unlike a bank vault opening. They found themselves in another corridor, the polar opposite of the one they were leaving. This one was paneled in polished mahogany; wall sconces produced a soft, buttery glow between paintings of historical naval engagements, phalanxes of Roman legions, Prussian Hussars, and English light cavalry. The first door on the left brought them into a room straight out of a high-toned men’s club, replete with hunter-green walls, cream moldings, leather furniture, antique breakfronts, and a wooden bar from an old English pub. The sofas and chairs were well spaced, the better to allow occupants to speak of private matters. Flames cracked and sparked comfortingly in a large fireplace. A liveried butler met them before they’d taken three steps on the thick, sound-deadening carpet. He guided them to their accustomed spot, in a discreet corner where two high-backed leather chairs were arranged on either side of a mahogany pedestal card table. They were near a tall, mullioned window flanked by thick drapes, which overlooked the Virginia countryside. This club-like room |
