Calista got into the limousine and waited. When Gibson hesitated, she held up a thermos enticingly. He reminded himself that this was exactly how Hansel and Gretel had wound up in an oven. He got in anyway. Cools shut the door behind him. At least it was warm in an oven.
Calista poured coffee into china cups and handed him one. Beside her sat an enormous willow picnic basket, from which she served him a croissant on a small plate. His stomach growled as he tore off a hunk. It had been more than twelve hours since he’d last eaten. Flakes of pastry tumbled onto his lap, which he swept to the floor. When he glanced up, Calista was staring at him. She let her eyes drift slowly to the carpet, gravely disappointed. Chastened, Gibson took his next bite over the plate. Crumbs exploded everywhere anyway, and he gave up. Who served croissants in a car?
Throughout, he kept one eye on the laminated sleeve balanced on Calista’s knees. Inside he could see a plain brown interdepartmental envelope tied shut with string looped between two red buttons. Calista opened the envelope. Out slid a thick sheaf of papers. She leafed through them carefully while she sipped her coffee. The faintest of smiles played across her lips. She caught Gibson watching her.
“Our Mr. Eskridge has been an exceedingly naughty boy,” Calista said, returning the papers to the envelope and the envelope to the laminate sleeve.
“What was it we stole for you?” Gibson asked.
“It is in your best interests not to know.”
“Always good to have you looking out for me,” Gibson said.
“As you wish,” Calista said, holding out the envelope. “See for yourself.”
Gibson didn’t take it.
“Wise boy,” she said. “Mr. Eskridge has gained possession of the identities of certain key contacts inside Israel. Unique resources that our intelligence community has developed over the course of many years. Along with methodology and vulnerabilities—everything an ambitious intelligence service would need to turn the source for itself.”
Gibson felt himself physically shrink away from the envelope. As if the envelope itself were radioactive. If it was actually what Calista said, then it was beyond dangerous. The value of intelligence depended entirely on being the only one in its possession. If it became common knowledge, then it conferred little advantage. There was nothing the CIA prized more or protected more ruthlessly. The last eighteen months had been proof of exactly that.
“You’re kidding, right?” Gibson asked.
“Indeed not. Mr. Eskridge has a buyer in the Middle East who will, in exchange, sponsor Cold Harbor as it transitions its operations entirely to that region of the world. Not the sort of thing one would be wise to transmit electronically, so Mr. Eskridge meant to fly these documents overseas. Paper is still the best firewall in the world.”
Gibson nodded. It’s what he would have done in Eskridge’s place. Hand-couriering documents might be slow and expensive, but it was immune to a hack.
“So what’s your angle?” Gibson asked. “Hold it for ransom to him to get him off you?”
“No, that would offer but a short-term solution. I wish to resolve this troubling relationship once and for all.”
“So what, then?”
“I wish to entrust it to your care,” Calista said and held out the laminated sleeve. This time Gibson did take it, as much out of surprise as anything. He turned it over in his hands suspiciously, trying to see the hook inside Calista’s bait. Calista said, “Someone in the CIA must be made aware that they have been compromised, and by whom.”
“Me? You want me to deliver it?”
“Well, you do know such an individual. I think perhaps it would be worth something to him,” Calista said, pausing for effect. “Don’t you?”
It would. Gibson could scarcely wrap his mind around it. Damon Ogden was first and foremost a patriot. He wouldn’t like it, but he would make any deal to keep such information off the open market. This potentially changed everything, and Gibson saw possibilities for his life that he thought had been lost. But coming from Calista Dauplaise, he dared not get his hopes up. It had to be a trick. He had to be standing over a trapdoor where she had maneuvered him.
“Why would you do this for me? I don’t understand.”
Calista smiled. “Ah, I understand your confusion. Why would I do you this kindness?”
“Something like that.”
“The answer is that I am certainly not doing it for you. I am clearing the way for my son. Tidying up my affairs, which certainly encompasses Mr. Eskridge. However, the scope of my affairs also encompasses George and Jennifer and Daniel. And it encompasses you too. As such, it suits my interests that your present dilemma resolve favorably. I have asked myself what you know that might be traded to the CIA for a more lenient sentence. The fates of Suzanne and Benjamin Lombard come to mind. But the resulting scandal would scuttle my son’s career in politics before it truly begins. However, I think we can agree that the documents now in your hands make a far more compelling bargaining chip than my family’s good name.”
A knock came on the limousine’s window. Calista lowered it fractionally.
Cools said, “It’s time, Ms. Dauplaise.”
She acknowledged him and closed the window. They sat there for a moment in the still of the limousine.
“As much as I do enjoy our time together, I am afraid that duty calls.” Calista leaned forward. “Do we have an understanding? Will you do this one last service for me?”
“Yeah, I’ll do it. But not for you.”
“Excellent,” Calista said as if they’d agreed on a restaurant. She knocked on the window, and Cools held open the door. Gibson followed her out. Cools and Sidhu looked uneasy. Both anxious to be gone before Cold Harbor arrived.
“Gentlemen, your services are no longer required,” Calista said, turning to her men. She handed each an envelope. Confused, the two men opened them and thumbed through a thick stack of bills. “Consider this your severance,” she said.
“Ma’am?” Cools said. “Are you sure about this?”
“I do hope your cold improves,” Calista said. “You may keep the SUV. The title has been transferred to your name, Mr. Cools. My limousine will remain here. As will Mr. Vaughn.”
Cools and Sidhu glanced at Gibson and then at each other. They came to a silent conclusion. Without another word, they hustled to the SUV and drove away. When they were out of sight, Calista handed Gibson a key.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“The key to your automobile. I had it delivered in the expectation that we would reach an accord. You will find it in a small lot beyond the fence behind these hangars. Eskridge will not look there so long as you wait until he departs.”
“What will you do?”
“I must see that Mr. Eskridge is greeted properly. He and I have much to discuss.”
“He’ll kill you.”
“I am touched by your concern,” Calista said, pulling her fur coat tight around her. “But I have the situation under control.”