Dark Deceptions (4 page)

Several hands shot up, while others thumbed through their text.

“Hillary?”

The girl smiled, shifting provocatively in her seat. “The Confederates march into Pennsylvania.”

“Right,” Nash said, nodding encouragingly, his beeper practically dancing against his hip. “Then what?”

“General Meade kicks his ass,” Reggie Fenderman said, accompanied by general laughter.

“I don’t know that I’d have chosen those exact words, but you’re right. The Army of the Potomac did indeed defeat Lee at Gettysburg
in July 1863. Which, as we know, changed the course of the war. And tomorrow, we’ll find out why. For today, time’s up.” He
nodded at the students, reaching down to shut off the insistent electronic device. Damn technology.

Three giggling coeds waited at the foot of the dais. “Professor Brennon? We have a couple of questions.”

He groaned inwardly. It wasn’t that he didn’t welcome inquiring minds, but these three were more about chatting up the prof.
“Ladies, you know I’d love nothing better than to stay here and discuss the war with you, but I’m afraid I’m late for a meeting.”

Emmett appeared in the doorway, assessing the situation with a mocking grin. When Nash had started teaching American history
eight years ago, enrollment had jumped 25 percent—most of them female, much to the amusement of his colleagues.

“They’re getting younger every year.” Emmett grinned.

“Don’t remind me.” Nash closed his briefcase and shrugged into his jacket. “I got a pair of panties in the mail last week.
Jesus, you’d think they’d be more interested in guys their own age.”

“Hey, you’re our resident rock star,” Jason said, joining them as they walked down the hallway, stopping in the doorway of
another classroom.

Nash was currently chairman of the history department, and his dissertation on the role of espionage during the Cold War was
considered, by some, the preeminent document on understanding various intelligence strategies used by both the United States
and the U.S.S.R.

“Tomorrow, your essays on Lenin are due,” Hannah was saying from a lectern at the front of the room. Her dark hair was cut
short, strands spiking in every direction. “And starting next week, we’ll begin our discussion on Trotsky and the effect he
had on the communist movement in Russia, so I’ll expect you all to have read the text. And, Martin, that means you.”

Ignoring the resulting laughter, she quickly strode to the back of the room. “I swear to God, next year I’m going to petition
to teach Western civ. It’s got to be a hell of a lot easier than trying to get this lot to understand the differences between
communism, fascism, and democracy. So what’s with the summons?”

“No idea,” Emmett said, still limping a bit from his injury in Southeast Asia. “Text just said to head downstairs.”

“I’m betting it’s Avery,” Nash said as they walked out of Fischer Hall into the bright May sunshine.

Sunderland College was located in central New York not far from the Connecticut border. Surrounded by rolling hills, stately
farms, and vast nature preserves, the ivy-clad institution, founded in 1823, was a liberal arts college of the highest reputation.
Nationally ranked among small colleges, Sunderland drew some of the greatest minds in the country. And serious students flocked
to the tree-lined, bucolic campus to learn from the very best. There was even a joke that the reason the trees had lights
in them was so that the squirrels could study at night. Which Nash had to admit had a certain ring of truth.

“Great,” Emmett sighed. “Just when I was getting through to them about the subtle nuances of inflation, Avery calls. Every
time my TA takes over, the upper-level classes regress at least a month.”

“You should choose your TA more carefully next time,” Jason said, waving at Tyler, who had emerged from the humanities building.

Teaching assistants were a way of life at Sunderland, particularly for those professors who were a part of the Aaron Thomas
Academic Center. Created fifteen years ago by the CIA in response to the increased threat of terrorism, the nationally renowned
think tank was home to a dozen or so of the best minds in the country, Ph.D.s who also handled some of the nation’s most dangerous
counterintelligence operations.

There were eight permanent members of the American Tactical Intelligence Command (A-Tac), all tenured professors with expertise
in both academia and espionage. And from time to time, as missions demanded, they were joined by other experts in their field,
the think tank acting as cover for their association and affiliated operations.

Since A-Tac professors were often called away to “advise” on top national issues, their teaching assistants were given the
chance for more hands-on classroom experience than their colleagues at other universities. All of which meant that competition
for graduate positions was extreme. And the winners, like their mentors, were usually the best of the best.

“I had no choice.” Emmett shrugged. “The kid’s a senator’s son. Strings pulled and all that. Probably has visions of running
the Fed one day.”

“Well, he’s lucky to have you,” Hannah said. “I mean it’s not every day you get to work with a Draper fellow.” The coveted
prize was given annually to the country’s most noted economist. Emmett had actually won twice.

“I’m not sure he sees it that way.” Emmett grinned. “But thanks.”

“So anyone know what’s going on?” Tyler asked as she joined them.

“Not a thing.” Emmett shook his head. “But Nash thinks it’s Avery.”

“Well, that’s a given. No one else summons us in the middle of class.”

“It wasn’t the middle,” Jason said. “And we go when called. It’s part of the job.”

“Actually, just at the moment,” Tyler sighed, “I think I might prefer Avery to Chaucer. Or at least the endless complaints
about Middle English.”

Nash smiled, knowing that her protestations were cursory. The truth was that Tyler was as passionate about her teaching as
she was about ordnance.

They’d crossed the campus in short order, making their way up the steps of the Aaron Thomas Academic Center. Crossing into
a narrow side hallway, the group stopped in front of an elevator marked “professors only,” and Nash inserted a key. The doors
slid silently open as the assembled company stepped inside.

“This always makes me feel like Maxwell Smart,” Emmett said, inserting another key and pressing a button hidden behind an
Otis elevator sign.

“I know what you mean,” Hannah said as the elevator started to move downward. “Although, for me, it’s more Bruce Wayne. I
always half expect Alfred to be waiting at the bottom with my utility belt.”

“It is sort of like the bat cave,” Tyler agreed, “but considering the money the suits in Washington have spent on it, I kind
of think they’d resent the analogy.”

“Depends if you’re talking the campy television show or the movie,” Emmett said as the elevator stopped and the doors slid
open.

“They all sucked,” Jason protested. “The original comic is the only way to go.”

“Batman, I’m assuming?” Lara Prescott said as they stepped into the austerely appointed reception area. The room served more
as a buffer than as a real welcoming area. From time to time, students had tried to gain entrance to the coveted elevator.

Thanks to CIA fail-safes, the very few successful attempts had all ended in an upper-floor lounge and general disappointment.
But just in case there was ever a breach to this level, the reception area was designed as a decoy and, without proper identification,
the precursor to a not-so-pleasant meeting with Avery—who also happened to be the dean of the college—and a one-way ticket
out of Sunderland altogether.

“Are we that obvious?” Tyler asked, pressing her hand against what looked like a professorial bust, but was really a biotechnical
scanner.

“Not you.” Lara shook her head, slapping her hand against the statue of the center’s namesake, Aaron Thomas. A prominent early
American scholar from New York, Thomas had been quite the rabble-rouser. Famous for his treatise
Scíentia Potéstas Est
—
Knowledge Is Power
—Thomas also served as a spy for General Washington, making his role in A-Tac all that much more apropos.

“Jason. You have to admit he does have a rather well-documented obsession with all things Batman.”

“And you love it,” Jason said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. With an impressive Ph.D./M.D. combo, Lara chaired Sunderland’s
chemistry department and served as A-Tac’s expert in biochemical weaponry, as well as the unit’s medical officer. She and
Jason had been living together for the past year. Although such relationships were frowned upon by their bosses at Langley,
the team nevertheless turned a blind eye to their relationship.

Life was short and it was best to take what you could while you had the chance. Nash knew that firsthand. And even though
in his case it hadn’t ended well, he still didn’t regret the fact that for a little while at least, he’d been lucky enough
to find someone who’d accepted him for what he was.

But nothing was forever.

“So anyone seen Drake?” Hannah was asking as they walked through the now-open panel in the rear reception wall.

“He had an off period,” Tyler said. “So my guess is he’s already down here.”

As if to verify the fact, Drake appeared in the doorway to the war room. “Nice of you to join us,” he said with his customary
grin.

“So have you got any idea what this is all about?” Jason asked.

“Why don’t you ask the big guy himself.” Drake moved aside to reveal Avery Solomon standing at the head of the conference
table. The man dwarfed even Nash. An ex-marine with service in both the CIA and the Pentagon, the fact that Avery had worked
with three different administrations said a lot about his loyalty to country and his ability to sway even the most strident
of critics.

His appointment as commander of A-Tac eight years ago had coincided with Nash’s arrival in the unit, the two of them hitting
it off instantly. They’d worked countless operations together, and now, along with Tyler, were the senior members of the team.

“So what’s up?” Nash asked with a frown. “You’ve got your serious face on and that’s never a good thing.”

“If everyone will have a seat, we’ll get started,” Avery said, his tone no-nonsense. The rest of the team took their places,
the jovial mood from the elevator replaced with somber anticipation. “I just got word that we’ve received a credible threat
against a high-ranking official.”

“That’s not exactly something new,” Drake said. “We get hundreds of threats on a weekly basis.”

“Yes, but as I said,” Avery continued, shooting him a censorious look, “this one is credible. More than credible, actually.
It’s verified. According to Langley’s intel, a splinter group of Al Qaeda is planning an assassination.”

“Which group?” Hannah asked.

“Ashad.”

“Out of Pakistan. Didn’t we have a run-in with them a few years back?” Tyler asked. “The massacre in Peshawar.” Seventeen
innocents had been slaughtered when a bomb exploded in the central marketplace. Despite serious A-Tac efforts, the culprits
were still at large.

“Yup,” Avery said. “That’s the one. But they’ve gotten more ambitious. This time they’re targeting the United States. A top-level
government official. We haven’t been able to confirm the target, but we’ve narrowed it down to three.”

“The president?” Jason asked, tapping away on his computer, already trying to secure new information.

“No. Secretary of State Wright seems most probable, but it could also be Evan Packard.”

“Head of the Senate Homeland Security and Government Affairs Committee,” Nash inserted, considering the possibility. “His
stance on terrorism hasn’t exactly made him the darling of Islamic extremists.”

“Well, Richard Wright is, if anything, more militant than Packard,” Hannah said, like Jason, already working on her laptop.
“So who’s the third candidate?”

“Blake Dominico.”

“The U.S. ambassador to the U.N.?” Drake asked, clearly surprised.

“There was considerable objection to his being appointed, if I remember correctly,” Jason said, looking up from his computer.
“If he had his way most of the Middle East would become U.N.-occupied territory.”

“So we’ve got three good candidates,” Nash said, still frowning. “But why us? I mean, Homeland Security has entire divisions
to handle this kind of threat.”

“Because we’ve got credible intel identifying the contract shooter as former CIA.”

“One of ours?” Tyler asked, her tone terse.

“Not A-Tac, no. But just being ex-CIA puts the operation in our backyard.”

“And we’ve been tapped for the mission,” Drake said.

“Got it in one.” Avery’s smile lacked humor. “And, as you can imagine, time is of the essence.”

“And we’ve got no idea who exactly it is they’ve hired?” Emmett asked.

If possible, Avery’s expression grew even more fierce. “Langley’s best guess is that it’s Annie Gallagher.”

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Nash asked, his stomach clenching into a writhing knot of battling emotions.

“I wish it was,” Avery said, shaking his head. “But we’ve got credible intel. And I’m afraid it all points to Annie.”

There was silence as Nash swallowed, trying to think. To make sense of the nonsensical. But it just didn’t compute. Even after
everything that had gone down between them, he’d never have pegged Annie for a traitor.

“Son of a bitch.”

T
here’s got to be a mistake,” Nash said, his mind still reeling. “There’s no way Annie would sign on for that kind of thing.”

“People change.” Avery shrugged.

“Someone want to tell me who the hell Annie Gallagher is?” Drake asked, his dark gaze falling on Nash.

He tried to find words, but couldn’t, his brain still trying to make sense of the idea that Annie was playing for the other
team.

“She was Nash’s partner before he came to A-Tac. A trained assassin. One of the best, if rumors are to be believed,” Tyler
said, coming to his rescue. She and Avery were the only ones who knew just how much Annie’s defection had cost him. “Nash
and Annie worked special ops. Mainly in the former Eastern Bloc. Some of the Company’s most dangerous missions.”