Dead Edge: the gripping political thriller for fans of Lee Child. Jack Ford

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СКАЧАТЬ Cooper stopped. Left his mouth wide open.

      ‘You look like shit by the way.’

      He stared at his wife. Rather, his estranged wife. Rather, his almost ex-wife and mother of his only child. He said, ‘So people like to keep telling me, but hey, it’s good to see you too, Maddie.’

WASHINGTON, D.C.

       USA

       11

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      ‘I don’t get it. What the hell have you guys been doing?’

      President John Woods sat chewing the top of his pen. He watched the grainy CCTV recording of the latest bombing attack on home soil as he sat in the over-air conditioned situation room whilst ignoring the tight cramps in his stomach – a direct and unwelcome result of last night’s state dinner held for the Prime Minister of Canada, where he’d consumed in enthusiastic abundance the Appalachian cheese. Today, however, he was sure as hell paying for it. He said, ‘You’re telling me there was no warning?’

      Charles ‘Chuck’ Harrison, acting chief of the CIA Counter Terrorism Center took a sip of the iced water in front of him.

      Slowly.

      Shuffled his papers.

      Slowly.

      Sniffed and then inhaled.

      Slowly.

      Making damn sure the dozen or so gathered in the ‘sit’ room knew he was going to make the President wait. Because he didn’t appreciate it. Woods’ tone. Not one Goddamn tiny bit.

      He could have understood, if he was some nappy-ass kid fresh out of college, or even one of Woods’ sycophants – who to his mind filled every inch of the White house. But then he guessed that was Democrats for you. Brownnosers talking about tolerance.

      Heck, George W. Bush had had his faults, but at least he hadn’t held back when it came to getting the job done with air strikes and boots on the ground, or when enhanced interrogation was needed – as it so often was – for some fundamentalist full of warped ideology, who was less than forthcoming with vital intel. And contrary to what the 2014 Senate report had said about EI, it did make a difference. A hell of a difference. A few days of walling, waterboarding, electrodes to the genitalia, along with sleep deprivation music made the most brainwashed of men begin to talk.

      To his mind, the FBI had sold their souls, reporting to the Senate that it’d been them, not the CIA, who’d gotten most of the information from the alleged mastermind of the 9/11 attack, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed – or KSH, as he was usually referred to. And as a consequence of their perfidy there’d been a public outcry with emotions running high and liberalists bandying about the word torture. Hell, he just called it getting answers.

      Then Obama had come into his administration with so much fanfare. The black man had crawled out and celebrated in the streets as if they’d just been emancipated. It was a Goddamn joke, with the irony being that Obama had become a puppet to the white man anyway, worried about not learning from Afghanistan or Iraq, and not wanting another war. But they were at war. Had been for a long time now. The war on terror. And the sooner everyone realized they were in the midst of world war three, the better. Though Chuck wasn’t certain realization was going to help matters, because now of all times America needed a Republican as Commander-in-Chief, and what they’d been landed with was Goddamn John Woods.

      John Woods stared at Chuck, knowing exactly what he was doing. He’d never like the guy, and he wasn’t sure why but instinct told him the man was a sadist and a racist one at that. And hell, it wasn’t just because he’d read the classified CIA reports on the enhanced interrogation in the black sites where Chuck had been in charge – though those had certainly added to his theory. Savage, and in excess of what was already excessive. No, there was just something about the guy. The same something he’d had about the guys in the college football team who strutted around fanning their tails. Peacocks. And the same something he’d had when he’d first met his ex-wife, but had pushed aside. Shoot, he should’ve listened to his gut on that one.

      But then, Chuck wasn’t about personal and liking him was beside the point. Maybe it was better that way so lines never blurred. He was real good at what he did. Damn good. Experienced. He’d been a military man first, before changing direction to join the CIA, Counter Terrorism Centre. Worked hard. Eventually became Chief of Station in Khartoum, Sudan in the nineties, moving to Tehran, before getting the top agency post in Baghdad at the height of the Iraq war.

      And now he was acting Chief of CTC, since Brent Miller’s debilitating stroke last month. The stroke hadn’t come as a surprise, only that Brent hadn’t had one earlier.

      Brent had lived at the job. Sustaining himself on sixty cigarettes a day and very little else. He’d even had an aluminum fold-up bed in the office, as if on summer camp. And folklore had it that when his wife had picked up her stuff and left him, Brent hadn’t even noticed, even when he’d returned home on a few occasions for a change of clothes. It’d taken an email from his wife’s attorney a couple of months later for him to realise she’d gone and had filed for divorce.

      Chief of CTC was one of the most pressurized jobs there was. No doubt about it. Even more so than his, Woods figured.

      So for now Chuck was acting Chief. The only man at the moment who was really up to it. Whether or not relations between them would withstand the position becoming permanent, only time would tell.

      Clenching tight and refusing to excuse himself for the call of the bathroom, Woods said, ‘Chuck?’

      ‘Mr President?’

      ‘You need me to repeat the question?’

      ‘With due respect, Mr President, it didn’t feel much like a question. More of an accusation with the finger of blame pointing directly towards the CTC. Something I take exception to.’

      Shifting his weight onto his other elbow, to try to ease the build-up of gas and excess cheese, and trying to curb his temper, Woods shook his head. ‘For Christ’s sake, accountability goes hand in hand with the job.’

      ‘I agree, and I’d be happy to hold my hands up, but as the bomb was on Homeland, I’d say it was the FBI who needed to answer your question.’

      ‘I’m asking you.’

      ‘I know you are. But may I remind you, Mr President, the CIA doesn’t work on home soil. It’s not our jurisdiction.’

      ‘Oh come on, Chuck, cut the crap, who do you think you’re talking to? Officially that’s what you like to put out there, but both you and I know that’s far from the truth.’

      ‘All I know is without procedure there’s chaos, and I run my department by the book.’

      ‘Like I say, Chuck. Cut the crap. This is the CIA we’re talking about, not the New York public library. Don’t ever try to bullshit me. People are dying and getting hurt out there. America is on red alert.’

      ‘I repeat, Homeland is not our jurisdiction.’

      ‘If that were the case, why СКАЧАТЬ