The Zero Hour

“The Stasi-oh, right, thanks,” Willkie said fuzzily, through a mouthful of smoke.

“You seemed to read the transcript the same way I did.”

Noah Willkie furrowed his brow, as if to say, Which way is that?

“In the sense that we could be dealing with a potentially serious act of terrorism here,” Morrison hastily explained. “I also sensed you weren’t in agreement with the director about ignoring the whole thing.”

Willkie took a deep, contemplative drag, then expelled a cloud. “You know what they say: the boss may not always be right, but he’s always the boss.”

Morrison nodded and was silent for a moment. “How’s Duke Taylor doing these days? I haven’t seen him in a hell of a long time.”

Perry “Duke” Taylor was Willkie’s immediate boss at the FBI, a deputy assistant director in the Intelligence Division who was the chief of the Bureau’s Counterterrorism Section.

“Oh, Duke’s fine,” Willkie said. “Same old same old.”

“His son ever get into a college?”

“He’s doing a year at a prep school. Deerfield, I think. Then he’ll try again.”

“Hmm,” Morrison said. “If he’s got any of his father’s genes, he’ll do fine.”

“Hmm,” Willkie agreed. He took another drag and peered curiously at Morrison out of the corner of an eye.

“I bet Duke would share your take on the NSA thing,” Morrison said.

Ah, so that was it, Willkie thought. “He probably would,” Willkie said dryly, “if I showed it to him. But I heard Hoyt.”

“Then again,” Morrison said, “your primary loyalty is to the Bureau.”

“It’s complicated. I’ve also got to abide by Agency procedures.”

“Who said Hoyt represents the Agency?” Morrison said with a chuckle. “There are many different points of view here.”

Willkie furrowed his brow again, as Morrison turned to leave. “Meaning-”

“I’m just saying,” Morrison said with a cryptic half-smile, “that, well, let’s say this lead is legit, and some huge bomb really does go off. Who’s going to get lynched? CIA? I doubt it. If it’s domestic, it’s you guys, right? FBI fucks up. First it’s Waco, then the World Trade Center, then Oklahoma City, and now this. And let’s say the director of the Bureau learns that one of his agents actually knew about it in advance but didn’t say anything…” He shook his head as if unable to comprehend the enormity of the consequences. “Anyway, you’ve got to rely on your best judgment, I guess is what I’m saying.”

***

During the seven months that Special Agent Noah Willkie had been assigned to the Counterterrorism Center at CIA headquarters in Langley, he rarely went to his old stomping grounds, the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue between Ninth and Tenth streets in Washington. Most of his liaison work could be done by telephone and secure fax. The only reason to visit the Hoover building anymore was to use the gym in the basement, which he never did. He didn’t much miss FBI headquarters, and besides, for the time being, working at CIA-the Pickle Factory, as CIA insiders call the place-was a novel experience.

Unfortunately, little had actually happened during his seven months at the center. The work was dull, routine stuff, bureaucratic procedures and the like. But this morning’s meeting had been different. The NSA intercept intrigued him. Despite the way the center’s director, Hoyt Phillips, was downplaying it, Willkie knew something big was in the works. And that strange encounter with Paul Morrison outside the new headquarters building… what was that all about, anyway? Morrison was obviously urging him to brief Duke Taylor, but why? Was Morrison playing out some power struggle with his boss? Was he hinting that no matter what Hoyt Phillips said, CIA was secretly working the lead, in an attempt to grab credit from FBI and everybody else? Or was Morrison simply trying to use the Bureau to do the risky work, launch an investigation CIA wouldn’t?

Instead of spending his lunch hour jogging around the CIA campus, he made a phone call and then took a quick drive into Washington to meet with his boss, Duke Taylor.

Perry Taylor was around fifty, close to retirement, but you couldn’t tell it from his demeanor. He was a genuine workaholic, driven and exacting. Yet at the same time he was one of the most affable and easygoing people Willkie had ever met.

Handsome in a sort of generic, clean-cut way, Taylor was a man of medium height with short gray hair, small brown eyes, and large wire-rimmed glasses. He’d been married to his high school sweetheart for some thirty years, and the marriage was universally believed to be as close to harmonious as a marriage could be.