Chapter 10

10

Langley, Virginia

Erin Banfield’s dark green eyes were blurry after hours of scrolling through computer databases on her monitor. Her small, cramped desk was littered with hard printouts and bankers boxes stacked like Jenga bricks. She looked like a hoarder rather than a gifted CIA senior analyst. She was located in the basement of one of the older annexes on the campus.

Banfield had attended all of the technical conferences and training seminars required for the job, but she still had a hard time trusting the latest artificial intelligence search programs. Over the years she had caught a few mistakes that the supposedly more efficient—some even said “faultless”—machines had committed. In her line of work, the hardest cases were usually broken open upon discovery of the smallest of details—including the ones missed by the witless computer chips.

“Jeez, Erin. Any chance you can pick up a phone?”

Banfield glanced up. Trevor Das, her immediate supervisor, draped an athletic arm over the cubicle barrier. He wore a stylishly cut dress shirt and designer-label suit slacks. She knew from her few visits to his corner office in the main building that the matching suit coat was freshly pressed, tailored to fit his broad shoulders, and studiously draped on a hanger.

“I’m sorry?” Banfield said. She pulled a hank of her flame-red hair behind a freckled ear.

“Your phone?”

She glanced down at her cluttered desk in search of her phone, finally finding it under a stack of bulging file folders.

“What about it?”

Das held up the unplugged phone cord. Cell phones were forbidden in the annex.

“Again?”

Banfield rolled her eyes and grimaced.

“Sorry, Chief. You know I can’t handle the distraction.”

“It wouldn’t have hurt my feelings if you had kept your office near mine.”

“I like it down here. Nice and quiet. Lets me focus.”

Das couldn’t help but grin. Banfield was her own person. He put up with her eccentricities because she got the job done. She was relentless to a fault and had proven her analytical skills were second to none in her nearly thirty years with the Company. He glanced around the office. Or more accurately, the oversized storage room with Banfield’s desk thrown into the mix.

“Actually, I don’t mind coming all the way down here. I’m training for a triathlon and I need to improve my endurance.”

“Funny.” Banfield smiled. Das was pleasant enough, and a decent administrator of the interagency arms-trafficking task force they both served. She had applied for the head position and had made it to the final round of interviews—par for the course. Early in her career she had won dozens of commendations for her superlative analytical work. She had single-handedly thwarted terror plots, uncovered spy networks, and ferreted out enemy battle plans. She thought after all her years of faithful service it would finally have been her turn.

And yet she wasn’t entirely surprised when Das was handed the brass ring instead of her. It was a management position requiring the necessary people skills to navigate interagency coffee klatches, closed-door subcommittee hearings, and departmental briefings. Exactly the kinds of things she wasn’t good at. Still, it would have been a nice cherry on top of her long career that would soon be coming to a close.

But Das? He was so young. Just two years out of grad school. But he was the latest chosen one. The son of a venture capitalist, Das bragged that his childhood playground was his father’s Gulfstream as the two of them jet-setted around the globe sniffing out cutting-edge tech opportunities. The privileged upbringing partly explained why the handsome young man was fluent in four languages, including Hindi, his parents’ native tongue.

He was also the product of an Ivy League education, a scratch golfer, and a consummate ladies’ man according to the office gossip she overheard in the cafeteria.

“So what can I do for you, Trevor?”

Das flashed a beguiling smile.

“You did something with your hair.”

In fact, she had just colored her hair yesterday to tame the gray. She absentmindedly ran her fingers through the length of it, an old nervous habit.

“Thank you for noticing. But I’m guessing my hair isn’t the reason for your visit.”

“I know I’ve interrupted you, but I need to ask you a question.”

“Of course.”

Das checked his Rolex. “Look, I gotta run. There’s a meeting on the Hill I have to sit in on. I’ll keep it short.”

“Shoot.”

“Tell me more about this Langston Overholt character. You used to work for him, didn’t you?”

“Years ago.”

“And what’s your opinion of him?”

“A legendary field officer, a first-rate intellect, and an old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool patriot.”

“What’s his current status?”

“Technically, Mr. Overholt is retired from active service, but he has an ‘emeritus’ role with the Agency. He consults regularly with POTUS, committee chairmen, and even allied foreign governments. He still maintains his portfolio and has been given a great deal of latitude.”

“Is that why he runs his own black budget?”

“I had no idea. Is there a problem?”

Das darkened. “The old fart is stepping on my toes.”

“How do you mean?”

“That dinosaur is running a black op into Afghanistan even as we speak. He’s tracking illegal arms shipments. That’s my turf.”

That’s interesting, Banfield thought. “Mr. Overholt has an impeccable service record. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“I’m sure he does, which is why he also knows he’s crowding into my lane. Arms trafficking is my portfolio. He didn’t so much as drop me a courtesy note, let alone consult with me on this.”

“He must have his reasons.”

“Yeah. He’s an old fossil who does things his way. I don’t like it.”

“I understand.”

Only, she didn’t. Overholt was trading shots with Stasi killers in the backstreets of East Berlin before this kid was a seed in his father’s pod. Banfield thought Das should have more respect for his elders—especially one as accomplished as Langston Overholt.

Das read the expression on her face. “You really admire the old T. rex, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Fossils belong to the past. They’re museum pieces. The world is evolving, progressing.”

“I’m not sure it’s evolving for the better, are you?”

Das straightened his back. “ ‘Survival of the fittest’ is the name of the game and ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan died a long time ago. There are more progressive ways of doing the job. Until guys like Overholt finally step aside, we won’t be seeing any serious advances in the way things get done around here.” His eyes briefly darted to the stacks of paper printouts on her desk.

“I’m sure you know what’s best,” Banfield said.

“If he messes things up, there will be a price to pay.”

“For him or for you?”

Das’s dark eyes narrowed for a second, then he flashed a smile, brilliant as a sunrise parting a storm cloud.

Banfield felt its warmth wash over her. A ladies’ man, indeed.

“Well, thanks again for your time. Sorry to bother you.” He winked. “Keep up the good work.” Das turned on his polished Italian loafers and sped away for his meeting.

Banfield sighed. Twenty years earlier she would have given him a run for his money—and maybe even put another notch in her bedpost. But Das was right. Time marches on.

She fished around on her desk for a mechanical pencil and pad, scratched out the letters L.O., and slipped it into her purse.

Overholt was a bit of a dinosaur. The thing was, she loved fossils.