CHAPTER TWELVE
Deputy Director Shawn Cartwright took a deep breath before knocking twice on the oak office door. The message he had received only moments earlier had been explicit: Come straight to the director’s office. ASAFP.
He hadn’t even finished his coffee yet.
He pushed the door open a few inches. “Director Mullen? You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Cartwright, yes! Come in. Have a seat.” Mullen sat behind his desk and smiled, but his nostrils flared. That was never a good sign—the pleasantry was likely a ruse.
Cartwright entered the office and closed the door behind him. At forty-four, he was considered relatively young in the hierarchy of the Central Intelligence Agency—at least he still had all his hair, though he did take to dyeing it black last year to hide the oncoming gray. He
