19
“That little b***h!” Clarissa shouted into her phone.
Miranda Chase was supposed to be sitting in Clarissa’s office, not telling the guard that if anyone wanted to meet her, she’d be sitting at the Kryptos sculpture down in the CIA’s central courtyard.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the agent who’d fetched her from the airport said. “Unless you want us to physically carry her upstairs, she refused to go beyond the lobby other than to visit Kryptos. So, James led her there and I’m calling you.”
She slammed down the phone.
CIA division directors did not hop to the commands of pissant NTSB investigators.
She stared down at the woman’s file on her screen. Frumpy even in her official photo: no makeup, hair in disarray, wearing some kind of a sloppy vest. Yet the citations spoke of her brilliance
