ODNI, McLean, Virginia
T
he man who calls himself Bayer stood and stretched his aching back. The mission he was trying to coordinate on the other side of the world was being assaulted by the estimable Mr. Murphy. His law—the one that said anything that can go wrong will go wrong and at the worst possible time—was having a frustrating effect on an already overly complicated plan. He eyed the high-tech phone array on his desk and pondered using it to call for support from the Director of National Intelligence, but that seemed like a misstep just now. If the Director got the feeling the wildcat op out in the Gulf of Thailand was hitting speed bumps, he’d probably call it off. Permission to proceed was given with caveats and the guarantee of regular progress reports. He’d be calling for one
