mind, and if the scuttlebutt was true, these particular individuals might be interested in a little contract work. The NCTC had some discretionary funds, and both she and Ben Margolin agreed this might be a worthy expenditure.
It took only two phone calls to confirm the rumors, and another two to nail down a current phone number.
Clark’s cell phone, tucked into the top drawer of his desk, trilled once, then again. He grabbed it on the third ring. “Hello.”
“John, Mary Pat Foley here.”
“Hey, Mary Pat, you were on my to-do list.”
“That so?”
“Me and Ding just rotated out of Rainbow. Wanted to touch base and say hi.”
“How about we do that in person? I’ve got something I want to run by you.”
Clark’s internal radar chirped. “Sure. When and where?”
“As soon as possible.”
Clark checked his watch. “I can shake loose for lunch right now.”
“Good. You know Huck’s in Gainesville?”
“Yeah, just off Linton Hall Road.”
“Yep. Meet you there.”
Clark shut down his computer, then headed up to Sam Granger’s office. He recounted the phone call for The Campus’s ops chief. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social lunch,” Granger said.
“Doubt it. She had her game voice on.”
“She know you’re cycling out of the Agency?”
“Not much escapes Mary Pat.”
Granger considered this. “Okay, check in when you get back.”
Clark had passed by Huck’s but had never gone inside. Best pies in Virginia, he’d been told. Not that you could tell from the outside, he thought, as he pulled into the diagonal parking space in front. Two large glass windows flanked a single door shaded by a faded red-and-white canvas awning. A neon light in the window advertised “ucks.” Bad omen? Clark wondered. Probably not.
Truth was, he had nothing but good memories of Gainesville, having spent many hours walking its streets, teaching CIA case officers surveillance/countersurveillance techniques. There was only so much you could learn in the classrooms of Camp Perry. Unbeknownst to the fine citizens of Gainesville and a dozen other cities in Maryland and Virginia, at any given time their streets were being strolled by spooks playing at staying alive before they had to do it in the real world.
He pushed through the door and found Mary Pat sitting on a stool at the counter. They embraced, and Clark sat down. A portly man with thinning red hair and flour-dusted hands walked down to them. “What can I get you?”
“Apple,” Mary Pat said without hesitation. “To go.”
Clark shrugged and ordered the same. “How’s Ed?”
“Okay. Got a little cabin fever, I think. He’s writing a book.”
“Good for him.”
When the pies came, she said, “Feel like a walk?”
“Sure.”
Once outside, they strolled down the sidewalk, chitchatting until they reached an acre-sized park covered in green grass and neat box hedges. They found a bench and sat down.
“I’ve got a problem, John,” Mary Pat said after they’d both had a few bites of pie. “Thought you and Ding might be able to help.”
“If we can. First things first, though: You know we’re—”
“Yeah, I heard. Sorry. I know the honorable Charles Sumner Alden. He’s a jackass.”
“Seems to be a lot of that going around Langley these days.”
“Sadly, yes. Starting to feel like the Dark Ages over there. Tell me: How do you feel about Pakistan?”
“Nice place to visit ...” Clark offered with a smile.
Mary Pat laughed. “It’s a pretty simple op, five or six days, maybe. We’ve got a few things that need chasing down, but nobody on the ground there—at least nobody that we can use. The new administration’s stripping the ops directorate like they’re having a fire sale. We’ve got a guy—a Brit—who knows the area, but he’s a little past his prime.”
“Define ‘things that need chasing down.’”
“Should be straight intel gathering. Legwork.”
“I assume we’re talking about something peripheral to the big fish?” This got a nod from Mary Pat. “And you’ve already tried to source this through Langley?” Another nod. Clark took a breath, let it out. “You’re getting pretty far out on the limb with this.”
“That’s where the fruit is.”
“What’s your timeline?”
“Sooner the better.”
“Give me the afternoon.”
He was back at The Campus an hour later. He found Granger in Hendley’s office. He knocked on the doorjamb, got a come-in wave from Hendley, and took a seat. “Sam told me,” Hendley said. “You try the pie?”
“Apple. Might not be the best, but it’s damned close. She pitched me a contract job. Pakistan.” He outlined their conversation.
“Well, hell,” Granger said. “She’s NCTC, so it’s not too tough to figure out what’s on their radar. What’d you tell her?”