The other man nodded slowly, acknowledging Petrov’s point. Nevertheless, it was clear that he didn’t particularly like the idea of a last-minute change in their plans. “Will loading those missiles affect the timetable?”

“Not in the slightest,” Petrov assured him. “You can give your boss the green light.” He checked his watch. “Tell him the show kicks off just a little over forty-eight hours from now.”

Thirteen

Office of the Director of National Intelligence, McLean, Virginia

One Day Later

Determined not to feel intimidated by the fact that she was meeting one-on-one with the man in charge of all U.S. intelligence activities, Miranda Reynolds, head of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations, followed an aide into Jonas Murphy’s office. Murphy, she reminded herself, was not an intelligence professional. Before being recently appointed as the DNI, the director of national intelligence, he had been a U.S. senator, and before that, a federal prosecutor. He undoubtedly had administrative, legal, and congressional know-how, but he lacked the experience that came naturally to those who’d spent their lives in the shadowy world of spies and counterspies.

His office itself was surprisingly small, with a single executive desk and a comfortable-looking swivel chair set between a pair of windows with the blinds drawn. A round conference table and several other government-issue chairs took up most of the rest of the room. A few prints, mostly of historical battles, lined the plain white walls, along with the usual photos of Murphy with the president of the United States and other high-ranking politicians.

Murphy himself, tall and lean, with faded red hair, stood up to greet her. He smiled politely. “Ms. Reynolds, it’s a pleasure to see you today.” He waved her into one of the chairs around the conference table and came over to join her. His aide departed as quietly and unobtrusively as he had appeared.

“Thank you, Director,” she replied crisply.

Murphy held up a hand, smiling. “Please, call me Jonas. Let’s leave that kind of stiff formality for places like Capitol Hill, where they thrive on titles instead of on what people actually do.”

Briefly taken aback, she stuttered, “Uh, yes, sir . . . I mean, Jonas.” If she hadn’t studied Murphy’s file first, she would have thought he was hitting on her. But the former senator was happily married, and, unlike many of his senatorial colleagues—both male and female—he actually seemed to be faithful to his vows. In a way, she thought that was too bad. She’d been divorced herself for nearly ten years. And it got harder and harder to date anyone the higher you rose in the CIA. Relationships carried too much chance of scandal or compromise, especially if you were a woman pushing ahead in what had once been largely a male-dominated preserve. Besides, she admitted to herself, having an in with the man who ran the entire intelligence community could have come in very handy during Langley’s next round of cutthroat internal warfare.

“So, Miranda,” the DNI continued, smiling faintly as though he’d discerned her thoughts, “as the saying goes, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”