Rubens grimaced. “If they’re discussing the future of the NSA or Desk Three-”

“Actually, they’re discussing the Russian ice-grab,” Wehrum said. He sounded smug, with a touch of amusement to his voice and the way he shrugged. “It has nothing to do with you. Nothing whatsoever.”

Rubens scowled at the other man for a moment. That last bit of information-about the Russian crisis-had been both purely gratuitous and utterly vicious. Wehrum had no business mentioning the President’s agenda, but he’d done so, it seemed clear, solely to let Rubens know that he was in the doghouse at the moment.

Wehrum was Bing’s senior aide within the National Security Council and, therefore, an extremely powerful man. The NSC, currently consisting of about one hundred staffers working out of one of the concrete-walled lower levels of the White House basement, was responsible for hashing out defense and foreign policy issues before they reached the President’s desk. The National Security Advisor-a title generally abbreviated as “ANSA,” for “Advisor on National Security Affairs,” in order to distinguish it from the acronym for the National Security Agency-briefed the President on all potential international problems and, during times of crisis, ran the White House Situation Room. Where the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was, by law, the President’s chief advisor on military matters, the ANSA was responsible for a whole range of diplomatic, economic, and intelligence issues as well as military ones.

By mentioning the DNI, Wehrum was not so subtly reminding Rubens that the Director of National Intelligence was the director of all U.S. intelligence agencies. And by mentioning the D/CIA, Wehrum was reminding him that the CIA felt that it had the right to manage the lion’s share of American intelligence and that the NSA should be restricted to its historic purview of SIGINT.

Put another way, Washington functioned on funding and on size. The NSA was the largest of America’s intelligence agencies and received the biggest chunk of the funding pie. The CIA had been looking for ways to cut into that pie slice for a long time.

Rubens was close to making a bitter retort, but he clamped down on the surge of anger. Damn it, he could feel his blood pressure rising, a red heat climbing behind his eyes.

Within Washington, the man who determined where the paper went and, even more, who decided who got to talk face-to-face with policy-makers such as the President or the ANSA was the man who ruled, who controlled the real power within the government. The former ANSA, George Haddad, had been a close personal friend of Rubens’, a mentor and a confidant. His death had been devastating personally for Rubens.

It had also profoundly affected Rubens’ career and possibly the future of Desk Three as well. He was used to having direct personal access to the President; now, though, Rubens could feel himself being shouldered aside, ignored, sidelined… and possibly even reduced to the role of official scapegoat.

But venting his anger here and now would get him nowhere. If Rubens had learned one thing in his years of public service, it was that patience was almost as valuable in this town as face time with the President.

So Rubens forced himself to relax. A longtime practitioner of Hatha Yoga, he let his mind momentarily settle into a place of calm, watching as he drew in a deep breath from the belly. Through breath control alone, Pranayama, it was possible to control the blood pressure… and the deep-seated fury within.

He released the breath and, with it, the rising knot of anger.

“Very well,” he said after a moment. He opened his eyes to find Wehrum staring at him curiously. “Please inform Dr. Bing that I do wish to see her at her earliest convenience. Shall I give you my report on Operation Magpie?”

Wehrum shrugged again. “You can send it as an e-mail attachment. I’ll see that it gets to the proper desks.”

Another slap, a means of telling him quite distinctly that his report wasn’t important enough to warrant discussion or close consideration.

“I also wish to discuss future operational plans.” That was something that did have to go through Bing, at the very least.

“Dr. Bing has instructed me to inform you,” Wehrum said, “that all Desk Three operations should be put on hold for the time being. It is possible that Operation Magpie will be detailed to another agency.” He hesitated. “Why ‘Magpie,’ anyway?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why’d you name the operation Magpie?”

“Our Russian ops currently share a bird theme,” Rubens said. “Magpie, Blue Jay. We’ve found a connection between those two, by the way, and we think it’s important.”

“Oh?”

“‘Augurs and understood relations have,’” Rubens quoted, “‘(by magotpies and choughs and rooks) brought forth the secret’st man of blood.’”

Wehrum smirked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Macbeth,” Rubens said. “Act three, scene four. Magotpies are what we call magpies today. The King was referring to things in nature revealing a man’s bloody secrets.”

“If you say so. In any case, I suggest you start making whatever arrangements you need to make to bring your ‘magotpies’ home.”

Rubens considered this. “We’re doing so now. There are still some loose ends to tidy up in St. Petersburg, however.”

Again, a dismissive wave. “Whatever. I don’t need to know the details. But you should be prepared to hand the operation in all respects over to Debra Collins. I suspect that’s where this is going. I can’t imagine them allowing your Desk Three to continue operating while an investigation is under way. What other irons do you have in the fire?”

“Several. Blue Jay is investigating the Russian mafia, which appears to be making a serious effort to take control of Russian petroleum resources. And Sunny Weather involves the protection of a scientist at a symposium in England.” He decided not to add that there was now a strong link between the Russian ops and the attempt to kill Spencer in London. “That’s the one where we just lost an agent.”

“Not my concern.” Wehrum sniffed. “If I were you, I would simply get my house in order and await further instructions. Someone on the DNI’s staff will, no doubt, be in touch with you on the details soon.”

Wehrum reached for a file lying in his in-box and flipped it open, effectively ending the interview.

A most unsatisfactory interview, from all perspectives. Rubens was furious as he left Wehrum’s office. There’d been nothing in this meeting that could not have been handled more efficiently by e-mail or phone.

As Rubens pulled out of the secure underground parking lot and turned left on Fifteenth Street, he was considering his options. Clearly, Bing, Smallbourn, and Collins were going to use the F-22 shoot-down as a reason to remove Desk Three from the aegis of the NSA and, quite likely, to demand Rubens’ resignation as well.

If that was the way it had to be, so be it. Rubens disliked Washington inner-circle politics, hated them with a white-hot passion, in fact, that frequently had him wondering if retaining his position as the NSA’s Deputy Director was even worth it. Only two things had kept him at this damned job for as long as he’d been here-his loyalty to the agents working for him and his rock-solid belief that Desk Three was making a difference in a very dangerous, very twisted world.

Whatever happened, he was not going to abandon his people.

First things first. Dean was on the way to London and would have to take over the investigation of Karr’s death. And Magpie needed to be pulled out of Russia.

But something was nagging Rubens, something sinister. What was the connection, through Sergei Braslov, between a scientist working on global warming and the Russian mafia? Why did they want Spencer dead? And what was their link with Greenworld?