Having explained the trivia of why some get promoted and others not, let’s move on to the rest of the group in hierarchical order. They were seated three on each side, leaving the head of the table for the assistant subdirector, Harvey Littel. If the subdirector or director had been here in person, they would have been at the head. On the right side, from the point of view of the assistant subdirector, we have Colonel Stuart Garrison, responsible for communications with the Middle East and Russia, followed by Wally Johnson, lieutenant colonel, liaison with the U.S. Army, intrepid and proud, some forty years old, although still in puberty in regard to military careers. Across from them, Sebastian Ford, diplomatic attaché, politician by profession, one of those who seem to have excellent judgment, but, when you squeeze their words, seem to have no juice, nothing there. He was the demagogue who connected the department with the president, always prepared to sacrifice anyone for the good of his career… and, of course, national security. The others were not important enough to name, since they have little relevance for the unfolding of our story. But let’s not forget the woman who wasn’t seated at the table. She was next to the wall, behind Harvey Littel with a notebook ready to take her frenetic notes. She was Priscilla Thomason, Harvey’s secretary.

“Have we managed to connect already?” Littel asked no one in particular.

“Yes,” someone responded.

“Good. Barnes?” He spoke into the phone in front of him. There was no answer.

“Barnes?” he tried again.

The same response.

Littel raised the earpiece to his ear. He dropped it immediately.

“We’ve been disconnected. Put it through again,” he ordered.

He was surprised when no one moved.

“Are you waiting for me to do it?” He was irritated by such a lack of zeal and picked up the phone again.

“Dr. Littel,” Priscilla called from behind him, getting up. At least someone was attentive. “The connection has been made, but…” She lowered her eyes.

“But?” Littel urged her.

“He’s hung up.” Stuart Garrison finished the sentence.

“He’s hung up?” His expression showed amazement. He thought for a few seconds. “And you’ve tried to reconnect?”

“Several times,” the assistant standing by his side told him. “He’s not answering.”

Now Littel understood the pensive mood when he entered. His mind seethed with theories and possibilities. Barnes had disconnected the direct, secure line that connected London and Langley. This was a serious breach of protocol, with the risk of disciplinary action and possible dismissal, if it couldn’t be justified. Barnes lost his temper easily, nothing was ever good with him, but from that to jeopardizing his service record through his own actions was a big step. He was active, highly esteemed, a true pack mule who took on an entire continent and the outskirts of another two. This couldn’t be. Something must have happened to make Barnes disconnect. Something serious. Unless…

“Has anyone called the Center of Operations?” He assumed the attitude of a leader. There was hope.

“No,” Stuart replied.

“It didn’t cross our minds. Geoffrey Barnes’s conduct is very serious,” Sebastian Ford added. “I’ll have to tell the president about this.” He seemed to have difficulty opening his mouth to utter these words. His hair plastered with gel, a pen in hand, held vertically, his back stiff, he seemed conscious of each gesture, each word as well. Everything was calculated. The politician in true form.

“He wouldn’t be able to answer if the building has fallen on top of him, for example,” Littel argued. “Call the Center of Operations.”

The diplomatic attaché’s threat irritated him. He’d sold out, a self-proclaimed patriot who didn’t even know the story of the founding fathers. If there was anyone Littel would put his hand in the fire for, it was Barnes. He’d have a plausible justification… there was no doubt.

Priscilla took the telephone and pressed four numbers. The beeps resounded in the office from the speaker, while everyone watched apprehensively. Finally they heard a static noise that preceded the connection and a nervous voice, probably because of where the call was coming from. They didn’t receive a call from the “cave” every day.

“Staughton.” More like a question than an identification.

“Good evening, Agent Staughton,” Littel greeted him affably. “This is Harvey Littel. I’m sure you’ve heard of me…”

“Yes… yes, sir,” Staughton replied quickly. His discomfort was audible.

“I’m going to get directly to the point, Agent Staughton. I need to speak, urgently, with your superior, Geoffrey Barnes.” His manner was serious now.

“Well, I’m not with him, but…” he stumbled, excusing himself.

“Do me a favor. Look for him.”

“Of course,” Staughton answered respectfully. “I’ll call you back in five minutes.” Again more question than statement.

“No, no, Agent Staughton. You don’t understand me. I want you to look for him now. Now. Understood?”

The silence proved that Staughton didn’t expect that order. If he had known the large audience listening to him, he would have buried his head in the sand. They all listened attentively to Staughton’s panting breath. If his eardrums weren’t ringing with the beating of his heart, he might have heard the sighs from thousands of miles away.

“Agent Staughton, are you listening to me?” Littel pressed on. Time was wasting.

The answer came ten seconds later, when Littel was about to repeat the question.

“The chief ’s in the office.”

Littel felt relief as if he were taking a cool shower. Wonderful.

“Perfect, Agent Staughton. Please pass him the phone.”

“Ah, that’s not going to be possible,” Staughton refused.

“Why not? Do what I tell you.” Although he was being rude, Littel knew why Staughton couldn’t pass him the phone. Barnes had another priority.

“What petulance,” Colonel Garrison muttered.

Littel got up and raised his hand for silence.

“It’s just… it’s that…” Staughton stammered.

“It’s what, man? Spit it out.”

Except for Littel, everyone in the room was holding his breath. What the hell could Barnes be doing that his agent couldn’t pass him the telephone?

“He’s on the direct line with the White House.”

Everyone turned red except Littel, who saw his thinking rewarded. He looked at Sebastian Ford, careful not to let his inner smile show. It was always good to see those who think the worst of others have to retreat with their tails between their legs and eat their words.

“Excellent, Agent Staughton,” Littel continued. “Tell your superior to call me as soon as the call from the White House is over.”

“Okay, sir.” Staughton’s voice recovered its confidence. Maybe someday he’d even get used to receiving these calls.

The call ended on the American side, leaving a heavy silence in the air. Everyone chose a neutral or indistinct point on which to fix his eyes. Most preferred the mahogany table, the phone in second place. Littel was the first to stir the waters, as he ought to be. The time for thinking was past.

“It’s obvious the situation has escaped our control,” he asserted sadly.

“In an alarming way,” Wally Johnson concluded.

“Sebastian,” Littel said. “Prepare the crisis committee.”

“When?”

These politicos could only deal with appointments and schedules. “Within a half hour,” Littel answered curtly.

Ford went out with his two assistants, who’d been seated at his side.

“Colonel?” Littel turned to Garrison this time. “Who do we have in Russia?”

“Nestov and Litvinenko.”

“Didn’t Litvinenko die of poisoning?” Wally Johnson was astonished.

The colonel and Littel looked at him with disdain.

“There is more than one Litvinenko in the RSS,” the old soldier explained.

“Try to contact them. This is going to get hot, and we have to be prepared.”