CHAPTER EIGHT
Deputy Director Shawn Cartwright glanced at his wristwatch as he strode quickly along the carpeted West Wing corridor. It was just after five o’clock; less than twenty minutes earlier he had been sitting at his desk at Langley, finishing some paperwork and hoping he might make it home in time for dinner for once.
Then he received the urgent call, and then came the police escort, and then the White House.
Walking along a pace in front of him was Director Mullen, head of the Central Intelligence Agency. Mullen was fifty-six, his shining bald head ringed with a ridge of gray hair. Ordinarily the director was very good at obscuring his mood, but this afternoon he seemed keen not to waste any time on pretense. His posture was rigid and his gait quicker than Cartwright would hav
