The Sixth Man (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 5)

Sean said, “Is your brother innocent like you said you believed? Or did he kill those people?”

At first Sean didn’t think she was going to answer the question.

“I stand by what I said, but at the end of the day only Eddie can definitively answer that.”

“If he did kill those people, his life is over. He won’t be going back to this E-Program.”

“In some ways my brother’s life was over a long time ago, Mr. King.”

CHAPTER

34

PETER BUNTING SAT DOWN at the head of the table and looked around at the faces staring back at him. He was surrounded not by policy wonks who lived in the world of the hypothetical but by people who were deadly serious about national threats. Bunting both admired and feared these folks. He admired them for their public service. He feared them because he knew they routinely ordered the killing of other humans without losing a minute’s sleep over it.

This particular briefing, while perfunctory, was being handled by Bunting because of the high level of people present and also because of the extenuating circumstances, chief of which was Edgar Roy’s current situation. He didn’t send in the lackeys when he had a Cabinet secretary, various directors of intelligence, and four-stars seated at a tab

le with china coffee cups in front of them. They expected him, and they were paying a lot of taxpayer money for the privilege.

There was one person there who should not have been, but Bunting could do nothing except register his official complaint before tersely being told to carry on with his report.

Mason Quantrell sat next to Ellen Foster, his hands in his lap, and his whole focus on Bunting. The only time Bunting stumbled during his presentation was when Quantrell had smiled at a statement of his and then whispered something in Foster’s ear. She had smiled, too.

Bunting handled the ensuing questions, most of them penetrating and complex, with precision. He had become an expert at reading the poker faces of these men and women. They seemed, if not exactly pleased, then at least satisfied. Which meant he was relieved. He had been in meetings that had not gone nearly so well. Then Quantrell cleared his throat. All heads had turned to the Mercury CEO. Now Bunting suspected the entire meeting had been carefully choreographed.

“Yes, Mason?” asked Bunting, whose grip on his laser pointer tightened. He had a sudden impulse to aim it at Quantrell’s eyes.

“You’ve told us a lot today, Pete.”

“That’s usually the point of a presentation such as this,” Bunting replied, trying to keep his voice even and calm.

Quantrell didn’t appear to hear him. “But what you haven’t told us is how you can continue to expect a single analyst to keep up with all the data being generated. While it’s true you’ve had some success—”

“I would modify that to say we’ve had enormous success, but please, carry on, Mason.”

“Some success,” repeated Quantrell. “But the reality is that by relying solely on one analyst we’ve weakened our national security considerably, possibly irreversibly.”

“I disagree.”

“But I don’t disagree.”

All heads turned, but only slightly, for this comment had come from Ellen Foster.

Bunting studied the woman who had become his most potent adversary. Yet as she was also the head of the largest federal security agency, he had no choice but to be respectful to the woman.

“Madame Secretary?”

“How do you rate your performance today, Peter?” she asked.

She wore a black dress, black stockings, and black heels with minimal jewelry. Bunting noticed, and not for the first time, that she was a very attractive woman. Nice skin, slim figure, but with curves where men usually wanted them. Foster had an impressive résumé both in the field and the boardroom, and possessed even more impressive political connections. The divorced head of DHS was low-key by nature, but every once in a while her picture would appear at some society event, where she was on the arm of an acceptably high-ranked gentleman.

She had a home in the upper-brackets region of D.C. and a vacation place on Nantucket, where she would go to unwind with her security detail tagging along. Her ex-husband, a New York–based private equity fund manager, had amassed an enormous fortune using other people’s money while paying an income tax rate lower than that of his secretary. She had gotten half of his net worth in the divorce and could do what she pleased. And what she pleased was to run the nation’s security platform and apparently make Peter Bunting’s life a hell on earth.

“It seems as though everyone was satisfied with my report.” He eyed Quantrell and then his gaze flitted back to her. “Well, almost everyone.”

“You’re joking, right, Peter?” she said.

“If you have some definitive examples I can certainly discuss them with you.”