Page 124 of The Fourth Option
He gave her a look and turned away.
She smiled faintly. “Safe travels.”
Stanton didn’t hear her. His mind was already in the Beltway.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C.
STANTON BOARDED THE9 a.m. American Airlines flight out of Louis Armstrong International Airport. His Bureau credentials got him through a side door at security with his pistol on his belt. There was a form to fill out so the plane’s captain was aware. Stanton was familiar with the protocol.
The plane touched down at Reagan National just after noon. He moved fast, skipping the cab line and sliding into a waiting Bureau sedan. The driver knew the route, straight to a nondescript federal building near Foggy Bottom where Leonard Fisk, his contact from the Joint Terrorism Task Force days, was waiting in the lobby.
Fisk was in a fitted suit and striped tie, his hair trimmed and slicked back, looking like a mid-level business executive aiming for the top floor.
“Fisk, good to see you,” Stanton said, extending his hand.
“Better circumstances than the last time, at least I hope so.”
“So far,” Stanton said.
Fisk did not offer any background on his latest assignment in D.C. and Stanton knew better than to ask. The CIA man led them through a labyrinth of hallways and buzzed them into the SCIF. “Put your phone in the box,” he said.
Stanton slid his phone into a small locker and took the key.
The room was bare and boring, consisting of a few chairs and a table.
“So,” Fisk said, settling in. “Trouble in the Big Easy? Our guy from the New Year’s Day attack have associates looking to repeat?”
“Something else has come up, closer to your world.”
“Important enough for you to fly all the way up here.”
There was a natural rivalry between the FBI and CIA. Stanton respected the Agency and its people, but not its style. There were too many instances where the intelligence service had blurred the lines not just between right and wrong but between legal and illegal. From past experience,Stanton knew that Fisk liked to hang back and hold on to information. As a data man, Stanton found that counterproductive.
Play the game, Alma’s voice whispered.
“A name came up in the federal employee database on a person of interest in an investigation in New Orleans. Drug related. He happens to be a former CIA contractor.”
“That so?”
“When I dug into his background, I ran into a brick wall. A file that was there but not there. Redacted.”
A faint expression of amusement curved Fisk’s face, as if he was relishing the idea that a senior FBI sleuth had been frustrated by Agency protocols.
“And?” Fisk asked.
“All it said was that he served in Afghanistan with the Agency.”
Fisk raised an eyebrow.
“From our conversations when we worked the Bourbon Street attack, I knew your Afghanistan time overlapped with his.”
The mild smirk evaporated. “Who are we talking about?”
“John Staub. A contractor with Ground Branch.”
Fisk shook his head slowly. “Staub’s dead.”
