Nick Finelli was a buddy from his days in Intelligence Support Activity. ISA, or the Activity, as it was affectionately known, was the military’s version of the CIA and provided tactical support to the military’s Special Operations Command, particularly Delta and DEVGRU. Serving in the Activity made you mighty attractive to defense contractors, and after Nick cycled out, he’d immediately landed a job with Spectrum Protection Ltd., which specialized in computer systems and cybersecurity. Exactly the kind of employer Gibson thought he’d have lining up for his services when he left the Marines.
The Activity should have opened doors in the private sector. Gibson had been something of a star in his unit. But whatever doors it did open, Vice President Benjamin Lombard had slammed shut again. Lombard hadn’t taken it kindly when Gibson had hacked his computers and turned his files and e-mails over to the Washington Post. It hadn’t mattered that Gibson had only been sixteen at the time, or that he’d gone on to serve his country with distinction. When Gibson left the Marines, he’d learned the hard way what it meant to be on the business end of the vice president’s blacklist.
It had been a hard couple of years, and he’d had to scrounge for work. It had cost him his marriage and very nearly the dream house that he’d intended for his family. Bought at the height of the market before the financial collapse, the house had teetered on the edge of foreclosure for several years. It was Gibson’s nightmare, losing that house. He might not ever live there again, but nothing mattered more to him than his daughter growing up there. It was safe. Good schools. Pretty backyard with a canopy of elm trees. Gibson smiled. It was finally within reach. With Lombard no longer in the picture and a job with Spectrum Protection on the table, he could, for the first time since he’d left the Marines, envision a future in which Ellie’s childhood at 53 Mulberry Court was secure.
Maybe that explained how badly things went from there.
The polygraph was going smoothly in hour three. Gibson was starting to anticipate the break for lunch at noon. Ms. Gabir’s questions flowed steadily, punctuated by his staccato yeses and nos. His readings fed into a laptop, and she paused periodically to type a note, but otherwise they were making good progress until the knock at the door. Amanda Gabir excused herself and stepped out into the hall. When she returned, Gibson saw a pair of security guards behind her.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. The polygraph has been terminated.”
“What? By who?”
She didn’t answer but set to unstrapping him.
“By who?” he said, voice rising.
One of the security guards stepped into the room. “Sir, please lower your voice.”
He took that as an invitation to yell. “Who?”
“At the request of Spectrum Protection,” Amanda Gabir said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why. Please don’t ask me any more questions.”
Unwilling to sit still and be unstrapped like a child on a fairground ride, Gibson ripped the blood pressure cuff off and threw it to the ground.
“Easy there, friend,” the guard said.
Gibson chose not to be easy, and by the time he was hustled out the back into a service corridor, they weren’t friends anymore either.
“Get the hell off me,” he shouted to the empty corridor as the door slammed shut.
Traffic was a typical Northern Virginia quagmire. It took forty-five minutes to drive the fifteen miles to Nick Finelli’s offices at Spectrum Protection. Security was there waiting for him. Five of them. Solid men in matching blazers. They saw him coming and formed a wall; Gibson didn’t even get through the front door. He made his scene, and they let him rage for a while. He mistook their restraint for timidity and made a lunge for the door. They threw him to the ground and threatened to call the police.
“Go on home,” the oldest of the five said. “You had a bad day. You want to top it off with a night in jail?”
Gibson dusted himself off and thought about whether or not he did. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight, but he was in one of those states of mind in which knowing better wasn’t the same as doing better.
“What’s it going to be, friend?” the guard asked.
That made Gibson laugh. “I’m everybody’s friend today.”
“I’m trying, but you need to go home. There’s nothing in there for you.”
That was becoming abundantly clear. Gibson walked back to the street and turned around to stare at the building. Was Nick Finelli staring down at him? Did he feel like a big man hiding up in his office? How many times had Gibson covered his ass? Debugged his elementary-school coding? He tried Nick’s number. It rang until it went to voice mail. Gibson hung up and dialed again. The fourth time, the phone rang once and a prerecorded message told him that the number he was dialing was unavailable. Nick had blocked his number rather than give him an explanation. So that was how it was going to be. They’d see about that.
Nick Finelli’s white Lexus pulled into his driveway a little before seven that night. It was a large, modern house in a development in Fairfax. Bigger by half than Gibson’s ex-wife’s house. Toys littered the deep-set front yard, and Gibson watched Nick tidy them up. He’d had time to cool off, and the urge to wring Nick’s neck had passed. Whatever was happening wasn’t Nick’s doing.
Gibson crossed the street and called out.
Nick did not look happy to see him. His old friend unbuttoned his jacket and ever so slightly turned his right hip away from Gibson. “What are you doing?”
“I tried to talk to you at the office, but your five secretaries said you were in a meeting.”
“You can’t be here.”
Gibson looked at the ground for confirmation. “And yet here I am.”
A car passed, and Nick watched it until it was out of sight. “I can’t talk to you. You know how much trouble I’d be in? I have a family too, you know.”
“So? You know where this leaves me.”
Nick put his hands on his hips and nodded his head glumly.
“Why’d they pull the plug on the polygraph?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I don’t know. They didn’t see fit to enlighten me.”
“Who?”
“My boss. His boss. Christ, the CEO called personally.”
“And that’s unusual?”
“Are you serious? My boss has six bosses between him and the CEO. He’s never even been on the same floor as the CEO. So, yeah, it’s unusual as hell.”
“What do you think happened?”
Finelli looked up and down the street. “All I know is, I’m in my supervisor’s office. We’re talking when the phone rings. He answers it and sits bolt upright like it’s Ronald Reagan’s ghost. Goes sheet white.”
“And?”
“Cease all contact. That was the word that came down.”
“With me?”
Nick Finelli nodded. “I don’t know what you’re into, but for the CEO to call down personally and halt a routine hire? Christ, I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”
“What the hell is going on?” Gibson asked no one in particular. Lombard was gone. This blacklisting was supposed to be a thing of the past.
“I don’t know, but you’re radioactive. We can’t touch you. I doubt anyone will, whatever this thing is.”
“Find out for me.”
“No can do, man.”
“You owe me,” Gibson said. “You know you do.”
“Yeah, I do owe you. But there’s a line, Vaughn, and you’re not at the front of it,” Nick said and gestured toward his house and the family inside. “So I’m just going to have to keep owing you for now. I’ll understand if you need to hold that against me.”