The Langley Profile by Jack Bowie

Author:Jack Bowie [Bowie, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-02-22T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Saturday, 8:30 a.m.

Roger Slattery stared out his metallic-tinted windows at the morning sun rising over the Virginia countryside. The coating, designed to reduce electronic eavesdropping measures, shrouded the office in a blue haze, a color that matched his mood. Braxton was safe in Geneva, at least for the moment, and Slattery had sent alerts to all their consular agents to report on any sign of Rockwell.

Of all the people to reappear after all these years. It had just been a fleeting conversation at a reception for a new CIA Director. Slattery was amazed he had even remembered.

A shadow crossed the wall and Slattery looked up to see Lewis standing by his door. He turned back to his desk and waved her in.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said. “You looked so intent I didn’t want to knock.”

Slattery let out a tired sigh. “Not a problem, Cassie. And thanks for coming in today. It’s a difficult time. What’s up?”

“I understand, sir. The courier just delivered a package from Interpol.” Lewis set a large manila envelope on the desk. It said “Top Secret – Eyes Only” across the front. Slattery hesitated, then tore the package open and shook out the contents. A plain white envelope dropped on his desk. Slattery’s name was written longhand on the front. Slattery recognized the writing as that of Filip Gerrard, his counterpart at Interpol.

“Would you like me to go, sir?”

Slattery looked up. Lewis was standing uncomfortably, shifting from side to side, not sure what to do in the face of the communication. “Not necessary. I don’t think Filip is sending us any anthrax today,” Slattery said with a smile. “Let’s see what he did send us.”

Slattery tore the end of the envelope and pulled out a sheet of stationery. Across the top was the ornate masthead for Interpol’s Counterterrorism Center. Nothing topped French formality. In stark contrast, across the sheet, in Gerrard’s unmistakable and barely legible scrawl, it said:

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