right thigh while he was driven through the dark streets of the sleepy Maryland neighborhood. It was a few hours before dawn, and the thought of waking his boss this early was less than appealing, but Wilson had learned the hard way that the stodgy old fool needed to be kept in the loop. It was becoming an increasing source of irritation for Wilson, whose unbridled energy did not often gel with the slower pace of Samuel Hargrave, the FBI's executive assistant director for national security. To those outside the Bureau, the job title meant little, but within the FBI it was a position that had grown significantly in stature after 9/11. Hargrave was in charge of Counterterrorism, Counterintelligence and the Directorate of Intelligence and Weapons of Mass Destruction. He dutifully reported to the top man at the FBI, and beyond that he kept an extremely low profile, and demanded the same of his people - another sore spot with Wilson.
In Wilson's succinct opinion, Hargrave was a relic from the FBI's Cold War days, a man who was no longer suited to handle the multiple threats of this faster-paced world. He reminded Wilson of that bushy-eyebrowed law professor in the movie The Paper Chase. He was a real pain in the butt who spent his life looking to catch the tiniest of mistakes while losing sight of the big picture. The man loved to point out every flaw no matter how small. He was the most anal-retentive, crotchety jerk Wilson had ever worked for. If only the fool would drop dead of an aneurysm, Wilson could get on with saving the country from the various threats that were circling.
Wilson believed that his job was the most difficult and demanding at the Bureau. He was the deputy director of Counterintelligence, which meant that he, not the CIA, was the tip of the spear. It was simple. The biggest threats to the nation were the foreign intelligence agencies and terrorist organizations that were looking to attack and weaken America. It was Wilson's job to stop them, and those Americans who might be aiding the enemy.
Hargrave was everything a boss shouldn't be. He was an obstacle to every decision and operation that Wilson tried to launch. Wilson's frustration had grown to the point that he began to cut Hargrave out of the decision process, only to be severely reprimanded by the director of the FBI himself. It was the lowest point of Wilson's otherwise sterling twenty-one-year career with the Bureau and it couldn't have come at a worse time. Wilson's boss, the man who ran the Counterintelligence Division, had been on leave for four months after a back surgery that didn't go as planned. Wilson had been asked to step in and take over as acting director. It was one of the three most coveted jobs at the FBI, and Wilson didn't balk at the opportunity. He took over as if he'd been running the place for several years, and not long after that he ran afoul of Hargrave.
Since then Wilson had explored every conceivable avenue around the man, but he'd been stymied. As the director himself eventually told Wilson, "The Federal Bureau of Investigation is big on chain of command for a reason." Wilson disagreed with them both, but he was not so bullheaded as to irritate the director again, so he kept Hargrave informed of his every decision, no matter how small. Wilson got the sense that Hargrave knew what he was up to, but so far the man had remained unflappable. Tonight's developments, however, might be enough to undo him.
But for now, Wilson was once again forced to perform this stupid dance. That was why he was rolling along this beautiful tree-lined street in Chevy Chase when he should have been with the rest of his team boarding one of the Bureau's Gulfstream 550s for a jaunt halfway around the globe. The vehicle began to slow and Wilson noticed his driver searching for the right address.
"It's up there on the left," Wilson said. "The white Colonial with green shutters." Under his breath he added, "Boring . . . just like his personality."
"Excuse me, sir?" the young agent asked.
"Nothing," Wilson replied.
Cal Patterson was in his third year with the Bureau and he considered himself a lucky man to be one of the youngest agents in the Counterintelligence Division. He liked his job, but his boss made him nervous. Patterson casually turned the wheel of the Ford Taurus and edged the sedan