The Coldest Warrior by Paul Vidich

Author:Paul Vidich
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Epub3
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

14

West Wing

The call to visit the West Wing came late on Tuesday as Gabriel was leaving his Langley Headquarters office. He thought he misheard his secretary, but she repeated Phillip Treacher’s request to meet. He offered two appointment times the next day, but in the demure manner of an efficient career secretary who wouldn’t permit her boss to slip away, she replied, “Tonight. He wants to see you now.”

Gabriel stopped at his office door, raincoat in hand. His first thought was that he had promised Claire he would be home for dinner.

“You can be there in thirty minutes,” his secretary said. “There isn’t much traffic at this hour. Shall I confirm?”

He closed his eyes against his bad choices. “What’s the subject?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Get me the Mount Kenya files. I need to take a look before I go. And call my wife.”

“What should I tell her?”

“I was called to the White House. She’ll be upset. I would rather you made the call.”

“You’re a coward, Mr. Gabriel,” she said, smiling.

Gabriel was the designated CIA contact who initiated wire transfers requested by the White House. Money came from Saudi banks into a special numbered account Gabriel had set up at Riggs Bank, and when instructed, he wired the funds to numbered accounts in Zurich or Paris. Gabriel wasn’t told who got the money or what it supported, but he knew the White House had found a way to go around the CIA, and he suspected it funded the White House’s pet projects in Africa. These covert operations were off the CIA’s books and invisible to Congress. Gabriel was the ignorant errand boy.

GABRIEL MOVED THROUGH the narrow West Wing hallways following the security guard’s directions, but he had missed a turn or misheard the guard, and he found himself wandering past the small closet offices coveted by every political hack in Washington. Men dressed in navy-blue suits, wide ties, and starched white shirts, but a few defied the conforming fashion with muttonchop sideburns and aviator glasses. There was an urgent air about these men as they darted past Gabriel or emptied from a conference room, comporting themselves as if what they were doing mattered more than anything else in Washington. Ad hoc meetings in the hallway were held in clipped voices, and Gabriel sensed that the place was in permanent crisis.

Gabriel paused at a glass-enclosed work area where young staffers sat hunched at their desks. The dual and dueling demands of life and work were on display. It was long past the end of the normal workday, and these ambitious young men and women were sacrificing their Friday evening for the insular energy of the West Wing. Three televisions were turned to CBS, ABC, and NBC, and occasionally one of the staffers looked up and stared at the live sports coverage.

“Where can I find Phillip Treacher?” Gabriel asked. A woman pointed to a desk at the end of the corridor, and he thanked her.

Gabriel loomed over Treacher’s conscientious secretary and gave his name, startling her.

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