Free Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) by Ethan Jones Page B

wristwatch.
    Route 267 curved to the right. The traffic had thinned. Justin could not help but double-check the few cars behind them. He slowed down, allowing for all of them to go around his Chevy. No one was their tail.
    He got into the Capital Beltway, skirting around McLean. They drove past churches, schools, strip malls, and more churches as they drew nearer their destination.
    “We’re here,” Justin said as they turned into Colonial Farm Road. “You’ve met Adams before?”
    “Once, back in Afghanistan. But he wasn’t Deputy Director of NCS then. He was CIA Station Chief.”
    “And what do you think?”
    “I’ve got the impression he’s smart and fair, a no-bullshit kind of guy. He doesn’t play politics. At least, he didn’t at the time.”
    “Power corrupts people and virtues. Let’s see if Mr. Adams has resisted the temptation and being close to the top of NCS hasn’t gone to his head.”
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Six
     
     
    National Clandestine Service, CIA Headquarters
    Langley, Virginia, United States of America
    September 22, 5:15 p.m. local time
     
    The National Clandestine Service was the most secretive branch of a secret agency. Created in 2005, NCS’s mission was to fill the huge gap in HUMINT, the human intelligence, that existed at that time in the US. Improving the information gathering and sharing it responsibly and in a timely manner within the US intelligence community were NCS’s initial tasks. Simple enough in purpose, the activities it undertook to accomplish its mission were far more complicated. The dirtiest and darkest covert operations were brewed in NCS offices. In the harshest of conditions, under a complete veil of secrecy, they were carried out by the toughest of NCS field operatives. More often than not, the first boots to hit the ground of the hottest, deadliest areas of the planet belonged to a man or a woman of NCS.
    NCS was one of the four directorates of the CIA. Its director, Mitchell Flynt, ran it as a quasi-independent agency, following the sentiments of a group of US senators who had his back. His right-hand man, Deputy Director of NCS and Director of the Counterterrorism Center Travis Adams, shared the same view. They infiltrated a country, collected the necessary intelligence by any and all means, neutralized anyone and everyone who may have caught a scent of their operation, and did not give a damn about the fallout, if there ever were a fallout.
    Adams met Justin and Carrie by the entrance to a small, windowless conference room inside the CIA’s labyrinth of halls and offices. Another man was standing next to Adams. Justin had never met them, but he had seen pictures of Adams. The other man was of a short stature, with thick horn-rimmed glasses. He still had all his hair and it was all black. It was quite a contrast compared to Adams’s bald, shiny, bullet-shaped head. Adams towered over them at six feet two inches, with wide shoulders and a square chest. His desk job seemed to have no visible impact on his physique.
    “Glad you were able to make it on such short notice,” Mr. Adams said.
    “Happy to be here,” Justin said as they shook hands. It was a firm handshake as between true friends.
    “Pleasure to meet you again, Carrie,” Adams said.
    Carrie’s hand disappeared in his large, bear-sized palm.
    “Likewise,” Carrie replied.
    “Justin and Carrie, this is Stephen Hu, Associate Deputy Director of Ops in the Counterintel Center.”
    Hu nodded. His handshake was weak as if he was afraid a stronger grip would break his fragile fingers.
    “Let’s take a seat, shall we?” Adams said, pointing at the square-shaped table inside the conference room. He nodded at the security agent who had escorted Justin and Carrie and closed the door after they had stepped inside.
    Justin and Carrie walked over to the other side of the table. Adams and Hu sat across from them, by a couple of thick white folders.
    “Care for a cup of coffee?”