Washington, D.C.T
he man who calls himself Bayer sat stewing in the back seat of a black Chevy Tahoe stuck in traffic on the I-95. His driver indicated they were cleared by locals to use lights and siren but Bayer decided he would use the drive time to think through a course of action. “We’ll put up with it for another thirty minutes, Billy.” Bayer checked his watch and computed the time differential for Beirut. “If we’re not moving by then, go code or request a traffic break through to Langley.”
The White House meeting with the National Security Advisor had been a waste of valuable time on an issue that could have been handled with a simple yes or no over the phone. The man was a toady—a sycophant in support of the President and his silly red-line threats to Assad. It was such petty, po
